The crisp, paper wind gives way to a bubbly, heady sort of warmth that reminds you of something. A faint whiff of milk and honey, a crackling fireplace, a homewoven sheeps-wool carpet that smells of wet, happy dog and frothy hot chocolate.

The same something that stays fresh in your mind just long enough for you to remember how to want, gone before the brush begins to paint the picture. The same something in a multiverse of other somethings, pulled out of the thick, dense, lurid liquid of your semi-conscious memory bank, like a fish's corpse out of a polluted pond. The same something stashed in a memory bank, robbed of its bounty on the same day a girl born on the 3rd of March, 1996, had died of unknown, untold causes.

There are a lot of somethings, for you.

For Queen.

Queen.

That is my name.

The cafe is a humble one; small, and tucked into the corner of the street like a young child tucked into bed. A man, wrapped in an oily black trench coat, raises his head from a mug of steaming liquid to acknowledge your entrance. It's strange – you can't see his face, except for the tiny sparks of light nestled within dual nests of deep, dark wrinkles that are his eyes. "Good evening," you mumble. He stops to observe you, and then nods and folds himself up again.

The shopowner – a middle-aged, mousy woman who possesses the unfortunate look of someone who's been poured into her clothes, and had forgotten to tell whoever had been pouring to stop – wobbles over, clutching at a yellowing notepad and a cheap-looking pen with the words Love the life you live; live the life you love inscribed in gilt on the side. "Would you like something to drink?"

You look down at your hands and foster a shy smile. "Just a caramel macchiato, thanks."

"You have good taste," she smiles, and all of a sudden, you can suddenly see how pretty she must have been in her youth. You watch the movement of her hands as she scratches something down onto the notepad. Her fingers are wrinkled and white. It looks like they've just been taken out of a warm bath; all clammy and stiff. The rectangular badge pinned onto her bosom reads 'Park Bi-an.' "It won't take very long," Bi-an rasps. "There's not much business at this hour." She offers one more gentle smile before disappearing behind the counter in a puff of coffee beans and cinnamon spice.

Without the lingering sound of Seeker's voice in your head, it's quiet. Peaceful, even. The foreign sensation of being freed from something warms the bottom of your stomach. You raise a hand to tighten the woollen scarf around your neck. The door-chime announces the entrance of a silhouette of a man.

"Hello?" you hear him say. Bi-an scuttles over, a piece of limp material squirming about in her hands.

You hear her twittering worriedly as the man gestures wildly with his ferrety hands. "He's missing again," he blubbers, hot, salty tears flowing down his face and filling the wrinkles lining his skin. You wonder how long it's been since you cried. "He's run away again, Bi-an. I can't control that kid anymore. Who will he listen to, if he won't listen to me..."

You can still hear him sniffling, even when Bi-an has ushered him into the room behind the counter. You bow your head respectfully as Bi-an places a chipped, baby-pink mug in front of you. "Take your time," she says, wringing her hands anxiously. You wrap cold fingers around the porcelain tankard and let the sleepy smell of caramel envelope your face. Bi-an settles down into the chair opposite you, her spine curling in exhaustion. Her chest flutters up and down as she fiddles with something in her hands. "You're not from around here, are you?"

The mug pauses halfway to your mouth. "Pardon?"

The old woman crinkles her eyes at you. Something about her smile reminds you of long nights waiting at lonely bus-stops, and creaky, wooden rocking chairs. "The kids here love this place. I love this cafe, too. My husband built it for us when we first came here," she explains, tucking her feet carefully beneath the stool. "You don't visit during the day, do you? Did you move in recently?"

"My parents wanted to move here after Dad retired." The lie comes easily, but something about it doesn't feel like a lie at all. When the words tumble off your tongue, they feel... ticklish. "Seoul wasn't good for Mum. She's had a lot of breathing problems since she started working in the factories."

Bi-an's squirrely grey hair nods in agreement. She weaves her fingers together and leans forward, offering a small, warm smile. "Well, don't hesitate to come here whenever it pleases you, Miss. Having young people around really makes this old woman happy."

"Oh, no. Just Chaeyeon is okay, unnie," you blurt. You're not sure where the name comes from, but anything sounds better than Queen. "Kim Chaeyeon."

Something in your stomach turns as a pleased laugh fills the well-worn lines in Bi-an's face. "Chaeyeon-ah. You're a very beautiful girl. Very polite, too," she titters happily. Twin sparks of devilish mischief flare alight in the centres of her pupils as she raises a vaguely alien-shaped square of crotcheted wool. "You should meet my nephew sometime. He's a very good-looking boy, you know!"

You smile into your macchiato. The living never fail to amuse you, even after a year of Collecting. "He sounds like a great nephew, but I don't think I have the time." Bi-an looks at you in puzzlement – and, perhaps, with a glint of quiet judgement, as if she had taken offence. There's a thin film of glass illuminating the blacks of her pupils. It's disconcerting. "Sorry. I mean, I'm not staying here long. My family moves around a lot. I wouldn't want to disappoint you, or him," you explain. That's not entirely untrue, you think to yourself. And there's always a figment of truth in a convincing lie. You pretend to glance at the rustic wooden clock on the wall. "It was nice to meet you, unnie, but I should be going –"

A bone-chilling howl floods the air, crushing the serene silence underfoot.

Every single person in the cafe jolts upright in their seats, eyes glued to the kitchen door as Bi-an uncoils out of her seat and hobbles over to the kitchen doorway, one hand clutching the piece of ragged wool to her chest.

Without thinking, you pick yourself up and rush after her, struggling to wrap the scarf tighter around your neck as you dodge around the backs of people's chairs. The man in the trench brings his face into the light, revealing a visage so pocked with tiny, white scars that you immediately think of – of what? You can't remember. The thought is duly flung out of your mind as Bi-an slams the door open with the strength that a woman of her age should not possess.

There's no dead body. There's no demon, or ghost, or ghoul.

Ghosts and ghouls are different. You would know, because ghouls are the ones that create ghosts.

You would know, because you've slain the worst of ghouls and saved the best of ghosts.

But there's none of that. Instead, all that greets you is a sobbing mess of a man, hunched on the ground; all moist and greasy, like mould growing on cheese. 

Bi-an crouches down next to him, patting his back and trying to extract the small rectange of metal – a phone, buzzing with static noise – from his clawed hand. You stay standing with your arms stuck to your sides rigidly. There's this feeling of distaste gnawing at the inside of your left temple. So weak. People, you decide, are always so hard to understand. Always changing. Do they ever run out of energy, or do they have to worry like they have to breathe?

"I knew he'd get in trouble. I knew it!" cries the man, wringing his hands fretfully. "He never leaves them be, Bi-an! Just because that dunce of a friend gets involved, and now he's gone and that gang's got him!" He points desperately at his phone, eyes wild. "They just called me, Bi-an. They said I have to pay them, or they'll hurt him –"

You clear your throat awkwardly. "Excuse me, abeonim," you interrupt, holding up a hand sheepishly.

"I'll go get your son back."

Bi-an shakes her head furiously, eyebrows furrowed across her wrinkled forehead. "Chaeyeon-ah! Don't be silly! It's late, and you're a girl –"

Just a girl, you think, and then you watch as Bi-an's words die halfway out of , her cow-brown eyes widening in disbelief at what must have been a trick of the mind.

Because for a moment she could have sworn you had dust-golden, slit-pupilled eyes.

Just a Queen. 

"I'll go," you begin again, before Bi-an can ask the question so clearly hanging on her tongue. "Abeonim, unnie, please stay here and be ready to call the police if something happens to me."

You placate the old woman with a sideways, "I'll be fine, unnie. Trust me," and let yourself out of the room.

You can feel Bi-an's gaze on your retreating back, pressing down on the base of your spine with sticky, cold palms.

It's like the Seers' Court all over again.

aYO

yoongi's mixtape :3 the songs are HYPE but the lyrics... it's time we started appreciating yoongi as a person and not as a character.

short A/N this time because i've actually split this chapter into two... :3

to be continued shortly!

- Yukarin