warning: attempted assassination (murder), mentions of depression. hopefully nothing too serious, but be careful. 

Jongin strolled through the halls of the Kim Entertainment building. Young, aspiring trainees gasped and rushed to bow to him. It wasn't like he was the director of the company, or whatever, but he was still the brother of the director.

When his father died, the stocks plummeted and everybody was sure that the company would go under. That was the case before his brother became director. Nobody expected much from him — sure, his brother was nice and smart, but he wasn't cut out to be a CEO. And, his father had a lot of enemies. Those who were jealous of his success. Those who had lost because of him. Those who he had harmed. Broken. 

His father was not a nice man. 

He was terribly, terribly smart. Charming, when need be. But there was a part of him that seemed to lack something.. kindness? empathy? Jongin didn't know. It didn't matter now, anyways. He was dead. 

Sometimes, Jongin wondered if his brother would become like their father. Thankfully, it had yet to happen. Perhaps, if Jongin had died that night, it would have. 

The assassination attempt seemed like something out of a spy movie.

It was never going to happen in real life. Impossible. And yet, there it was.

A gun to his head. Bang bang, the man had said, quietly, sinisterly. Cloaked in darkness. Easy as that. Bang bang, and you're done. 

Jongin wasn't sure why he didn't shoot immediately, but the man had disappeared into the darkness when the police arrived.

His brother had freaked. He spent thousands investigating who was behind the assassination, but to no avail. His uncle, an old man, grew paranoid. He forced Jongin to give up his phone. He couldn't leave the building. Then, one day, he handed Jongin an airplane ticket, one way. Far, far away. His brother personally escorted him to the airport. 

"It's going to be okay," his brother reassured him. "You'll come back soon." 

Soon.

Soon.

Soon.

1 year, 2 years, 3 years. It had been four years before that soon arrived. 

Those years waiting had almost killed him. It would have been easier, he thought often, when he couldn't sleep at night and the sheer loneliness was eating him from inside out, For that man to kill me. It would have been quick. Painful for a second. Better than this. 

It was immature, that thinking. He knew it himself. He was alive, and that was a miracle. So he dedicated himself to his studies: he applied for admission in a music program, studied the language, traveled. He busied himself so he wouldn't think. 

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