Jongdae’s in the symphonic orchestra at his school as a pianist. His fingers, though sometimes unreliable, are more on the slender side and for that, he deems it as a miracle and uses it beneficially to create something as so beautiful called music or in his opinion, art. He plays for musicals, chorales, concerts, choirs, and all such with more that involves music included. His talent goes noticed and sooner than he expects, his first year in his ways ends in high success as others from around praise him for having such nimble touches and unyielding talent.

 

Today, he’s with Luhan in the practice room of a studio that’s abandoned. He was hesitant, obvious from the frown he gave Luhan, but from the persistency of the more lively one, they found themselves in presence of the oak room. It wasn’t really abandoned but more like, empty. It’s on that side of the town, where danger is safety and an institution is a school. Luhan swears it’s safe though since the stage lies in the borders of the town from the ruins.

 

Luhan has to practice for his dance solo in the following theatre movement called Ego, a movement based on the psychology of human minds. There’s three movements, each of them named after the stages of the human minds: poverty, ego, and fame. They’re in midst of rehearsing of his second movement which bases on something contemporary and fluid but Jongdae can’t tell as he shakily bends his finger forwards on the rusted piano that lied in the room when they came in. He doesn’t want to be here and he’s scared something or someone will kidnap them.

 

The light-brown haired boy who has the face of a baby is any less than frightened; he’s excited, actually. He doesn’t practice dancing in the school theatre anymore. Not ever since he’s walked onto the room full of mirrors with something, maybe red lipstick, or something or the sort splattered onto the wall a threatening remark. The image sticks in his mind still well.  

 

“you’ll get your spotlight eventually but not for your dance. for your murder.”

 

He figures it’s nothing but of a dolorous prankster, who wishes for nothing more than his own failure. Luhan is not here on the stage to bring upon that though. He’s here to bring fame, fame in his own world. Maybe he’s caught up in his own superego or maybe he’s just being a primadonna person. He brushes the two reasons aside, blaming it on his acting skills.

 

“It’s alright, Jongdae. We won’t be caught. I already asked the owner of this studio anyways,” Luhan says dismissively, continuing to bend his foot backwards as he stretches them towards the ceilings, each movement being fluid and slick. It looks like ice.

 

Jongdae gives a lackluster smile, as cold as the piece of the music that lies on his music stand that he has to play, persay Luhan’s request. “I’m not scared,” he says, but even Luhan can see through the trembling syllables.

 

It’s so quiet in the room whenever they’re both silent, that it even blends with the sounds of pouring hatred from outside. The day lies early in the morning, more like four in the dawning period but since it’s on a weekend, the owner gives the two apparent trustworthy boys the keys to the studio telling them of an only request that they lock up once they’re done. The sun has hit the snooze button once again, delaying its arrival time by maybe another hour. The birds are also in the similar behavior. Maybe they both had a rough day. Maybe life in general. Jongdae would certainly agree with that theory.

 

The boy perched on the piano bench has his feets crossed and ankles locked against one another underneath the fabric materials of jeans. Grey jeans with a white t-shirt, and a final black jacket. As well as the night being black and the moods of Jongdae being grey, the room in between there. There floor is oak but it looks well in black-and-white. The walls are painted of a beige color but over the few years, it has lost its purity and now, it’s just crusted white paint. If anything, the only color in this room is Luhan who flaunts off something that looks white. He’s bright but not enough.

 

“Let’s take another short break,” Luhan proposes after noticing the grimaces from Jongdae’s face. Maybe he should’ve never done this. He feels a little guilty but well, he’s not. He’s certain that his friend doesn’t like performing in dark places like this but what more could have he done? He doesn’t want to practice in a room where maybe some nobody could watch his surprise dance just like his second year, where his show was marked as a copycat dance and he was framed to be some poser. Everything is up for credibility here and this is his final year to prove of something to get into a good university for acting. He’s just sick of the shadows. But not like the shadows of the stranger out on the first floor, the only other being in the abandoned studio, but more like the shadows of hiding behind others in taller fame.

 

“Alright,” Jongdae nods, turning his fists into a clumped position so he can crack his knuckles. He gives a slightly pained expression since he never does this but he’s read online that it relaxes the muscles but also in return, gives of a dangerous future for his knuckles. He’ll do anything though to get rid of his image. After two years of being the pianist who prefers nothing but over perfection, he’s already sickened of the image.

 

There’s silence in the room as Luhan is positioned against the mirrored walls, a water bottle in his right hand and a trenched fingers in his left. “Sorry that I forced you here, Jongdae. There’s really no other perfect piano players in our school. At least, to my knowledge.

 

Jongdae swears he’s not perfect but he takes the compliment anyway. “What’s wrong with the old studio again? You know, the one in the school auditorium,” he asks, still stuck and lying on the fact that they’re in the other side of town.

 

There’s a grimace with a slight frown. Luhan looks up from where he is towards the piano player and he opens his mouth, a prepared answer, but then it manages to escape into his throat, clamping it as well. After a long stare, his mouth gives in and he answers with what at first wasn’t horror but now was, “The first week I began to rehearse this show which was about last week, was a really busy week. There was people, mayhem, chaos, you know, the typical showbam business everywhere. People were planning the show and rehearsing every ty objective to the details out there like props, music, and recruit teams. I, myself, am an impatient person. Real impatient.I can’t just wait for people like that to get their job done before our rehearsals began again so I decided to take matters into my own hands. It’s not like fame is just gonna pop right in my hands like Pandora’s. So, with a little rebellious attitude and something called a janitor’s pack of keys, I entered the auditorium one time really late in the night. I planned on going super early so no one would be there.”

 

A stopping point lies in his words. Jongdae stares into the little boy’s eyes where it looks lost into the oceans; it looks maybe like a thundering storm that’s frightened of its island.

 

“But, whenever I entered the dance room to grab the music player, there was scribbled on the walls--and no, not like small comments from the other students and little drawings. No, it was all over the front wall and I feel like, the message was directed towards me. It said this,” he says while trying to remember the few words. “It said, ‘you’ll do anything to get fame but I’ll do anything to get your death.”

 

There’s just that obnoxious silence again and it’s partially faulted because of Jongdae. He’s at a lost of words, his thoughts comprised of disheveled letters and mismatched connections. “Really?” he asks, in a way that makes it seem like it’s unbelievable.

 

Luhan looks offended. Did it really seem that out of proportion? “Yes, really. That’s why it’s been shut down for the past few days and of course, I need my mirrors to look at myself to get better so that’s why we’re here.”

 

When he finishes that final syllable, the lights suddenly go out with a flicker, the occasional lightning from outside being their only source of any stimulus while everything else is in putrid black. Ultra black that lies in violence. There’s shades of grey, a color scarier like the apparitions waiting in the corners that are transparent. A shriek is closely followed by, maybe from Jongdae since he’s the closest to the windows or maybe from Luhan, who swears he saw something from across the mirrors’ reflections.

 

The lights come back on exactly a minute later, around seven past four and Jongdae’s music is now sprawled across the dark oak floors. There’s a gasp of words escaping the etched mouths of Jongdae’s but there’s rapid breathing coming from Luhan’s tightened throat.

 

“What the hell was that?!” Luhan manages to screeche, his own self not even having a reasonable explanation for this. He clutches his own body to himself, knees up to chest and heads on the kneecaps.

 

Jongdae’s more focused on collecting together his folder of music which took hours to organised together rather than answering the curly-haired boy but something catches his eye. A piece of music he doesn’t remember printing off from online or composing himself with hard ink is on his attention. He grabs the slightly reddened corner from the right side of his folder and pulls it out of the sheets, crumples and crinkles of old paper rustling through every nimble touch.

 

Luhan notices the griefed face on his friend’s face and he walks over with a low tremble. When he sees what’s on the papers, he feels something harden up.

 

“What’s wrong--whoa,” Luhan says as he looks over the bloodied music sheet with the name, Death March, drawn all over the top.

 

The composer’s name is, as quotes, “Your Murderer, aka, Nobody.”

 

There is 407 measures in this piece of music but the other supposed connections to this march are vanished.

 

Jongdae doesn’t know what to say now. His expression is more frightened than it was a few minutes ago when he heard Luhan’s terrifying story.

 

The other boy who’s standing right by him feels something from behind his back, more like someone staring but he doesn’t turn around to check. Instead, he pulls the music from Jongdae’s hands and turns it towards the back where he then drops it with horror in his eyes. The piece of a symphonic piece falls onto the ground, its presence making a louder noise than the stranger who’s rocking and swaying to the sides as he watches the two boys panic.

 

“your death will be the ensemble in my ears. the sounds of your blood splattered across the mirrors will be heaven to me. and your cries, your mighty ones while i teach you a lesson, will be my triumphance and the symphony to my death march.”

 

--

 

BREAKING NEWS:

Stalker still out for Byun? Saesangs? For what reason?

-

…

 

“God, we need more news on this story, guys. We can’t just keep on relying on tips from anonymous people and strangers and all such. Where’d you guys even get this information from? It’s gotten us so much funds for the editorial.” Kris, the lead newspaper editor, asked with curled lips.

 

The executive editor of the school newspaper, Yixing but he’s called Lay from most, is known notoriously for his apparently helpful advice column. He looks up from his chair, a slight frown on his face. “Some anonymous person sent it to us through our blog and Tao just immediately jumped towards the computer. But here’s another solution to that problem. How about we don’t start up and bag people for it?”

 

Kris appears stunned at first but then he gives a disappointing look, the one that makes Lay feels pathetic. He’s used to it by now though. “And then have our whole club demolished by mandatory school fundings? You want this trio to be done with, Lay? Do you?”

 

A roll of the eyes makes Kris feel surged. There’s nothing more detestable than a absent-minded editor and in this case, that’s Lay, the editor who has too much mercy to be in the journalism career. Why he joined the club still stumps Kris everyday. Tao, on the other hand, is somewhat more rational and tends to be in the neutralization. He’s currently sitting on the other side of the room, maybe on his phone or maybe just peering into nowhere but nonetheless, ignoring the quarrel that’s breaking out in front of him. Too many of these happen on a daily basis anyway, whether it’s about the typewriter fonts or the content of their supposed “juicy” stories.

 

“I rather have it done like that than having to hurt bunches of others with stories that aren’t even true,” Lay snaps back, eyes lowered down and fists clenched up. There’s a jab in his stomach, and no, Kris did not punch him. Yet, at least. He just feels a little guilty, the possibilities of how many rumors they spreaded getting to him at the very moment.

 

“Well then, why don’t you leave it to us if you can’t handle spreading a little boiling around?” Kris furthers on, a questioning look on his face trying to urge Lay to give up. The executive editor though, has had too much experience with the perfectionist and he just shrugs.

 

“Nah, this club is part of my life. I’m not just going to let dips like you ruin my passion,” he says defiantly, a little smirk on his face as he swivels his chair around to face the computer.

 

Kris is left angered but he fumes it off by going through the mail pile with aggressive fingers, usually full of complains on false information and furious readers. He doesn't care though and looks through it anyway, in case there’s any compliments on how entertaining their newspaper is. That’s more on the rare side.

 

He gets to a letter though, a specific one that stands out to his eyes, visually and mentally. It has red stains on it, like coffee but red. It also reeks of humid and smells a little misty. Maybe this letter had been out in the rain for days and it’s now just being hatched into the pile. There’s three words on the front cover, scribbled messily in a rather violent fashion. The ink is red, probably red ink, and it’s scribbled with only horizontal and vertical crossings being made. This person didn’t take any time to curve their letters and for this, it looks hostile.

 

“only editors open”

 

Well, I’m an editor, Kris thinks to himself and he takes the nearest knife to sear open the letter. He’s averse at first but he shames himself for being scared of just a mere letter. Just because it’s red doesn’t mean it’s anything, so he rips it with a little more feel to it.

 

The letter itself is just an index card but there’s no lines on it. Instead, it’s scribbled in the same handwriting as the front and it has a single sentence. His eyes scan it puzzlingly with curiosity but when he gets to the last word, he’s skeptical.

 

“Hey guys, come look at this sketchy letter we got in the mail today.”

 

Lay and Tao gather around the chair Kris is sitting in and they peer over his shoulder, reading the letter silently while Kris reads it aloud.

 

“Over the past few years, you spreaded so many rumors. Now it’s time to get your own article. An article about your death.”

 

With eyes in fright and fingers clenched tight, they ignore, or more like refuse, to look through the windows because all three of them in this dark, dark night, knows that the person out there is a stranger. Somebody they don’t know is out there and maybe when they peek their eyes towards the figure, it meets with his grin but just then, he would vanish.

 

-

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currently working on a contest entry. sorry for the lack of updates you 9 beautiful ppl ;-;