A shadow faded as a head cracked onto cement. A blinding light and a fear of falling. Where is he?

He looked to his left and saw a pair of benches in a void of white, facing opposite each other. His head ached as his rigid fingers lightly touched the back of his head.

Cold.

His reaction was to jerk away; never had he felt such an alien chill. Incredulous and incredible: his hand was clean. The sickening crack was deafening, echoing through his blank mind with resonance.

“Kyungsoo,” a soft, buttery voice filled the space, pulling him out of his worry. A figure on the other bench, facing away from him. Dressed in all black and stiff as marble, Kyungsoo couldn’t help but walk carefully towards him.

“Where am I?” he asked, the words escaped bitterly, almost  crudely as the fear and uncertainty drowned them.

“Sit.”

He took a seat on a cool bench, motionless as his wide eyes strained to find something in the white that faced him. Flickering back and forth, yet finding nothing, he was at a loss.

“You’re dead, Kyungsoo,” the voice fluttered into his ears, every syllable etching into his brain with fire and knives.

“However,” a stony, elongated, white hand removed itself from the cloth the man was draped in, and wrapped themselves around the end of the bench, just next to where Kyungsoo was seated.

“You’re not finished.”