Zitao is not  a bad person.

 

At least he tells himself that, only when the moment is right.

 

Right moments include moments like these, when he's busy trying to pick a rather complicated lock to unlock a door that's attached to hinges far too noisy. Damn it, should've brought the oil.

 

I'm not a bad person, he recites it like a mantra over and over in his head as he puts his self-made lock picker (comprised of nothing but  a shape-altered hairpin, once belonging to himself. His old friends had all throughout high school for it until he snapped and stopped wearing them, which resulted in him walking into a trashcan two weeks later. It's not my fault my bangs grow so long, he had said.) away before carefully surveilling the area twice. Although it's pitch black and all the lights are out, you never know who could be watching (a clever method he had taught himself during the first attempt).

 

He slowly pushes the door open, a wave of heat engulfing his stale body as he non-reluctantly walks through the house. The air feels foreign; he's a stranger, an unwelcomed presence entering unknown territory but he always finds a way to make it his. He's developed a certain carefulness over time, teaching himself to pinpoint the exact locations of potentially noisy objects and learning how to walk with certain elegance (like a cat, he had told himself earlier.). Of course, just like anyone else, he's made a few mistakes in his life, including knocking over a vase, an accident that resulted in dog bites and torn clothes, and tripping over the first step of a staircase, a yell which he managed to stifle but got busted when a six foot or so figure suddenly loomed over him holding a bat. Yeah, Zitao's way more careful nowadays.

 

It's always the same old thing; get busted, the slammer, get out, get caught, go back to the slammer again.

 

But not this time. He's gotten way too smart to screw things up.

 

He lets his eyes adjust to the darkness, and in his peripheral he can make out a handful of different silhouettes. Thanks to the faint ray of moonshine coming in through the window, he can make out the edge of a big drawer. Wooden, very fancy, looks nearly luxurious. Whoever lives here must own a fortune. Probably one of those old, rich ladies who always live alone. The ones who choose luxury over a husband, Zitao chuckles. Smart choice. His silhouette becomes one with the object as the moon clouds over and he lets his index finger hover over the glossy, dusty surface. Mahogany. His eyes drift to a small open drawer, immediately catching his attention. With the moonshine back in place, he can clearly make out a gleaming light. Zitao rubs his index and thumb together to rid himself of the dust coating them and gently, almost choreographically, lifts up the piece of jewerly and holds it up towards the light. Gold? He bites down on the surface. Gold. He's not a thief and almost never steals. But hey, when opportunity comes knocking, you open the door.

 

He trips over something under the carpet and stumbles backwards, landing on his back on a couch littered with fluffy, plump pillows. There's a desk next to it, one that looks centuries old and like it hasn't been used since its arrival to this (haunted, he thinks) house. It's not much, but it'll have to do, he thinks as he stifles a yawn and stands up to get ready to crash. He shivers as he looks around the room. Everything always looks so much more ghastly when it's dark; the shadows cast by the looming pieces of tall furniture look almost...threatening in a way, as they stretch out across the room. He's never been afraid of the dark but then again, it's not the darkness you're afraid of. He stretches out his long limbs before checking his wristwatch. 12 AM. Perfect. I'll be out the door before they're out of bed, he thinks. He makes a mental note to his body to somehow detect when it's 7 AM and removes his mud-stained jacket, squinting around in search of a clothes rack. He finds none and sighs, opting to just toss it over the chair. The chair looks like it's from the Ming dynasty, simple wood glazed over with a coating of something he can't quite make out. The chair reminds him of one that stands at home, his home, his mother's first present. She loved that thing with a passion, she instantly had when his dad had built it for her before the arrival of their first and only son.

Him.

One memory led to another, and he instantly remembers their biggest and last fight, the one after he had accidentally told them he "liked it up the ". Since that day, he had been alone, taking to stealing and mugging to survive. Zitao hates it, but with nobody opting to take a lonely 22 year old boy living on the streets home, it's not like you have a widespread variety of decisions. I mean, it's not like I have another choice in this sad, godforsaken world, as he had told his prison guard on his first visit to the slammer. He lets out a chuckle, one that sounds like a mix between a giggle and a sob; probably both. Those were the good old day. He gently lays his jacket ontop of the back rest of the chair, treating the wooden object like a house of cards, that could could suddenly collapse with one wrong touch.

 

He arranges the pillows and is about to lay down when he hears something, his brain going fully alert in a matter of seconds when he listens more carefully and registers a noise. Thump thump thump. Lady feet, Zitao thinks before skillfully jumping off the couch and manages to conceal himself fully behind the grandfather clock. He holds his breath as he hears what sounds like a pair of fingers scurrying across the wall. Quick and delicate, he thinks. Definitely lady fingers. His thoughts are cut off by a stinging pain in his eyes as colors and details return to their respective place, his vision whitening for a second and he has to blink repeatedly to adjust to the foreignness of the now lit room room.

 

"H-Hello?? Is anybody there?" Hmm...definitely not the tone of voice he had been expecting to hear. He had expected something short of raspy, gargly and old-sounding. Maybe she was just a late bloomer.

 

Insecurity.

Zitao chuckles.

 

"I-If you don't show yourself...I'm gonna...call..the police"

 

Reluctance.

Zitao exhales.

 

He plays with his fingers and waits for what feels like an hour until he hears the sound of the lightswitch being flicked and the room plunges back into the now familiar darkness. He hears the sound of feet scurrying up the stairs, followed by the sound of a door shutting and a lock clicking into place. He bites his lip. What if they saw?

 

Zitao's had numerous times where he had prevented people from dialing 911 in just the nick of time, saving himself a month in the slammer. Preventions which usually always consisted of him holding them at gunpoint. He would lock his feline eyes on them, temporarily paralyzing them before either running off (successfully convincing them he'd be back if they attempted to call the cops again) or blowing their brains out, but that only happened on rare occasions. Zitao rarely gets to use his gun, something he's thankful for. He'd experienced severe nightmares in his cell the same day he'd shot his first victim, and he hopes to God he never has to go through that again.

 

Zitao shakes his head and walks out of the room, wincing when his back releases an awful crack as he exits his hiding place, reminding him of how long he'd actually been sitting there. An old lady won't put up much of a fight. He walks until he's in the main hallway, peering up the stairs. He inhales the moonlit air as he places a hand on his back pocket, searching around. Where the is it?

 

He mentally slaps himself when he realizes he left it in his jacket pocket. He rolls his eyes before quietly prowling towards the familiar territory, his territory, careful to avoid the obstacles littered across the floor.  He smiles as he finds it, wrapping delicate fingers around it. The tip of the dagger glistens with old blood as it reflects the moonlight from outside and Zitao proudly it clean before putting it in his back pocket and walks out again, placing a foot on the first step.

 

He mentally curses when he realizes the stairs are made of wood, the sensitive type that creaks when you place a feather on it. Ten minutes feel like years as he carefully and soundlessly walks upstairs, each step planned out and guided. He feels like a wolf sneaking up on an unsuspecting lamb as the darkness swallows him whole, filling him with a different kind of excitement. He's on the last step.

 

Zitao has never fought with a lady before, much less an old one, so he can't imagine what this'll be like. He imagines it to be brief and simple, she probably wouldn't have time to feel anything or even know what hit her.

He looks around at all the different rooms. He can smell the fear, lingering in the air. His excitement is at its highest as he scurries in and out of different rooms, making sure to leave them in the same state they were before. It isn't until he stops outside a certain room that he feels the atmosphere change. This isn't fear he smells, it's...something different, but he can't put his finger on it. He confidently opens the door only to be met by nothing.

 

He contemplates turning on the light incase the room turn out to be empty, but his train of thought comes to a brief stop when he feels himself being shoved to the side. He sticks his arms out in the last second to prevent himself from smashing head first into a crystal cabinet before hitting the floor with a loud thud, followed by a searing sting of pain. He curses under his breath. Out of all the rooms you chose to not have carpeted, you chose this one?

He can briefly make out a silhouette coming towards him, or more precisely, he hears it, and his reflexes from previous martial arts classes (when he had signed up 8 years ago he swore they'd never come to good use. Boy, was he wrong) kick in. He kicks his legs outwards to get himself back on his feet. He takes a second to listen before punching blindly in the dark. He contemplates doing it again when he hears nothing, but hesitates when he hears a soft groaning noise and the sound of stumbling feet. He blindly rubs his reddening knuckles before crossing the room and attempting to locate his stranger. He bends down and his hands scurry across the floor and stop when they register the familiar texture of hair. He wastes no time in gently tugging, opting to forcefully pull whoever it is off the floor by the (quite soft for an old lady, actually) hair and literally dragging them towards what he assumes is a bed, and throwing them down on it. Zitao is fueled by adrenaline and wastes no time checking for a cellphone, and chooses to forecefully hold his opponent down by the arms instead, their struggles to get free continues to fuel the fire inside him.

 

"Who the hell are you!?"

 

Zitao rolls his eyes. Such idiocy.

 

"Don't waste your precious breath," is all he can say.

 

The breathing underneath him is getting heavier, breaths quickening as the realization settles.

 

"You saw me, didn't you?," he says as he leans down and makes his voice into a deep, raspy whisper.

 

Zitao listens as a nervous gulp breaks the silence and hears a quiet "...no." He wants to facepalm. How are people so stupid?

 

"You sure?" he emphasizes the last word with a louder tone and a harder grip.

 

"...y-yes.." the voice is quivering now. Zitao can't see anything but he knew that if he could, he'd be met with something less than confident.

 

"Bull," he's seething now, leaning in even closer to speak, and his lips definitely just met the shell of an ear. "If you didn't see me, you wouldn't have attacked me."

 

He's met with silence so he speaks again. "Did you call the police?"

 

Silence.

 

The familiar feeling of rage bubbles inside of him and Zitao knows it's about to boil over. He briefly remembers something his mother had said to him when he was very little about not hitting people but he mentally tells that voice to shut the up as he raises a fist and delivers a blind punch downwards.

He'd be lying if he said that the sickening crack that emitted from the blow didn't make something churn deep inside his gut.

Zitao starts to feel the familiar feeling of dread creep up on him as he gets off the bed and takes a few deep breaths. Need to turn on the light. He stands up and stumbles a bit from the headrush before wobbling over to the other side of the room and practically rips the lightswitch out of its socket trying to switch it on.

 

That's when he sees her - or rather him. At least he thinks? He squints a bit, eyes burning from the change in brightness, before walking over and feeling his mouth go dry. Earth seems to come to a hasty stop as he hovers over his 'old lady' target.

Underneath him lays a man; a young man, maybe in his early twenties, motionless with a sickening looking bruise forming just under his cheekbone and under his jaw on his chin. His eyelashes are long and black, softly fanning his, in Zitao's opinion, flawless looking face, save for the nasty result of his anger. Zitao can see an inch of black roots on his scalp, an ugly contrast to his otherwise fitting hair color. Aha, Zitao thinks. So he's not a natural blonde. His eyes travel downwards and he instantly notices the man is tightly packed. Zitao mumbles something under his breath along the lines of "i'm bigger," before his eyes land on something in the man's pocket. Zitao nearly rips the man's pants in half trying to open the pocket flap and retrieve what he'd been looking for since he entered this damned room and unwillingly became a victim of assault.

 

Zitao presses once. Then twice. He almost gives up until he presses long enough for the familiar apple logo appears and lights up the screen. He mentally curses himself and runs his hand through his newly dyed hair. He furrows his eyebrows as his mind starts to race. It wasn't even . He never even picked up the phone. He looks down at his creation, grimacing when he notices it starting to support a bluish-green color and lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. So I just punched the daylights out of a man for calling 911 when he never even ing did, Zitao thinks. He knows that if he still had a heart, he'd feel empathy. But he just...can't. He stays like that for a while, opting to stare at the man's chest as it heaves up and down like a rhythm. He's almost put into a trance until he's brought back to reality by a loud groaning noise that's soon replaced with a yelp of pain. Zitao practically scrambles off the bed and instinctively pulls out his dagger.

 

It takes the man a while to take in his surroundings, gradually coming to and grimacing whenever he moves his jaw. He struggles to sit up fully and Zitao thinks it's almost cute how he looks like a baby trying to take its first steps and failing miserably. But instead of a baby it's a grown man coming to after having gotten the daylights knocked out of him, Zitao thinks, and he almost giggles. He stifles it. He slowly puts his weapon away and decides to stand up from his spot on the floor where he had not-so swiftly landed after the unexpected surprise.

 

At first Zitao is confused, watching with intent as the man just stares at him with glazed eyes. It goes on for a few moments with the man just staring emptily at him and Zitao's honestly beginning to contemplate whether or not he may have punched him so hard he gave him amnesia, but before he can think any further the man's eyes suddenly widen and he lets out a scream loud enough to make Zitao wince. Definitely 4 octaves too high to be considered manly, he thinks before running over  and covering his mouth with his hand, tackling him to the floor and not giving a damn about his possibly (probably) broken jaw.

 

"Shut up! Shut the up!"

 

This is bad, real bad and Zitao knows it. This is an unfamiliar territory, unfamiliar person and unfamiliar situation. Earlier it had always been hit-and runs and never-lookbacks, but what is he supposed to do now?

 

The man starts flailing under his hold. Possibly from fear. Possibly from the pain in his face. Probably from both. "I'm serious, stop ing moving or else I'll-" he stops mid-sentence as he feels something wet stain his knuckles and trickle down his hands. "-oh are you for real?!"

 

This has got to be a joke. The man is sobbing underneath him, probably surrendering as well but Zitao doesn't know. What he does know, however, is that all he ever wanted was a comfortable place to sleep after spending seven hours crawling through an air vent, but apparently that's too much to ask for these days. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not ever, never. He's the bigger man and he won't let that be taken away from him.

 

It's too much for him. Confusion overwhelms him and he's forced to take things to unfamiliar levels.

 

"Shh, listen. ing listen to me, okay? I'm gonna take away my hand, and if you so much as let out a peep or make any noise or try to get away, I'll make sure you won't live to see tomorrow's sunrise. Got it?"

 

Zitao's confusion only grows as the man nods underneath his strong grip. He's obeying me?

 

He slowly takes his hand off the man's mouth and grimaces when he sees it's stained with tears and other liquids he'd rather not know anything about. He wipes his hand on the man's bedsheets and watches as he only stares up and him with wide eyes and a tear-stained face. Zitao isn't even sure if he's breathing anymore. Unexpected panic starts to make itself at home inside him as he realizes the man's chest hasn't even moved up or down since he released him. Zitao's reflexes kick in and he raises an open palm, but before he can bring it down, the man's eyes widen to an unimaginable extent and he releases a breath Zitao can only describe as a breath someone would release after being submerged underwater for ten minutes straight and coming back up to the surface. Zitao too releases a breath and puts his hand down.

 

For a second, Zitao thinks he feels relief pool in the bottom of his gut.

 

"Tell me your name." Zitao mentally punches himself. So much for an intimidating first impression.

 

Get it together.

 

Silence.

 

"God damnit, just tell me your ing name, I'm not even touching you! Look, I'll step away from you if that's what it takes for you to say something," and with that, he swiftly stands up and marches over to the other side of the room, making a big show out of plopping down in a corner, facing the man. Zitao's about to cry out of frustration when minutes pass by and nothing but silence fills the room. "Listen up you f-"

 

"Sehun."

 

This time it's Zitao's eyes that widen. He raises an eyebrow and stares at the man like he's grown a second head. "What?"

 

"Sehun."

 

"That's your name?"

 

The man nods.

 

Fitting.

Zitao stands up again, his dagger falling out of his pocket. It hits the floor with a clinking noise. Oh fu-

 

Zitao's brain barely has time to process what's going on and where he's going before he's on his feet and literally chasing the man, or, Sehun, through the house. It's a pain since it's still dark and no lights are downstairs but he makes it without tumbling over anything. Damn you rich ers, Zitao thinks as he runs into and hits his head on a diamond chandelier hanging way too low from the ceiling to be considered acceptable when he enters the dining room. Why must you have so many things?

 

He realizes chasing after Sehun probably isn't the wisest thing to do and definitely does not help in convincing Sehun that he's not out to murder him, but considering the circumstances he figures he shouldn't let Sehun out of his sight since contacting the police is possible outside of cell phones. Zitao instead opts to entering the back dining room (you live alone god damnit, why the would you need two dining rooms??) running through two other rooms and literally tackling Sehun to the floor when he enters the room the other way, holding him down and keeping his right hand firmly in place on the back of Sehun's head to prevent further bone breakage because he really doesn't need more of that right now.

 

"Jesus, if you could just listen to me that'd be g-"

 

"You're gonna kill me, aren't you?," Sehun croak-garbles as he rakes through his brain in an attempt to form a coherent sentence.

 

Zitao exhales and looks at his wristwatch. 4 AM. What did he do to deserve this?