"Y​ou bastard! I'll kill you! I'll ing kill you!"

Taemin hollered and screeched and tried to kick his legs as Lil’ wiped his machete with a dirty cloth. The cut had been so clean that there was no blood on it anyway, but after he'd torn the duct tape from Jonghyun and Taemin’s lips following the cessation of the recording, he'd wanted to make sure.

"Y​ou bastard," Taemin repeated, voice strained against his throat, "​You bastard..."

Pain ricocheted through Taemin harshly, seeding itself into every nerve of his body so that he could barely feel a thing. The only thing he felt was a white rage, so hot it burned his very thoughts and contorted his expressions, voice on the verge of breaking. To his side, Jonghyun screamed and howled and writhed and cried, barely receiving any attention from anyone but Taemin.

Sick threatened Taemin, wanting him to gag, as he watched Jonghyun cry out, teeth gritted and eyes screwed shut. Jonghyun hissed and jerked uncontrollably, in obvious shock as he clutched the bloodied stump on his left hand where there'd recently been two, maybe three, fingers. Red dripped through his remaining fingers to the floor, and his neck strained, veins bulging, the sensation that coursed through him so overwhelming that he was going to pass out any second.

And then he did.

His body slumped in one final jitter, his hands dropping to his sides with a messy spray of blood, and Taemin finally reached his limit. The metallic scent of blood thick, his nostrils flared and he wrenched his head away from himself, in time to vomit across the floor at the sight of his mutilated hyung. As the last of the sour vomit passed, Taemin swallowed thickly, perspiration dripping down his forehead. He barely even noticed as Hwangsoon finally abandoned his post as cameraman, to untie Jonghyun’s feet. Lil’ assisted him, and soon they had the composer free, Hwangsoon murmuring, “I'll need to bandage that,” as he clocked the bloodied stump, what remained of Jonghyun’s once beautiful hand. Taemin spat, lungs tearing apart his ribcage.

"You're dead..." he threatened, throat sore, volume weaker. "I​'m going to kill you. I'm going to ing-"

Lil’ stepped forward and slung a lazy punch across Taemin’s jaw, shutting the maknae up suddenly as pain enveloped his striking features.

“Yeah, yeah, tough guy,” Lil’ murmured, returning to help Hwangsoon lift the deeply unconscious Jonghyun, taking his shoulders whilst Hwangsoon took his legs. Jonghyun’s arms swung by his sides, the malformed hand dangling like a slab of meat. Taemin couldn't help but stare in disbelief. The hand he'd once massaged, caressed and kissed, the hand that Jonghyun used to tap piano keys and clutch microphones, lightly pinch Taemin’s cheek or swat the younger, always affectionate, even before Jinki’s death.

Taemin remained silent, stunned, as his cheek throbbed. Lil’ hadn’t hit him hard, but his fist had definitely been enough to jar Taemin’s confidence, cutting off his hoarse yelling. Lil’ and Hwangsoon disappeared with Jonghyun’s limp body, leaving Taemin alone.

He struggled to grasp what had happened. It didn’t feel real. His body ached and his throat was parched, but the mental anguish practically diminished the physical as he bit