Oh, the devil's inside
You opened the door
You gave him a ride
Too young to know, too old to admit
That you couldn't see how it ends

Namjoon is washing his hands, sleeves cuffed up to his elbows. The bathroom is pristine tile, alternating patters of cream and gold, and the sink is bone white. Everything’s too bright for this time of night. His suit jacket is outside on a coat hook, removed before business began to avoid the mess.

The water is red. The sink is red. His hands are red. The soap smells like vanilla and coconut.

The blood is beneath his fingernails, drying in the creases of his knuckles, staining his skin red.

So, the usual.

Huffing, Namjoon pumps more soap into the palm of his hand and scrubs, stubby fingernails picking at the stubborn red lines on his fingers. His eyes catch on a rosy, sudsy mark left on the dispenser by the heel of his hand.

The first word his mind conjures is “evidence,” but the cleaning crew will take care of it less than a minute after he leaves the bathroom. They never leave a trace behind: company policy.

He drags his eyes back down to his hands, where the water is finally running clear. That was the last job of the night and now it’s time to party with his colleagues, who will be wondering where he is if he doesn’t hurry up. Namjoon’s hands are almost clean except for a stubborn line of dried blood across the center of his palm, creased into his lifeline and refusing to budge.   

Frustration is building, rumbling in his chest and beginning to close his throat. The blood won’t come off. It’s beneath his fingernails, wormed its way into his cuticles, dripping from the soap dispenser that teases at the edge of his vision. He scratches at his hand, feeling no pain as his palm turns pink and then bright red from irritation.

And then finally it’s gone. His hand is clean. Namjoon twists the tap and revels in the shocking feeling of his hands going icy cold.

He glances up at the mirror and freezes. Blood dots the gentle slope of his cheek and the graceful curve of his neck like flecks of dried paint. It’s still here. It’s still here. He can’t scrub it off.

A stranger’s face stares out beneath the damning marks, cold and hungry.  

His hands jerk from the numbing spray; one grips the side of the sink while the other flies to the mirror. The stream of water gushes from the faucet unimpeded.

The face looking back from the mirror is unfamiliar. Yes, they have the same eyebrows and nose and lips, but Namjoon is not looking back. Or perhaps it is truly Namjoon in the mirror and the one balancing on numb legs, chest heaving, is the impostor. He watches his reflection, completely dissociated, as a wet finger moistens and smears the blood across the reflection’s cheek and forehead, creating shaky crescent, a brand. He feels no touch and wonders at the carnivorous eyes staring back.

What are you?

A sharp rap on the door. “Sir?”

Namjoon startles and drops his hand from the mirror, leaving dripping trails in his wake.

“Just a minute.”

But he suddenly realizes the sink is splashed with red, like pale watercolor. The palm of his hand is red, the soap dispenser is red. The cheek, his cheek is red.

It’s all blood.

Now, this is a fact he knew quite well prior to entering the bathroom. In fact, he was complicit in and even in charge of ordering the blood to be spilt in the first place. This was not something he’d had a problem with in a long, long time.

Only now Namjoon finds himself scrubbing at his skin like its poisoned. His fingernails leave a patchwork of raised, red tracks over the soft flesh of his cheek and forehead as he scratches at the blood. The sink is next, frantically mopped with too many paper towels. His jab at the soap dispenser sends a stream of shimmering white soap to the floor, but the red stain is gone, hidden away in the crush of brown paper towels.

Namjoon’s sweating around the collar and panting, staring wildly at the still-running faucet and avoiding the mirror at all costs.

“Sir? The other are ready to see you, at your convenience, of course.” The unerringly polite and deferent voice gives Namjoon the urge to gag. It is all so wrong: the blood, the normality, the routine of it.

A trembling fist turns off the water. Refusing to look into the condemning mirror, Namjoon wipes his damp face on his sleeve. He half believes he’ll see the blood tattooed across his face if he looks again. Hell, even if he never sees his reflection for the rest of his life, the sight is already burned into his mind’s eye. He releases a deep breath and braces himself for the interaction ahead.

He’s being ridiculous. He needs to calm down and be himself. No signs of weakness allowed: company policy.

He reaches for it, for the calm certainty and well-practiced apathy. It flutters, elusive for a moment and he’s afraid everything will fall apart, but then he snags it like a netted butterfly.

Everything settles back into place like a cloak. It’s heavy. It’s dark. His heart slows.

This is no time for a crisis of conscience. There is business to be completed, celebrated. Jiho would hurt himself laughing if he were privy to this little bathroom meltdown. It’s disgraceful, really.

Something in the back of his mind wonders which part of his life is truly disgraceful, but he’s spent much of his younger years silencing those errant thoughts. It’s not difficult to do so again.

“Shall we?” Namjoon says briskly, letting the bathroom door thump closed behind him. The man outside is holding his jacket. Namjoon slips it on in one fluid motion. The tailored lines fall into places across his broad shoulders and around his waist as he carefully buttons the front. This is familiar, good. Confidence and armor restored, he stalks down the hallway.

The underling struggles to keep up with Namjoon’s long strides, but manages to zip around him and open the door just as he arrives.

“Ah, so The Night returns!” the men and women inside immediately catcall. “What do you have for us?”

“I bet he sang like a bird.”

“How do you always manage to stay so clean?”

“No one escapes The Night!”

Face as smooth and impassive as a stone, Namjoon “The Night” enters the room, preparing himself to interact pleasantly with these people he knows as colleagues and even friends. Everyone’s eyes are too bright, their laughter too loud. For a split second, he legitimately believes that each of them has been replaced by a look-alike copy, pretending and fake, fake, fake.  Everything is crisp and vibrant, moving too quickly.

No. It’s him that’s changed.

With slightly stiff, deliberate motions, Namjoon settles into the free chair, clamps one hand around the armrest, smiles, and begins to speak.

It’s bizarre how everything has been tipped on its head.

By the time he’s alone in his bedroom, in his boxers and swathed in a heavy blanket, the late hours are long behind him. He stares through the window, brain too quiet and numb to be dazzled by the persistent lights of the city.

Before his eyes, The Night beings to soften, lighten, and slip into the brilliant, fresh colors of the dawn.