[title song: exorcism - clairity]
[~5kw]

Chapter One.

“Dasom.” A familiar voice startles her so suddenly that she jumps, spinning on her heels, the washcloth in her hands falling into the sink basin in front of her, her eyes widening at the sight of Kim Jongdae, his curved lips pulled down into a frown that looks utterly out of place on his face.

She frowns at him, turning back around so she can pull the bloody, near-black washcloth out of the muddy water in the sink, wringing it out before she starts to wipe at the blood on her arms. “How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me like that?” She mumbles, focusing her attention on the task at hand.

Surprisingly, Jongdae doesn’t respond with something snarky, which only makes the nervous tension at the pit of her stomach tighten significantly. She glances over her shoulder, her chin resting on her shoulder as she observes him, her fingers still in the sink at the sight of his blank eyes, the ever-present twinkle she’s used to completely gone. He looks tired, as rundown as the building they’re standing in, the barely noticeable cat ears twitching beneath the tangled mess of his hair. He’s dressed well, she notices, his dress shirt a startlingly crisp white that looks entirely out of place in a town that’s always covered by a thin layer of black dust no matter how much anyone scrubs. His black dress pants fit him well and his black dress shoes shine brightly, especially in comparison to the dull carpet she had managed to buy from the store the other day thanks to her winnings. His clothes look too new against the backdrop of his tired expression, despite the fact that he still manages to look handsome, despite the extreme contrast. She still thinks something looks off about him, though.

She stares at him openly, smiling slightly, “You look nice.”

Jongdae’s ears wiggle and his lips twitch upwards the teeniest tiniest bit before he crosses his arms in a way that looks entirely too lecture-y to her, which only makes her eye him warily.

He sighs and walks over to where she’s standing before plopping down on the toilet next to the sink, curling his knees up against his chest as he stares at her, his long tail curling around his waist. She’s known him since she was five years old, yet she still manages to forget that he has a tail, her eyes flickering to it involuntarily. The way he looks at her, with big doe eyes that seem to delve deep into her soul, makes her blink rapidly and look away, rubbing at the black vampire blood with more force than it really needs. He speaks then, clearly ignoring her previous compliment, while she’s looking down, not quite meeting his eyes, “You promised me you’d stop participating in those fights.” Jongdae says, his voice quiet, a tiny bit accusing. There’s something awfully neutral about it, too, and she wonders if that’s just the effects of his career clinging to him after hours.

She frowns at the dark, murky sink water, “I never promised you anything. Besides, the betting pool is my only source of income.”

“But it doesn’t have to be.”

“I’m not taking any money from you.” Dasom snaps out, fingers tightening around the washcloth in her hands before she slowly loosens her grip, taking a deep breath as the irritation quickly ebbs away. She never really manages to hold onto anger for that long, anyway. Jongdae sighs again.

“I know you won’t. But it’s not like I’ll just be giving it to you. I told you before that I could—”

“But you can’t.” She interrupts, her voice rising in volume as she throws him a final, pointed look of stop. Her voice bounces off the walls, echoing in the tiny bathroom and Jongdae just scowls at her, a look that she really can’t stand on his face because it looks so out of place there. But she’s right and he knows it, so he just clutches his knees tighter to his chest, scowl deepening as his tail straightens out. “You can’t find me a proper job. Not when nobody’s going to hire a human. At least not without some kind of nasty ulterior motive. Jongdae, you know that.” Dasom sighs.

“I know. Gods, I know.” He sighs, leaning back against the wall behind the toilet, “I just…you almost died out there, again. I can’t keep watching you do this, Som. I could still find you something. With the right amount of money, anyone would—”

“Jongdae, please. Let’s not get into this right now.” Dasom cuts him off because she doesn’t want it. Many would think she’s just being stubborn and taking Jongdae’s admittedly generous and kind offer for granted, but she doesn’t think she could ever live with herself if she used Jongdae and his connections as a means to make a living for herself. She doesn’t like feeling like she owes people things, especially not her best friend, because, if anything, she already owes him her life in more ways than one.

His eyes are filled with worry and concern, though, the kind he usually masks with amusement and a sort of motherly fondness she’s come to love so much over the years. But today, it seems he’s baring it all out there for her, and she wonders how many times he had stopped himself from doing this, from coming to her with his soul bared and his walls torn down. He never does this. Kim Jongdae is never upset. And he certainly never looks like he’s close to tears.

(She had only seen him upset three times in her life.

The first was when she had met him, when he’d caught her digging around in his family’s trash, scavenging for food. He had been a tiny little thing at six years old, but the way he had reached out his hand, his furry ears twitching as his big yellow-black eyes seemed to take her in, scrutinizing her in a way no six year old really should made him seem bigger somehow, older, wiser.

Honestly, she thought she was going to die, right then and there, frozen to her spot as he eyed her in a strangely clinical sort of way. He looked cold, despite his glassy eyes. She thought he was going to report her, get her sent away to one of those human breeding homes she’s heard horror stories about from the other abandoned kids on the streets. His mouth was turned down into a frown and she had watched as he disappeared into the house, black tail curling, before he had returned the very next second, plastic-wrapped food in his hands. And then he had silently returned to his home and Dasom had been left to stare at the food, until hunger trumped pride and she decidedly took the food he had left in his place. He had left food out in a basket every night after that and they had become silent acquaintances, at least until Dasom decided to sit beside the basket one night and wait for the boy himself to appear. She remembers the way he had stared at her, when she had done that, surprised beyond belief, his ears and tail standing up straight, before his lips lifted into a curly little smile, softening the extra years off his face until he looked like the six year old he was supposed to look like. After that they had become friends, and, later, best friends.

The second time was when Jongdae had an argument with his mother about something Dasom’s sure nobody remembers the reason for, especially now, and Dasom had let him stay the night at the little hideaway she managed to scavenge, a broken down little shed with a missing door that she’d decided she wanted to call her home because she wasn’t five anymore and it was too dangerous to sleep on the streets. The other abandoned kids roaming the streets were long gone, some finding a home for themselves while others had just disappeared and Dasom’s heard enough rumors about harvests and the breeding home to guess the truth there. A few of the kids had turned up dead, the death rate much more frequent than they used to be, and five years on the streets told her that it was time for her to burrow away somewhere deserted unless she wanted to be next.

The third time was when they had been roaming the streets together and someone (a werewolf, a hybrid, she doesn’t even remember who or what) had said something awful about her, about the way she’d knock her fist against Jongdae’s arm and snicker at a joke he’d make, something entirely too disgusting for a grown person to say to a sixteen year old girl, human or otherwise, and the next thing she knew Jongdae had marched up to the guy and slammed his fist into the guy’s sneering face, his own face contorted with a blazing sort of fire, all-consuming, terrifying, and she had just watched. Under normal circumstances, she would have reminded Jongdae that she could have done it herself, but there was something there, in the way the kindness fell away from his eyes, that made her hold her tongue and just watch. No one had messed with her again after that and she’s always wondered exactly how influential Jongdae was, even in their poor district filled with hybrids and werewolves with a knack for violence and gambling.

In short, Jongdae doesn’t get upset very easily and it makes her uneasy when he does, because he’s always been so emotionally steady, an anchor she’d always relied on, since the day they met.)

“Dae.” She murmurs, shaking her head as she scrubs off what she hopes is the last of the vampire blood, “I’ll be fine, okay? Please, stop worrying.” Then she gives him a sidelong glance and grins, “I don’t think your little kitty heart can take this much worrying.”

Jongdae practically hisses at her in annoyance and she laughs.

It’s quiet again between them, a comfortable silence. And then Jongdae mumbles, “You missed a spot.”

“Where?” She blinks at her arms, glancing at the cracked, smudged bathroom mirror. She’s already managed to scrub the blood off her face before Jongdae had shown up.

Jongdae hops to his feet and gestures at her face, eyeing her pointedly, “Your entire face.” He says it with a curly grin (that never quite reaches his eyes) and she grimaces at him. “You should really get all that fixed.”

“Shut up.”

He just smiles, a curly little thing, patting her on the shoulder before he walks out, his tail swaying behind him. His smile, though is sad and she wishes she weren’t the reason for it.

~.~.~.~.~

“Is he still alive?” You ask, when she hasn’t said another word for a good five minutes now, too lost in her thoughts to continue.

She blinks rapidly, glancing up at you, her brows furrowed together as if she’s just realized that you’re here. “Who?”

“Um, J—Jongdae?” You stumble over the unfamiliar name, watching as she smiles that same sad, tired smile.

“Cat hybrids have nine lives.” She says, shrugging, “I’m sure he’s out there somewhere. Probably rubbing up against a sofa or running up a tree or something.”

But you catch the undercurrent of sadness in the forced amusement of her voice and you catch her eyes, her deep, ancient eyes, and you know right then and there that she isn’t even sure herself where Kim Jongdae is. And you want to know why. So you swallow down the ever-present instinctual fear her presence has lodged in your throat and murmur, “You don’t know where he is, do you?” Your voice comes out soft, but it doesn’t sound like a real question. It sounds like a statement, because of course she doesn’t know where he is.

Her gaze snaps up to meet yours, sharp and lightning fast.

For a moment, she looks like she wants to strangle you for even daring to question her words so bluntly, but then she seems to think better of it, taking a deep breath she really doesn’t even need. She settles back into a regal pose on the chair, one leg folded over the knee of the other, and eyes you rather chillingly. “I never did. Not really.”

You frown, “I don’t understand.”

She sighs and closes her eyes, head falling back against the chair. Her hairs falls over the back of the chair in waves and she takes another unneeded deep breath.

~.~.~.~.~

Jongdae doesn’t stop by for almost three weeks after that. She tries not to think about it, immersing herself in her fights wholeheartedly. She catches herself every time her eyes start to wander, while her opponent goes off on a tangent about how humans must be put in their place or how full of herself she is, standing there with her unregulated gloves and the gall to look away while they’re speaking. Jongdae is almost always in the audience, no matter how important he becomes to their town’s government, even if he has to go undercover to be there. A week is normal, two weeks is a bit sketchy, but three weeks? Three weeks is strange, even for Jongdae’s busy schedule and she can’t help but—

Bam.

Dasom gasps at the pain blooming up from her stomach, her body jerking backwards at the sudden impact. “Holy .” She groans, stumbling before she hits the pit wall behind her, the brick scratching up her back through her thin shirt. She sees stars in her vision for a moment, when her head hits the wall too, thanks to the impact, and she gasps, scrambling sideways just as another fist whistles past her ear, right where her head had been just a few seconds ago. Her stomach hurts, her eyes watering involuntarily because of the pain, but she pushes herself to her feet, breathing deeply as she looks at her opponent, a pale woman with eyes the color of the moon. She has no pupils, just blown out whites to her eyes, and it’s terrifying to look at straight on, her high cheek bones so sharp one could cut their finger on it.

(A fae, her brain provides, reeling out all the statistics and information she’s gathered on the Fae Folk over the last few years, in case she’d ever have to fight one. They’re rare, especially in towns like theirs, because poverty and faeries just don’t mix. Her brain reels out facts, one after the other, Don’t look directly into their eyes. Avoid a direct hit. More agile than even most average vampires. Forbidden to lie, so they spin the truth. And she groans internally because out of every damned creature competing at the pits today, she just had to be stuck with the one faerie present.)

“How disrespectful of you to ignore me like this.” She murmurs, her voice, reminiscent of wind chimes floating in the breeze, echoes in the pit. The faerie flicks a finger upwards and Dasom can feel her body jerking upwards, like a string is attached to where the woman punched her and she’s being pulled forwards by her middle.

“.” Dasom growls, pulling at her heavy gloves as she braces herself, trying in vain to stop the slow descent forwards.

Avoid a direct hit, a voice, that familiar voice, the same one that makes her lose all sense of self, all her breathing, whispers repeatedly, and she hates that she’s ed up on the most important aspect when it comes to fighting a faerie. They may be beautiful, frighteningly so, but their bodies hold a sort of venom that can literally control their opponents. The rules of their town’s pit has never accounted for faerie venom before, so it’s completely legal, especially in these underground pit matches.

“, , .” She twists her wrists, the spikes running along her knuckles fully escaping from the depths of her gloves, the soft shh echoing throughout the unusually quiet pit. There’s not a sound in the air and it’s strangely soothing to Dasom, allowing her to focus fully and completely as she slackens her stance, allowing the faerie to pull her forward, the grin on the faerie’s face all sharp, sharp teeth.

It’s still a slow descent forward, her breathing labored as she tries to time it just right.

The faerie, however, continues talking, gloating really, her voice as gentle as a mother murmuring lullabies to her newborn at the local market, careful and soft and full of love. Dasom hates it, hates the way the faeries use love and gentleness as a way to disguise what they’re truly capable of.

“Come on, sweetheart, let yourself go so I can break that pretty neck of yours and end this once and for all.” The faerie woman hums, gesturing Dasom forward, absolutely delighted with the way she struggles. Killing is against the rules, even in this awful underground pit, but Dasom doubts anyone here will care if this woman kills her. She’s seen other matches, between supernatural creatures, where the contenders and some of the audience members would jump into the pit and stop it, tearing the creatures apart, before it leads to death. But from the way the audience is swarming the edges of the pit with anticipation, some of them even leaning forward and grinning, the lust for spilled blood pouring out of their dark eyes, tells her that no one will step in this time around. There’s a reason why almost every death recorded from these fights happen to be human. There’s a reason why, though these fights are technically illegal, no one bothers doing a thing about it. Vampires, hybrids, faeries, werewolves, they rarely ever die, but humans do.

(She’s seen other abandoned kids, same as her, who were only attempting to make a living through means other than selling themselves, selling their blood, their time, their labor, their bodies, whatever it may be, die in front of her eyes. There were never that many, selling has always been a better option than fighting, but she remembers their faces.

Choi Seungcheol, the boy with the softest smile, who’d always have extra bread stowed away for those winter days when the younger kids have no luck on finding food. She remembers him best because he had looked so utterly determined before he’d walk into that pit, until his siblings, a twin boy and girl, disappeared out of the blue. That’s when the harvest and breeding home rumors had started flitting back and forth between all the abandoned kids, when fear forced all of them into hiding. That’s when Seungcheol walked into his next fight without an ounce of determination in his eyes. She tried to help him and all she had gotten was a black eye and the image of a bloody and bruised Seungcheol taking his last breath etched into the back of her eyelids.

The other was Luna. No one knew her real name, Dasom doubts Luna even knew her real name. There had been two dots, evenly spaced and swollen purple against her golden skin, glinting at the base of her neck and at both her wrists. Back then, Dasom had been too young to understand it and she had never noticed the way Luna would wear them proudly, like battle scars, or the way the hybrids and werewolves and even other humans would eye her with disdain, how vampires would look at her with crooked smiles and airy expressions. But, now, she understands what they were, though Dasom doesn’t know the logistics of how or when or where or even why. Now, Dasom just wonders if there had been more scars, visible and invisible. Luna had been Dasom’s idol, in a way, beautiful, always smiling, a shining beacon of light and happiness despite their circumstances. She was much older than the other abandoned kids, a teenager with teenaged wisdom that Dasom and the other kids her age worshipped, even Jongdae had had the biggest crush on her, despite being a hybrid.  Dasom still doesn’t remember how Luna had joined their little group; one moment Luna had just appeared among them, and the next, she had decided to join the betting pool. Luna never made it through her first fight, so the day after that, she was gone, like the whirlwind Dasom always remembered Luna to be.

Dasom’s glad she had been too young to remember Luna’s death in detail.)

Dasom steadies her wrists then, heels still digging into the dirt below her as she tries to keep the momentum forward as slow as possible. Sweat beads at her forehead and her heart slams against her ribs so hard that she can practically feel the vampires in the audience flashing their red eyes at the sound of her rushing blood.

“Let—” The faerie yanks her hands back and Dasom feels the jerk, feels the way her neck strains and the way her legs shoot forward before she braces herself. Three.

“—the—”

Two.

“——”

One.

“—go!”

Dasom lets the faerie’s venom or powers or whatever-the-hell-it-is to yank her forward, using the momentum to propel herself forward, gloves braced for impact. The faerie doesn’t catch on until it’s too late.

At least she had hoped it’d be too late. She had hoped that she could use the momentum to slam her fists into the faerie before turning her wrists and injecting lavender, the only thing that can fatally hurt vampires as well as confuse faeries for just long enough for Dasom to recover, get away, catch her breath, do something other than hurl face forward into the clutches of a horrifying monster and certain death.

It doesn’t work.

The faerie grins, all sharp teeth and white, white eyes and beautiful, straight black hair and Dasom screams because, of all the things she gets to see in her last moment in life, it just had to be this creepy monster baring her teeth at her.

~.~.~.~.~

“You didn’t die, though.” You frown when she doesn’t continue, the silence drawing out.

“No, I didn’t.” She agrees, a tiny smile playing on her lips.

“Then what happened?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“What?” You repeat.

Her eyes are dark, darker than you remember, and her eyes keep sliding sideways, towards the open balcony. You glance sideways too, squinting a bit through the darkness, but there’s nothing there.

“The streets are clearing out. It’s late. You should go.”

“What?”

That’s when her persistently present blank expression turns sour, her brows knitting together and her eyes narrowing imperceptibly, “Do you know how to say anything else but what?” She hisses.

You blink rapidly, cheeks heating up a bit at the way her piercing gaze lands on you, as if she can see right through your flesh and into your soul and she doesn’t like what she’s seeing one bit.

You stumble over your response, because she’s clearly waiting for a response and her piercing gaze only sends chills up and down your spine, making it harder than ever to breathe, let alone respond. “I was just. I mean. Why do I have to leave? I thought the dark was, like, your thing or something.”

“My thing.” She repeats the last word with a clinical sort of amusement that makes you nervous, her lip twitching upwards for a moment. Then she rolls her eyes, “It may be my thing, but it’s everyone else’s thing, too. Humans should not be out at a time like this.”

“Oh, uh…”

“Besides, I need to eat. Unless you’re offering up a vein or two, you should go.” She raises a brow and your heart beats against your throat because no, nope, no way, your brain, your instincts, are screaming for you to run. You immediately jump to your feet, stumbling as you gather up the recorder and your notebook, jamming your toe against the side of the coffee table in the process.

“I’ll be back at seven?” You ask, voice hopelessly breathless, much to your dismay, even as you try to ignore the pain in your foot.

“Sure.” She waves a hand, full-on grinning now as she watches you stumble your way out of her apartment, even running into a wall in the process. She laughs and it’s airy, light, yet strangely disconnected. Empty. Distracted.

Her laughter follows you out the door and you wonder if she finds some kind of bitter enjoyment out of leaving you for the night on a cliffhanger, your heart still lodged in your throat and your blood still thrumming with adrenaline as you stumble down the apartment building stairs. You jump at the smallest of sounds, the tiniest of creaks, and your heartbeat drums away against your eardrums. You don’t catch yourself until it’s too late, until you’re tiptoeing down the second set of stairs in trepidation because of that damn flickering lightbulb, until you jump right into a wall, dropping your notebook, when you hear the distant slam of a door, and then you find yourself sheepishly looking around, grateful that no one can see you devolving into such a paranoid mess.

“Goddammit.” You grumble, when you drop your notebook a third time (along with your cellphone), thanks to a distant rev of an engine that seems to have ripped through the otherwise silent night, startling you completely. With an obnoxious thud, your cell phone case falls apart, the back of it skidding across the sidewalk, and you groan even louder, dropping to your knees as you gather up your notebook and search for the front of your phone case as quickly as possible.

“Here.” A voice interrupts your disgruntled grumbling, startling you worse than anything else you’ve heard so far tonight. You yelp, falling backwards onto your , your eyes widening for a moment as you look up.

There’s a man crouching in front of you, his hand outstretched, and you blink rapidly because you never even heard him coming. He motions for you to take the back of your phone case out of his hand, the movement almost impatient, though he doesn’t say another word. You stare at his hand, at the long, pretty fingers grasping at your old, ugly plastic phone case and the juxtaposition of it reminds you that you should really get a new phone case. Your eyes dart up to his face, then, but it’s hard to make out his features in the dim lighting, though you swear he’s frowning at you (most likely wondering why you’re staring at him like he’s grown another head). His lips form a tight line, one you can make out even in the dark, which only makes way for embarrassment on your part, cheeks heating up instantly.

There’s another long pause before he speaks, voice slow as he enunciates each syllable clearly, irritation dripping from every word, “This is yours, is it not?”

You blink before you nod, “Uh, yeah.” Then you reach for the phone case, quickly taking it back. “Thanks.” You mumble, scrambling to your feet at the same time that the man straightens up from his crouch. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his black leather jacket and you get the feeling that he’s rolling his eyes at you, which is both embarrassing and infuriating as well.

He doesn’t reply, however. He just grunts out something incoherent and continues walking, stepping around you before he makes his way down the way you had just come.

You frown, watching as he strides away, his gait ridiculously graceful, so much so that it looks like he’s gliding through the dark streets, his footsteps never quite making a sound despite how empty and silent the street is. The darkness and dim, hazy street lights eventually swallow him up, shaking you out of your wandering thoughts. You clip your old phone case back together quickly, the sound of it snapping together echoing all around you, and you wonder why a vampire’s cryptic words has suddenly compelled you into believing that the city you’ve grown up in is more terrifying than it used to be. 

A/N: It's a double update! So press next! Love you guys!

xoxo