nightmourned

[nightmourned]

"a commune, huh?" minho hums, like he's seriously weighing the idea, "not gonna lie, that is significantly less sinister. kind of a downgrade in dramatic tension, but better for your pr." his mouth twitches like he's about to smile but decides against the full effort. his gaze lingers on her a moment longer before dropping to the surface of her coffee table. "guess i'll consider myself lucky, then," he adds, "not getting kicked out even when i'm barely running on fumes. it's good to know membership comes with a little grace." he stretches out his legs, posture finally starting to ease out of its early-morning stiffness. "what's next on your schedule? let me guess — some overachiever version of relaxing that still somehow involves a full itinerary and at least one moment of quiet existential dread between activities?" there's amusement in his tone but the question is genuine enough beneath the sarcasm. a quiet check-in without making it obvious he's checking in. "just wondering if i should let you escape now before you try and rope me into anything wildly ambitious and only half planned." a beat. "not that it'd stop you."

"you know i'm way too giving to be a real cult leader. it would just end up being a commune. not that i'm saying i know anything about that, either." she would find it hard to believe that there were enough people in coronado that liked her for that. angelica had found, perhaps the hard way, that people loved to hate much more than they loved to love. it was easy to hate, often thoughtless. she thought that one of minho's biggest strengths was that he could think for himself. she didn't care if someone didn't find worth in her work as long as they were genuine about it. nothing could be made to suit everyone's tastes, after all. lips twitching, angie continued, "most often, i find that my plans are a perfect mixture of both... but more good than bad. i'm sure you won't be the exception to that." people were made up of good and bad, too. charming and awkward, analytical and gullible. to box the human condition, perhaps the concept of life in and of itself, to such rigid boxes went against everything she believed. "that means i won't demote you, even if you're not always on your a-game."

[nightmourned]

minho doesn't touch the soup right away like he's waiting to see if it'll vanish. like if he looks away, this moment might fold in on itself and disappear. but it doesn't. her answer — just the ones who look like they forget to eat — makes something flicker in his expression. not quite a smile but the memory of one. his gaze drops to the bowl again and this time he picks up the spoon. the first sip stops him cold. for a second, he holds his breath. it's not just good. it's real. the kind of warmth that sneaks up on you. that fills in cracks so long-forgotten you stopped noticing the chill. he huffs out something that's barely a laugh. "damn," he mutters, half to himself, "i should have asked you for recommendations a long time ago." when she offers the bread, he looks at her, properly this time, like he's still recalibrating something. the gesture, the way she sees through him without prying, it throws him. not in a bad way. just… unexpected. "i used to eat with people," he says finally, taking the bread, careful not to brush her fingers. "then most of them stopped making it to dinner." a beat. "some stopped making it at all." he takes another spoonful, like he needs the taste to anchor the words. his shoulders don't quite drop but the edges round off a little. her question draws his attention again and he exhales slowly, like he knows it's meant to be light but can't help telling the truth. "i don't really think about liking things," he says after a pause, voice low, "coffee's just... fuel." there's no self-pity in the statement. just quiet fact. something functional in a world that rarely lets him want things just to want them. "but," he adds, a little softer now, "i like your coffee." he lets the statement hang in the air for a moment. his eyes meet hers. there's no grin, just simple honesty that's a little rough around the edges, like his use of it has become slightly rusty. he leans back in his seat, gaze still steady. "place felt welcoming. you made it easy." that's all he says but it lands heavier than it should, like it means something more — and maybe it does.

“Just the ones who look like they forget to eat,” she says, wrapping her fingers around her own bowl’s warmth. Her smile comes easier here, away from watching eyes and careful conversations. The steam rises between them, a small barrier made of nothing. She watches him through it—the way his shoulders relax incrementally, how his eyes do that careful sweep of the room even when he’s trying not to. “Besides,” she adds, lifting the spoon to taste the broth, “it seemed safer than asking what you wanted. Questions draw attention, right?” The soup is perfect—rich and simple, the kind that fills empty spaces you didn’t know existed. She notices he hasn’t started eating yet, still caught in that moment of surprise at her small kindness. “It’s good,” she says quietly, encouraging. “Luiza makes it from scratch every day. Her grandmother’s recipe, I’m pretty sure.” Joey breaks a piece of crusty bread, offering half across the table. “You said you don’t have many people you trust.” Her voice stays soft, matter-of-fact. “I’m guessing that makes eating alone a regular thing.” She doesn’t ask why he was looking for her at the market. Doesn’t push about the café. In Coronado, some questions wait until the third bowl of soup. “So,” she says instead, “do you actually like coffee, or was my café just convenient?”

[nightmourned]

minho settles into the chair with quiet efficiency, the kind of movement that doesn't draw attention. not here, not anywhere. he glances at the menu, turning it over for appearances without actually reading any of the words. "water will do," he says, without needing to think. then, after a beat, his mouth twitches. "if i drank on the job, i'd be a much worse investment. but i like the test." his gaze flicks upward to meet teodósio's, sharp but not unkind. maybe a little calculated. measured. his lips curve into a small, easy grin he's certainly rehearsed before nonetheless. "you don't strike me as someone who wastes time with social calls, though. so i'm guessing whatever's on this itinerary of yours isn't just pleasant small talk and drink orders." he leans back slightly, one arm draped across the back of his chair, still not fully relaxed — minho seemingly never is, a sense of alarm and alert pulsing through him at any given moment — but giving the appearance of it. he can do that much at least. "i'll indulge in chit-chat if you're in the mood but i'm ready for the interesting part whenever you are." 

'Hope I'm not interrupting your people-watching.'

It's not the people he's watching but the ships along the harbour. Learning their docks, their schedules, the activity on the port at this time of day... But that's exactly what he hopes it looks like he's been doing, so he shoots Minho a lazy smile and reaches to pull the table back, that the man might take the empty chair more easily.

He likes Minho. Likes that he has manners, which is a useful trait in any collaboration, business venture or otherwise. Likes, too, that Minho doesn't trust him. Paradoxically, it means his judgment can be trusted.

"Hardly. Bored to tears and glad you're here." He traces the man's movements with his eyes, expression pleasant. As soon as Minho is seated, Teodósio hands him the mini double-sided menu. Normally the type to cut to the chase, but some days he likes to draw it out. He's still unraveling Minho, and pretexts like this one serve a good excuse.

"There are a couple of items on the itinerary, actually. But first, what are you drinking?"

[nightmourned]

there's a difference between hiding and disappearing. if you want to stay lost, you vanish. but if you want to stay hidden? you make yourself useful. minho knows the game well enough by now to play it better than most. that is why he's here — not because he trusts teodósio del bosque (he doesn't) and not because he particularly enjoys doing odd favors for shady family men with expensive secrets (he doesn't), but because when one of his quieter contacts said he'd recommended him to the man since he was looking for someone discreet and efficient, he agreed. you don't always say no. not when you've made a name for yourself — or rather, a name that isn't yours — by being the guy people don't look at too hard. he doesn't give away the flicker of recognition when teo greets him, just offers a nod in return, low and even. the name 'minho' sits easy on his shoulders now. familiar. clean. no weight to it. not to this man, anyway. "hope i'm not interrupting your people-watching," he says as he pulls out the empty chair, dropping into it like he's done this a hundred times before — jobs like this, meetings like this, men like this. "what can i do for you?"

LOCATION — On the Docks, The Wharf. DATE — April 30th, 2025. STARTER — Closed for @nightmourned

Two birds, one stone.

It's why he sets his meeting with Kang on the Wharf, partly so they can discuss in the relative anonymity of the city's edge, and partly so that he can watch the coming and goings of the ships docking along the harbour. Observing them at length as a civilian might well garner the kind of attention he doesn't want, not while trying to determine their schedules... And the best timing for his latest smuggling operation.

Teodósio spends about half an hour before the scheduled rendez-vous observing the docks from a café nearby, attention divided only when he catches the familiar stride belonging to the former Kagehito in the distance of his peripheral vision. He settles himself more comfortably, innocuously, making no move to catch the man's notice until he's just a few feet away. "Minho." He nods. "Thanks for coming... Take a seat."

[nightmourned]

"dramatic speeches. emotionally vulnerable followers. bold fashion choices. you'd kill the whole cult leader thing, honestly. starting to think you already have one," he adds, deadpan, "i'm just not high enough in the ranking to know it yet. let me guess — tier three followers get access to behind-the-scenes footage and one emotionally charged compliment a week?" the quip lands easy, but there's something in the way he looks at her, like he's letting her words sit a little longer than usual before responding. "but hey," he says, voice a little lower now, more sincere beneath the dry delivery, "if you're choosing my brain over my charm, that means you're either making excellent choices... or very bad ones with really flattering justification." a pause. then the smirk returns. "guess we'll find out soon enough. just don't demote me to tier one when i show up sleep-deprived and only half-conscious."

"writers often are, just in case you forgot about that. but you've earned some points for saying i could run a cult, at least. not saying i do! you'd have to earn more of them to know that." he's smart with his answer, at least... but angelica trusts him to be. it's another one of those things that seem so rare in everyone else. she's always trying to see the best in others, it's a shame that so many seem to be content to show her only the worst. "don't worry, if i wanted your charm, i'd ask for it. i'd rather have your brain between the two. it's like you said, i'll cover for you. just don't expect to get away with bringing neither!"

[nightmourned]

"wow," minho says, slowly blinking at her, "weaponizing science and slander in the same breath. impressive." he leans back, arms folding behind his head like he's completely unbothered, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays the smirk he's doing his best to suppress. "for the record, gravitational pull does not equal fat. it equals... presence. aura. cult-leader potential, if we're sticking to theme." he lets that hang a beat before adding, dry for show, "also, i'm not a softie. i'm—" he pauses, running through options before he lands on "—textured." his head tilts toward her, mock-thoughtful. "and don't worry, i'll bring my brain. can't say the same for my charm, but hey — you've got enough of that for both of us, right?"

"secret gravitational pull?" hands on her hips, angie cocked a brow in mock offense. "are you calling me fat? i should let it slip you're a softie just for that!" without knowing the circles he ran in, she would never have presumed he was anything else. sure, he was sarcastic... but it was less wrought iron gate and more thorn bush; there was something green and new and soft beneath. "just be sure you bring your brain with you, okay? i may not have a rubric, but i do have standards!"

[nightmourned]

Wannabe: When your muse was a child, what did they want to be when they grew up? If they aren't, what stopped them? If they are, how do they like it now?

there was a time when he was very young, before the world sharpened its teeth at him, that he wanted to be a pilot. he used to dream about flying away, about seeing the world from above where nothing could touch him. but growing up under the kagehito crushed those dreams early. they taught him the only thing he was meant to be was a tool and a weapon. he doesn't think about the sky much anymore. when he does, it feels less like freedom and more like a reminder of the life he never had a shot at.

[nightmourned]

if it really was possible for minho to get out, what would he do with his life?

if it were truly possible for minho to get out — really out, clean, with no one hunting, no one watching — the hardest part would be figuring out who he is without the weight of survival dictating every choice. but if you asked him in a moment of honesty when no one else could hear? he'd say something quiet. something simple. he'd want a quiet place by the water, maybe a cabin tucked into the woods or a faded apartment over a corner bookstore. he'd take jobs that didn't require a weapon in his waistband or lies on his tongue. something with his hands — building, fixing, working with tools instead of tactics. somewhere he wouldn't be expected to be anyone he's not. he'd sleep in sometimes. learn how to cook properly. walk down the street without watching every window for a sniper's glint. he'd let himself be known by someone — fully known, not just the fractured edges he lets peek through. he'd live small. safe. not to be invisible but to finally be free. that version of life though? it's a ghost. something he visits in dreams and pushes away before it can start to feel real. because the truth is, minho doesn't think he'll make it out. not all the way. not clean. and if he ever did, a part of him wouldn't be sure he deserves it.

[nightmourned]

he appears in the doorway a few minutes after her and he spots her immediately. of course he does. she picked a booth he would've picked. out of the way, but not out of reach. it's a brief observation but something akin to approval settles in his chest. minho moves toward her without speaking, slips into the seat across like it's nothing. like the weight of the risk of showing up and something dangerously close to hope for something he can't quite name aren't settling like stones inside his chest. "you weren't kidding," he chooses to hum as a greeting, meeting her gaze after giving the room a quick survey. he doesn't smile, not exactly, but the edge of something close tugs at the corner of his mouth. "private. quiet. smells better than half the restaurants i've frequented the past week." the bowls arrive before he has a chance to say more — two of them, set down without fanfare. minho blinks once, observing the steam curling lazily from the surface of the soup, carrying the scent of something warm. his brows lift a fraction, something flickering across his face — something close to surprise. he huffs out a laugh, low and almost disbelieving, then glances from the untouched bowl to her. "you ordered for me?" it's not an accusation. it's closer to awe, like he can't remember the last time someone thought to do that. his fingers curl lightly around the edge of the ceramic, the heat sinking into his skin like something grounding. a small smile ghosts across his features. "you order for all your mysterious acquaintances or am i just special?" the words are light, just enough to lift some of the weight between them. but his gaze lingers on her a beat longer than the joke calls for, like he's still trying to figure out how he ended up on the receiving end of her kindness.

The old stone building with blue windows looks different at dusk. The fading light softens its edges, makes the blue paint seem more like sea glass than the bright azure she remembers from passing by during morning market runs. Josephine arrives minutes before they open, her heart beating a little faster than she’d care to admit. She chooses a booth in the corner—visible from the entrance but far enough back to avoid casual notice. The place smells of simmering broth and herbs, comforting and unpretentious. A handwritten menu on chalkboard announces the day’s specials in simple terms: chicken soup, fish broth, seasonal vegetables. She orders two bowls of the chicken soup without thinking, then catches herself. What if he doesn’t come? What if this was all…

[nightmourned]

he doesn't move when she stabs her finger into his chest. doesn't back up when she gets in close, even if her words land like knives. he just stands there and takes it — the hiss, the heat, the bitter sting in her laugh that sounds too much like the sound in his own head most nights. her steps retreat again. distance, reestablished. but the space she's trying to create isn't as solid as she thinks. not when he's already cracked open. "you think i don't know that?" minho's voice is quiet now. low and dry but not cold. "you think i don't lie awake knowing it's a losing game?" his eyes follow her as she moves. "i'm not here because i think i'm some hero. i'm here because getting out alone isn't the kind of peace i can live with." a beat. two. his next words feel heavier in his mouth. like they cost something to say. "you're not wrong. most of them? they won't want saving. but some… some aren't gone yet. if there's even one person still waiting for a way out, i'm not running until i've done what i can." his jaw works, like there's more he wants to say — something unspoken sitting at the edge of his tongue — but he swallows it down. maybe it's better not to say too much. not here. not yet. "and for what it's worth," his voice dips softer again, his gaze steady on her, "if i really thought you were just like the rest of them — i wouldn't still be standing here." he lets that sit. doesn’t press it further. just meets her anger with something steadier, quieter. not quite peace. not forgiveness. just recognition. "you know, you told me to leave," he says finally, the barest hint of a wry smile tugging at the edge of his mouth, "but you haven't walked away yet either."

‘I didn’t leave you. I left them.’

That hits harder than Avery expects. You and them. He doesn’t consider her one of them. Maybe she doesn’t, either. She doesn’t know whether to be offended or relieved. It isn’t like she ever made her rebellion a secret, and all too often, Shibata punishments were public and intended to shame. Not that it ever deterred Avery.

She meets his gaze unsteadily but intensely, brows knit in a deep frown as he continues.

Deserve to get out. Deserve. Avery can’t help herself: she laughs, loud, short, and sharp.

“We don’t deserve shit.” There’s no ‘you’ and ‘them’ in her statement; only ‘we.’ She takes a couple weaving steps closer and, as long as he doesn’t back up, will stab an accusatory finger to the center of his chest. “You think this life has anything for us but handing us the same bullshit we do to everyone else?” Avery’s voice lowers to a hiss, because she might be drunk but she’s not a complete idiot; god knows who else could be listening. “The best you can hope for is leaving and hoping they never catch up. Staying here is fuckin’ stupid, Hajoon. It’s suicide.”

She sets her jaw and shakes her head, having to take another couple of steps backwards again to put distance between them. “You can’t white knight people who don’t want to be saved. Fuck — none of us can be white knights to begin with.” Avery’s fists ball at her sides, even if the angry energy ultimately goes nowhere; she doesn’t want to fight him. “So I’m gonna say it again: leave.”

[nightmourned]

she disappears into the crowd like she was never there, like the whole exchange had been nothing but a passing moment. a suggestion tucked between plums and apricots, a whisper folded into market chatter. minho stands still for a second longer. the old stone building. blue windows. seven. his mouth twitches — just a flicker at first, the smallest hint of a smile. and then, for the first time in longer than he can remember, it spreads fully. he has to glance down, shake his head slightly, remind himself to wipe it off his face before someone else notices. before he remembers the risk. because this is a terrible idea. it's a terrible idea and yet the thought of that soup place — of her, already moving ahead without looking back, trusting he'd follow the veiled invite — warms something in his chest. he slips his hands back into his jacket pocket, like he's tucking a secret into it and disappears down a side street without another word. the morning sun breaks across the rooftops and he doesn't look back either. he doesn't need to. he knows where to be. and still, despite himself, he feels it again — the smile he'd buried tugging back at the corner of his mouth, threatening to take hold all over again.

“I hope you’re eating more than just plums,” she says, her voice casual as she adds another to her basket. A mother with a stroller passes by, close enough that Josephine shifts slightly, giving the woman space while inadvertently moving closer to Minho. The proximity catches her off guard. She can smell the faint scent of him now—soap and something distinctly his own. It reminds her of that day in the café, before everything changed. “There’s a place near the edge of Mercado,” she says, reaching for an apricot and testing its ripeness with gentle fingers. “Old stone building with blue windows. They make decent soup.” Her eyes meet his briefly. “Private booths in the back. Good for conversations you don’t want overheard.” She pays for the apricots, nodding her thanks to the vendor. The morning sun catches on her hair as she turns, illuminating the dark strands with hints of amber. For a moment, she seems to hesitate, caught between what’s wise and what she wants to say. “I didn’t say anything,” she finally murmurs, “because I don’t believe everything I hear.” Her mouth curves slightly. “Especially from men in expensive suits who spill coffee on purpose.” Josephine adjusts her bag on her shoulder, the movement natural but deliberate. “The soup is best around seven,” she adds, already beginning to move away, blending back into the market crowd. “Apparently.” She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t need to. The weight of the plum he chose sits heavy among her other purchases, a small token of something neither of them can name yet.

[nightmourned]

minho hums low under his breath, just enough for it to pass as amusement. "good. i’ve got enough enemies without adding rogue academic advisors to the list." he rests his elbow on the back of the couch, chin tilted just slightly in her direction. still casual, still himself, but watching her a little more closely now — catching the quiet shift in her tone, the way her gaze softened, hand half-covering her mouth like she hadn’t meant to let that much slip. "and hey," he says, his voice quieter now, steady. "i don’t show up for just anyone, alright? so either you've got some kind of secret gravitational pull... or i'm going soft." a beat. then, his lips quirk upward just slightly. "don't quote me on that last part. i've got a reputation to uphold." he lets the silence settle for a breath longer than usual, then nudges the conversation forward with the flicker of a smirk. "but since you're sparing my sensitive little documents from the wrath of your rubric, i guess i'll keep showing up." and he means it. not just the joke. the showing up.

"no, just amateur sabotage, i'm afraid," she joked, lip twitching. "i'm not going to be sending any of your papers to the university. if you want academic credit, you'll have to do it yourself, sabotage or no." smiling, she added, "and you know i, of all people, couldn't get on your cases about commas. me and her?" the punctuation mark, that was, "we're tight," she finished, holding up her crossed fingers. she had long since learned that the rules were more like training wheels. finally, her gaze faltered, hand brought up to rest gently against her lips. she was touched, of course. easy to show up for had never come up on any of her performance reviews... or anywhere at all, for that matter. she always felt like she was a pest to be dealt with, written off for eccentric tastes and a wealthy upbringing. minho clearly didn't care about any of that—or anything else that the tabloids gleefully ripped apart, for that matter. "i promise, my rubrics won't touch your sensitive little documents," she said, after a long moment of silence. "and just so you know... i think you're better at that whole heartfealt thing than you think you are. thank you, minho. seriously. i really needed to hear that today."

[nightmourned]

minho doesn't flinch when the name is said — mister kang — but something still shifts behind his eyes. like a stone tossed into still water. subtle. quiet. not enough to ripple the surface. "take your pick," he says, tone even. not cold but not inviting either. just tired. he doesn't clarify. doesn't name names. the list of people and things he's not running from would be shorter to form anyway. his gaze follows the folder as it disappears, then lifts back to dimitri. there's something a little sharper behind it now. more present. more deliberate. "i'll clean the paper trail," he says, like a concession. like it physically pains him to say it. "i'll find the right fronts. build the scaffolding with your guidance." he pauses, jaw tightening slightly. "you'll tell me if i fuck something up." it's not quite a question. more like surrender. reluctant but real. "whatever you need me doing to make sure this works, i'll do it. i'll follow your lead." he straightens, exhaling a quiet breath. "this is the only shot i've got at building something that holds." a beat. his eyes hold dimitri's with an intensity that seems almost like a silent plea. "don't let me fall through it."

Payment in a neat fold of bills—this man is going to get him killed, he's sure of it. Dimitri sighs and looks at it, half-decent serials, good printing, not counterfeit, or at least not enough that dimitri can spot any red flags in the immediate vicinity. "Point of order. Don't give anyone wads of cash that aren't me or any of your buddies," he says, shaking his head. "Buy something. A couple of somethings. Break the bills, launder the cash through a legit business. Do the trains, the buses, whatever the hell you need, but don't do... this." The form is a last resort, a prayer to the unfeeling waves of Coronado and her tempestuous fortune. Dimitri can't help but feel sorry for the guy, and he tucks it in a folder and labels it with the name on the form. Kang Min-ho. "Mister Kang," he starts, "I need you to know that you need a better paper trail—and I need to ask, who did you piss off?"

[nightmourned]

there's a flicker in minho's eyes — something equal parts apology and relief. her surprise is to be expected. but the fact that she hasn't walked away or called attention to him says more than any greeting could. his posture stays relaxed, one hand loosely in his pocket, the other hovering near the edge of the vendor's table like he's just another passerby contemplating fruit. "didn't think i'd see me again either for a second," he says, dry, recalling the ending to their last meeting, but there's a softness under the words. gratitude. or something near it. he's sure the implication of his statement isn't lost on her. he lets her lead the tone. plays his part in the dance. "it was really good cake," he says quietly, "didn't get a chance to say that last time. not properly, anyway." the apology is unspoken but present. it lingers in the air between them like steam from a warm cup — obvious if you're paying attention, easy to miss if you're not. his gaze follows hers to the plums, then drifts across the market in a slow, practiced scan. no tails. no watchers. but still, he doesn't relax. "been walking a lot," he murmurs, choosing a plum and holding it up to the light, "some neighborhoods are quiet. others… not so much." the weight of her double meaning isn't lost on him. he meets her eyes for a beat too long, something unreadable flickering behind his expression before he drops the plum into the basket between them like a secret. a shared risk. a signal. at the mention of her recipes, a hint of a smile curves at the edge of his mouth. "figured you might be trying something new." there's a pause, a beat where he considers what else to say, what's safe to say, before his voice lowers again, a thread just for her. "i don't have a lot of people i trust. fewer i go out of my way to find." he looks away then, gaze returning to the fruit like this conversation hasn't just peeled open something careful. his next words come soft, meant for her ears only. "you could've said something. back then." a small breath. "you didn't." and that mattered. he doesn't elaborate. doesn't ask for anything. just lets the truth hang quietly in the space between them. then, almost an afterthought, almost not, he adds, "i miss the coffee, by the way." the look he gives her is lighter now but still real before a faint glimmer of dry amusement flickers across his face. "yours is the best one in coronado. feel free to print that on a banner."

There’s a moment—brief, infinitesimal—where Josephine’s eyes widen with unmistakable shock. A plum hangs suspended between her fingers and the basket, caught in the liminal space of a decision interrupted. Her gaze darts past him, scanning for other faces, for watching eyes. The market’s buzzing continues unbroken around them—shoppers haggling over prices, vendors calling their wares, children weaving between stalls. No one seems to notice them. No one seems to care. “You,” she breathes, the word barely audible above the crowd’s hum. She places the plum carefully into her basket, movements deliberate, buying herself precious seconds to regain composure. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.” The truth of this hangs between them. His appearance feels impossible, reckless even. Agent Nakamura had returned to the café three more times since that day, each visit longer than the last, his questions growing more pointed. She’d caught glimpses of men in suits passing by her windows, pausing just long enough to glance inside before continuing on their way. Josephine adjusts the strap of her bag, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Did you finish that cake?” she asks, voice steady now, louder for anyone who might be listening. A normal question for a casual acquaintance. Her eyes tell a different story—sharp, questioning, a silent what are you doing here? She turns back to the fruit stand, selecting another plum with careful consideration. “The weather’s been nice lately,” she continues, the banality of the statement almost comical under the circumstances. Her fingers trace the plum’s surface, testing for ripeness. “Good for walking. Though some neighborhoods are better for that than others.” Her words carry weight beyond their surface meaning—a warning, perhaps, or an invitation. She pays the vendor, tucking her purchases into her bag. When she looks at him again, her expression is softer, complex with something that might be concern. “I’ve been trying new recipes,” she says, the statement hanging in the air like an unfinished thought. “Coffee’s still the same, though.”

[nightmourned]

minho doesn't flinch when she says it again. his name. hajoon. but something flashes behind his eyes. not fear. just… weariness. a bone-deep, soul-heavy kind of ache that settles somewhere below his ribs and makes the night feel heavier than it already is. her anger rolls off her in waves, messy and raw. he doesn't meet it with more fire. doesn't snap back, doesn't try to defend himself the way he probably could. he just watches her and fuck, it hurts. not because she's wrong. because she isn't. there were people he left behind — physically anyway — but they kept him anchored here like invisible shackles all the same. "i didn't leave you. i left them," he insists, holding her gaze, the intensity in his eyes seeming to beg her to believe his words. he doesn't elaborate on who they are. he's sure it goes without saying. "you think i didn't try?” he asks then, voice low now, quieter, but sharp around the edges as he focuses on her questions, "you honestly think there's anywhere to go they can't reach?" it's not an excuse. just a fact. like gravity. like death. his jaw tightens, the tension subtle but there. his gaze lifts to meet hers — steady, unflinching, something like fire banked behind his eyes. "i didn't leave the island," he says after a beat, voice softer but no less certain, "because there's still people here who deserve to get out." he doesn't say who. doesn't say why. just lets the words sit there, solid as stone. he shouldn't be saying this much — not to anyone, let alone another kagehito. but there's something about avery. maybe it's the history. the fact that they came up in the same shadows, shaped by the same hands. or the way she'd never quite fit into the puzzle like the others did. or maybe it's the way her anger doesn't feel like a weapon. not aimed at him, not really. no matter what it is exactly, it slips through his armor before he can stop it. and he doesn't take it back.

He’s so fucking flippant about it, it drives her insane — which is rich, coming from the crown princess of flippancy. Avery’s heart is pounding in her chest, sobering and sickening all at once, and she swallows it back with a stubbornness and simmering fury.

“No,” she says sharply, suddenly, and it’s wholly unclear what it is she’s saying ‘no’ to. All of it, probably. The fact that he's even there. Avery starts to pace, which doesn’t get her far in as narrow an alley as this. One unsteady finger waggles at him for a moment, then points more resolutely. “No.”

Yeah, she’s mad. But she’s not mad for the reasons he probably assumes. Avery’s mad because he got out; he made it. Sure, the Shibata might be hunting him down like a dog in the streets at every opportunity — fuckin’ hilarious, since they’re the ones who trained him to be so good at evasion in the first place — but at least he’s out. The blood on his hands is fading day by day, presumably. Avery doesn’t have that luxury.

“Fuck you, Hajoon,” she all but spits out, purposefully using his name again. Ghost of kagehito past, her ass. “You left. You left all of us.” Like she actually believes she’s one of them, one of the family. Avery knows she’s just another piece of the machine, and a broken one, at that. “So why the hell are you still here?” She gestures wildly, taking an unsteady half-step back. “Why didn’t you leave this- this fuckin’ island?”

[nightmourned]

"good to know i won't be accused of academic sabotage," minho mutters, rolling his neck from side to side and sitting up just a tad straighter, like he's finally given up on playing the sleepy-card, "was starting to worry i'd get a strongly worded email about comma splices and emotional damage." his tone stays even, lazy, but there's a flicker of something quieter in the way his gaze rests on her, measured and steady. "you know," he says, after a pause, "i'm not great at the whole heartfelt thing, but... you're pretty easy to show up for. most of the time." he doesn't let it hang too long. wouldn't be him if he did. "though if you start grading me with actual rubrics, all bets are off," he adds, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly, "i don't care how priceless you are — i draw the line at revision requests."

angelica had to give pause and appreciate the way minho stuck up for friendship. she had known immediately upon meeting him that she could trust him—she didn't know why, but it had all seemed to pan out. he was as good a person as anyone could ask for. he was here, up early in the morning to listen to her ramblings yet again, after all. how many friendships had she gone through trying to appreciate life and meeting nothing but scorn and disdain in response? minho was sarcastic, but he was genuine. "i know you would," she said, earnest. there had been plenty of people in her life who would have loved nothing more than to be paid to be there. she didn't mind picking up the bill, but there had to be more to life than just squeezing people dry. she had no patience for leeches—the people variety, at any rate. "and thank you. i promise i won't blame you if i stay up too late," she added, smirking. "mostly because there wouldn't be any blame. if you sent me an essay to pick over, i'd be over the moon. you know i love analyzing things like that... and that i'm not some kind of grammar arbiter, either."

[nightmourned]

⋆ ⁺ ₊ ☾ @semidull.

minho tells himself this is a bad idea. he told himself the same thing ten minutes ago and twenty before that. he's been telling himself ever since he mapped out her likely route home, ever since he calculated the hour she might stop to pick something up from the market, ever since he realized that for some reason, he was still thinking about her at all. he'll probably be telling himself long after this moment passes. there are safer places to be. better ways to spend his time. more pressing things to worry about than a woman who offered him cake and cover and didn't ask for anything in return. the market hums with soft noise. plastic crinkling, shoes scuffing concrete, the low murmur of conversation. he blends in easily, a cap tugged low, hands tucked into his pockets, just another shadow in a sea of movement. he spots her near the fruit stand. she seems focused — scanning produce with the kind of quiet concentration that comes from routine, fingers brushing the skin of a plum like she's weighing more than just the price. minho watches from a short distance, something sharp and uncertain flickering through him. he can't be sure she didn't say anything. wouldn't blame her if she had. after all, he was just some guy that liked her coffee. but something in his chest — or maybe just in the way her eyes had met his that day — makes him think she didn't. maybe it's blind faith. maybe it's stupid. and yet, here he is. he moves without thinking. quiet steps. no wasted motion. he slips into the space beside her, not close enough to draw stares but enough to brush against the edges of her awareness. he watches her turn, eyes catching on him. for half a second, they just look at each other. "hey," he greets softly, his voice low and even. he tilts his head just enough for the cap's brim to shift back, letting her get a better view of his face. a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth — not wide, not bright, but just enough to warm up his features. there's a subtle curve to it that doesn't bother pretending this is a coincidence. he's not trying to sell that lie. "fancy seeing you here," he adds after a beat, casual enough on the surface but the flicker in his eyes makes it seem like a joke only the two of them are privy to.