Part V. Riddled with Good Intention 

The first cut always left the deepest wound.

Kyungsoo would always remember the first time someone called out his oddness in such a way that it left a wound. The words had not been delivered unkindly, rather, with a sense of resignation.

It had been his own father, of all people, who had spoken the words into the darkness of the dingy living room he sat in:

“I don’t know what to do with you, kid. You just can’t be normal, can you?”

Kyungsoo, who had been standing in the doorway staring at his fathers turned back, had said nothing in response. What was there to say? What excuse could he possibly give? The simple sentence his father had offered to the emptiness of their seldom lived-in living room hung heavy, the wound of the words already too deep to ever be forgotten.

And how the cut had pained him.

All the wounds Kyungsoo had received thereafter led back to the figure of his father — empty can of Sapporo extra dry beer held limply in one hand and his shoulders slumped in a quiet sort of defeat.

But Kyungsoo didn’t blame his father for the hurt he had received. How could he? He had always known his father was an unhappy man. For some people, that was simply the way things turned out to be. Certain people were cursed in life to bear the burden of a great number of things that drained them of peace; Kyungsoo’s father just so happened to be one such person. Work, money, love, family — having too much, having too little — there were many areas from which a person could draw their unhappinesses — Kyungsoo just so happened to be one of the great unhappinesses in his father’s life. 

It wasn’t something he could change — Kyungsoo tried to be a good son and his father had tried to be a good father, but the unhappiness was bigger than them both. It dogged at their heels and haunted their every interaction. It was bigger than life, a cloud that shrouded their every waking moment in a dark shadow. Kyungsoo and his father, of flesh and blood, sole family to each other, were simply unlucky in their relationship. Familial bonds only meant so much when constantly enveloped by an ever-present dissatisfaction. Love was so easily clouded. Kyungsoo loved his father, and his father loved him in return, but at the same time there was something ugly that lurked under the surface of the feelings they held for one another. There was simply too much that existed between them that went unsaid.

Still. Perhaps it was the resignation in his father’s tone that struck at him so deeply: there was no fight left to give, no hope left in him — it was just a bone tired confession that confirmed what Kyungsoo had always felt but left unsaid.

But what could he do?

The hopelessness his father felt was not one sided. Kyungsoo had never chosen to be the way he was, nor had he ever wished it upon himself — he was not an easy person to be with, even he had come to understand that. But he had no say in the matter, no choice but to endure. Kyungsoo couldn’t escape himself, so what was there for him to do? He was so terribly and totally alone with himself. And there was nothing as terrible as being alone with oneself, Kyungsoo had come to realise. It was a torment a person was forced to endure in isolation. The people he encountered were strangers to him, guests that came and went, spectators who bore witness to his unexplainable oddness. It wasn’t something that could be explained away. He saw with eyes that saw too much, and the things we saw he absorbed. He was soaked through, filled with filth and grime, heavy with the weight of the things held inside.

There were many reasons not to love him. He was too perceptive, too perspicacious of human nature. He said too much of the wrong thing, he said too little of the right. His mind was not a safe place — it him at the slightest provocation. It tormented him with thoughts and images that normal people would not be capable of stomaching. His own mind would rend him into pieces if he were, in a moment of weakness, give up the good fight. There was no rest, no peace. Only the constant churning of a sick turmoil that raged on without reprise.

No, Kyungsoo did not blame his father for the wound. He was not an easy person to love, and his father was a good man. And good men did not love people like Kyungsoo, for that would mean letting their eyes slide over the untruthfulness and cruelty that sat perched, constantly, at the tip of his tongue. No one had ever loved Kyungsoo as a whole — people loved the parts they could stomach, until the parts they couldn’t love became too much to bear.

It was true that Kyungsoo tried to be a good person. The fact he fought so hard was truth enough of that. But at the same time, he was not capable of being satiated by gentleness — he was starving for something other, and gentleness would never truly satisfy him. There was something wicked at the base of his throat, coiled tightly, waiting for a moment to strike. As much as he tried to deny himself, he could not help but covet the horror. There was something in him, ravenous and starving, gorging itself on the fear.
 

“Tell me more about your father, Kyungsoo.”

With his eyes still closed in exhaustion, back pressed against the luxurious leather of Jongin’s far too expensive car seat, Kyungsoo scoffed. They had had a nice dinner together in a restaurant of Jongin’s choice and the pressing weariness of the day had soon caught up to Kyungsoo — he had been thankful when the doctor had offered him a lift back to the hotel he was staying at.

“Thats rather lazy psychiatry, Doctor Kim. Is that your attempt at uncovering the root of the childhood trauma that shaped me into the person I am today?”

He could hear the smile in Jongin’s voice when he replied. “Indulge me, please.”

Kyungsoo sighed wearily. “He was a good man. He tried his best to be a good father, too.”

“I remember you mentioning you grew up on a small farm in Fukuoka.” Jongin’s voice was gentle. “Spring onions and oranges.”

Kyungsoo smiled despite himself, eyes still closed against the headlights of the cars that sped past them. “You have a good memory.” His smile faded, and a sigh escaped him. “I don’t look anything like my father, I’ve got my mother’s looks. He never recovered after her death. He drank a lot, but he was never violent. Just sad. Always so sad. I think calling him ‘lost’ is an apt description. He had no idea how to live well after my mother passed.” Kyungsoo opened his eyes, gaze forlorn. “We were never able to connect. Our conversations were always so stilted and shallow. I’d ask him about work, he’d ask me about school, my grades, my friends, or lack thereof… and that was it. We’d go our separate ways. We lived in the same home but tip toed around one another.”

Jongin hummed in response. “Why do you think you were unable to connect?”

“My father was a smart man.” Kyungsoo turned to stare out the window. “He had always been intuitive. I unsettled him, though, because he couldn’t understand me. I was different, and even though he tried so hard to support me, he could never figure me out. I had my quirks, and my quirks were unpalatable.” Kyungsoo’s face, which had twisted into a bitter facsimile of a smile, fell. Far away in his mind, he was transported.

The hollow sound of dead bamboo leaves, rustling in a cool breeze.
The hurried sound of two people walking, fallen leaves crunching underfoot. The breathless sound of his father’s voice, hushed but panicked:
“You must not ever do this kind of thing again, Kyungsoo.”

“Kyungsoo?”

Kyungsoo blinked, turning towards Jongin, who had parked the car. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“I’d lost you for a moment there.” The doctor said, tone unreadable. “You’ve been so exhausted lately, I worry for you.”

“Only for a moment.” Kyungsoo smiled weakly in lieu of another apology. “I’m fine, really. I just have an unfortunate tendency to vanish into myself and get lost for periods of time.”

“The things we remember most acutely are seldom peaceful. Often the act of reliving a moment in our memories is more painful than the original act itself; we humans are masters of tormenting ourselves senselessly.” Jongin’s eyes were unfathomable in the darkness of the car they sat together in, and Kyungsoo couldn’t help but wonder whether the doctor spoke from his own personal experience. “But do not let yourself feel burdened. I am here, walking by your side”
 

“Do you know of Byun Baekhyun, Jongdae?” Kyungsoo asked quietly from his position in the corner of the lab he stood in, back pressed to the wall in order to stay out of the way. His head hurt vaguely, a pressure building in the furthest reaches of his skull. He ignored it as best he could.

Jongdae, who was the forensic analyst on the Kanagawa Killer case, spent most of his waking hours in aforementioned lab. He barred most people from entering the lab assigned to the case regardless of their position — Minseok included — and tolerated very few people in his proximity, especially while he worked. Funnily enough, Kyungsoo had somehow (unwittingly) passed Jongdae’s (internal) screening process and had been allowed access to the lab without complaint. It was something Kyungsoo was thankful for, as he had begun visiting Jongdae far more frequently in recent weeks as a means of escape from Minseok’s increasingly foul moods.

“Oh yes, Baekhyun and I go way back.” Jongdae, who hadn’t even looked up from the microscope he was bent over, waved a hand as if to dispel the notion. “He’s very thorough, which I can appreciate. I’ve never liked mess, which is why I’m suited for this line of work. Baekhyun is, comparably, a gremlin who lives in squalor. My stomach turns at the mere thought of it all, honestly.”

Kyungsoo, who was unsure whether Jongdae was referring to the fact that Baekhyun dealt with corpses on an on an almost daily basis basis or some personal knowledge of Baekhyun’s personal habits of which he was not privy too, decided not to ask for any sort of clarification.

Jongdae, who was blissfully unaware of Kyungsoo’s internal thought processes, abandoned the microscope, instead opting to skate around the lab on his swivel chair. He picked up sheets and folders as he moved, rambling as he did so. “I’m assuming you ask because he mentioned the wood specimens on the last crime scene?”

“Yes, he did.” Kyungsoo replied, gaze snapping up.

“The log dragged across the body was from a medium sized Zelkova Serrata specimen. I believe it was an off-cut that didn’t pass milling standards. If you look at the photograph, you can see the wood is riddled with a number of small checks” Jongdae said, passing Kyungsoo a folder. “Page two.”

Kyungsoo flipped to page two as Jongdae instructed, frowning as he took the new information in. Jongdae, comparably, continued on his spinning path across the lab, swivel chair wheels squeaking. “Note, however, that three other timber specimens were present on scene. Page six, for your reference.”

Kyungsoo’s frown deepened as he quickly flipped forward an additional four pages.

Milled log determined to be a Zelkova Serrata specimen. Also found present on the victim were trace amounts of sawdust from the following species:
Magnolia Obovata
Cryptomeria Japonica
Lagarostrobos Franklinii

Kyungsoo’s thick brows furrowed. “I’m not much of a green thumb. I’m not sure what this means.”

“Luckily for you, I had such a keen interest in flora as a student that I chose to specialise my studies in forensic botany.” Jongdae replied. “Zelkova Serrata, Magnolia Obovata, and Cryptomeria Japonica are all species native to Japan. Japanese elm, Japanese big leaf Magnolia, and Japanese red-cedar, to put it into layman’s terms. They’re also all species that are used in woodwork, particularly by craftsmen. Japanese elm is used for the creation for taiko drums and tansu — you know the traditional storage cabinets?” Jongdae asked, hardly waiting for Kyungsoo’s nod of affirmation before continuing. “Japanese big leaf Magnolia is used by craftsmen for traditional Yosegi-zaiku puzzle boxes, and Japanese red-cedar is used for tansu, and yosegi-zaiku boxes, too, as well as other indoor pieces like traditional bathtubs.”

Kyungsoo’s nodded, having already carefully filed away the information he had just been provided. “What about Lagarostrobos Franklinii?”

“This is where things got interesting.” Jongdae replied with a sharp smile. “Unlike the other three, Lagarostrobos Franklinii is most certainly not native to Japan. It’s from Australia.”

“Australia?”

“Indeed.” Jongdae said with barely concealed relish. “Commonly known as the Huon Pine, this particular species is a type of conifer native to the wet southwestern corner of Tasmania. It’s most commonly found along river systems and in wet mountains in altitudes of one hundred and fifty to six hundred meters. It’s not a particularly widespread species at all… which should make finding the supplier quite easy. From there, I suppose it’s just a matter of tracking down where the wood shipment ended up.”

“I need tell Minseok.” Kyungsoo blurted abruptly, all too aware of the implications the information he had just been provided had on the case.

Jongdae merely waved a hand in response as he watched Kyungsoo stride from the lab, folder tucked tight under one arm.
 

Kyungsoo crouched by the river’s edge, staring into the barely moving water with blank eyes. The river moved sluggishly and the sound of it filled him with such unexplainable, disconcerting fear that his body physically reacted — his posture was tense, shoulders hunched inwards as if he could curl into himself to escape.

“Will you keep going?”

The voice was hoarse, the question spoken quietly. Kyungsoo couldn’t drag his eyes from the water before him — the fear had seized his body. In his peripheral, though, he could make out the figure of a person, crouched much like him at the edge of the river.

“You know what a love like this is capable of. You’ve seen the aftermath firsthand.”

The sight of scuffed black leather loafers and the hem of dark navy-blue pants from the corner of his eye. A school uniform. The breath Kyungsoo inhaled was little more than a harsh wheeze. The blood in his veins felt ice cold and leaden.

“But the aftermath is never enough for you, is it? You want more, you always have.”

The sound of choked, rattling laughter finally seemed to break the spell fear held over Kyungsoo’s body and he lurched sideways, body sliding in the mud of the riverbank as he tried to distance himself from the teen beside him. He dragged his eyes upwards and felt himself dry heave as he met the pallid, bloodied face of the eyeless boy beside him.

“You want so badly to do good, but that goodness is borne of fear.” A thin line of muddy water trickled from the corner of the teens cracked lips, suspended from the point of his chin for a moment before dripping to the ground. “You are riddled with the wounds of good intention, and they weep blood wherever you go. How will you continue as you do now, sick as you are?”

Kyungsoo was hyperventilating, the mud around him so thick that his movements had grown almost to a standstill as he struggled to free himself. The teen rose smoothly, closing the distance between them with ease. Kyungsoo could only stare up at him, gaping in terror as he in rasping, shallow breaths that did him little good.

“Civility is shallow. I am proof enough of that; just look at what love did to me. Each time you force yourself to descend under the surface, you come up a little sicker than the time before.” The teens words were accompanied by a death rattled breath. “The deeper you go, the muddier the water grows. And the mud is in you now, isn’t it, Kyungsoo?”

Presented as a question, stated more as a fact. The teen towered over him, drops of muddied blood dripping onto Kyungsoo’s horrified, upturned face. The teens empty eye sockets oozed discoloured mud and abruptly, without any warning, he smiled. It was all teeth and no joy, so sudden and shockingly white against the filth that caked his death tinged face that Kyungsoo’s entire body shuddered at the sight of it.

“So let me ask you this: what do you plan on doing once you find the object of this monstrous love?”
 

When Kyungsoo had next seen Minseok, his request to have Jongin present on scene wasn’t really a request but rather a demand. Minseok had looked troubled but hadn’t tried to argue – he knew better after Kyungsoo’s unfortunate stint in the mental health ward of the hospital.

“I’ll make it high priority to get him cleared to be on scene.” Was all Minseok had said on the matter. “Until then, do you think you’ll manage to cope with a trip to the storage unit we’ve tracked down for the supplier of the Huon Pine?”

“I’ll manage that.” Kyungsoo had answered after a moment’s consideration, even though he recognised that ultimately it would all be the same. He was hurtling towards the unavoidable ending that had been lying in wait for him from the very beginning — he had simply been too blind to see it.

How the inevitable tormented him. The syrupy thick air he had had to swim through had turned into wet cement that encased him up to the neck. All he could do was struggle and claw his way through it with heavy, uncooperative limbs. Getting from point A to point B took so much out of him and his mind whirled and rushed ahead in anxiety, leaving the rest of him in the wake of his own fear, torn down and aching in exhaustion. There was a band around his heart that had tightened to the point of pain: a constant sharp stabbing in his chest, throbbing just under the bone of his sternum. The sensation of cold pins and needles would bite at his hands and feet sporadically, itching and stinging to the point that he would be unable to maintain focus on any task he set himself to. Sweat beaded on his brow as he took in the world beyond him, too slow and sluggish for his disconnected, high speed brain to truly keep up with.

It followed him wherever he went — the terrible love. When he closed his eyes the sound of a flowing river grew steadily louder in his ears. Even in silence, it built, a cacophony that magnified until he felt he would snap. The gritty, rotten taste of rancid mud would fill his mouth without warning and the flavour would linger at the back of his throat and nose.

“Kyungsoo?”

Kyungsoo’s eyes opened, clammy face pressed against the glass of Minseok’s work car. How much time had passed? He turned towards said car owner, noting slowly that the vehicle was no longer moving and that Minseok was turned towards him, brows furrowed.

“Are you okay?”

Kyungsoo blinked slowly, mind struggling to pull itself back into coherency. “I’m fine. I didn’t realise I had fallen asleep. Sorry about that.”

Minseok’s frown deepened. “You don’t look well. You were muttering in your sleep.”

“Maybe I’m coming down with a cold.” Kyungsoo deflected. “I feel alright, though, really. Once we finish here I’ll head back to my hotel to sleep it off.”

“Alright.” Minseok acquiesced. It was clear by his expression that Kyungsoo’s explanation had not quite placated him, yet he didn’t comment any further, for which Kyungsoo was thankful. “We shouldn’t take too long here. I was assured by the owner of this storage facility that we have full cooperation, and that they’ve been thorough with their shipment records. Finding what we’re looking for shouldn’t be too much work.”

Kyungsoo was only half present — the world rushed around him, movements augmented unnaturally as he moved robotically alongside Minseok. Normal people had filters to block out unnecessary background sound: Kyungsoo’s filters were defective and he felt the smallest of sounds explode against his exposed flesh, booming within his ears and into his skull so forcefully that it pained him.

The facility they entered was little more than a huge shed that had been supersized and converted for industrial use. The storage shelves they walked by by were at least six meters tall and made of heavy-duty metal, stacked high with various oversized packages, crates and boxes up to the ceiling above them. The fluorescent lighting that shone down was weak and unnatural and the shelving units were incredibly effective at blocking a majority of the light from reaching the lower sections anyway, instead casting huge shadows across the available ground they walked. Kyungsoo reached a single hand out and trailed his fingers along the nearest shelf, the cool of the metal grounding him to the moment. He followed Minseok wordlessly, eyes darting as he took everything in.

At the back of the storage section of the building was a single door. Beside it, a greying, middle aged man stood looking thoroughly troubled, single thick folder clutched tightly in his hands.

“Detective Kim.” He said, practically twitching. He didn’t even bother looking at Kyungsoo. “So glad to meet you. I have the last two years worth of wood shipment records for you.” He passed the folder to Minseok and wrung his hands miserably.

“Thank you for the trouble you’ve gone too, Mister Lee.” Minseok replied as he turned to Kyungsoo to hand over the folder. Kyungsoo took it wordlessly.

“Of course, of course… I just want to confirm that this won’t reflect badly on me…? I don’t want my business to be associated with anything nefarious, you see.” Mister Lee said nervously.

“I’ll head back to the car.” Kyungsoo said. “Minseok, you can stay and talk for a bit. I’m sure you have a number of questions and concerns.” Kyungsoo directed the words at the anxious older man, who looked relieved at the opportunity Kyungsoo had presented him.

“Good idea.” Minseok said. “Shall we talk in your office, Mister Lee?” The older gentleman hurried to open the door. “I’ll meet you back at the car, Kyungsoo.” Minseok said offhandedly. The two men entered, shutting the door behind them.

Kyungsoo stood for a moment, alone and staring at nothing in particular. The folder he had been handed felt heavy in his arms, a weight he didn’t wish to bear. Something terrible awaited him, tucked neatly between the lines of words inside the folder that he would soon be forcing himself to read. Abruptly, his vision doubled and from behind him he swore he heard the sound of dripping water and ragged, waterlogged airways rasping painfully for air. He whirled around to stare into the darkness behind him, but there was nothing there other than the shelves he had walked past earlier. As quickly as he had heard it, it had ended. Kyungsoo forced himself to ignore the magnified sound of silence around him as sweat beaded on his brow, anxiety sinking its claws into his lungs as he in quiet, shallow breaths.

He fumbled with the folder as he switched it to his other hand, rummaging in his jacket pocket for his phone.

“Kyungsoo.” When Jongin picked up his office phone, he sounded almost pleased. “To what do I owe the pleasure today?”

Kyungsoo walked quickly, mobile phone pressed to his ear as he forced himself to ignore the loudness of his footfall. “I’m sorry for calling out of nowhere. I just needed a distraction.”

“No need to apologise." The doctors tone sobered immediately. "Talk to me."

“We’ve had a breakthrough in the case.” Kyungsoo responded simply, wincing at the sound of his own voice, far too loud inside his skull. Soon, soon. So very close to the person we love so desperately, so savagely. It’s only a matter of time until we finally collide. Then what? What do we do, then?

“But?”

“But there’s something wrong with me.” Kyungsoo’s words came out tasting like mud and he shuddered, cold sweat erupting across his body. What else is there to do but love? We love, with this terrible, wonderful, horrendous love of ours. As it has been from the beginning until the bittersweet end.

“Don’t you remember what I told you last time we met? I am here, walking by your side.” Jongin’s voice was clear, momentarily cutting through the voice that spoke to Kyungsoo in his head that didn’t quite belong to him. “Don’t let yourself be alone. I know it’s what you’ve come to be used to and what you normally seek, but not now, Kyungsoo. Please.”

Kyungsoo’s mouth felt like it was filled with dried blood that coated his tongue in brittle flakes and crunched under his clenched teeth. Love to him was conditional. People only loved what they could until the rest became too unpleasant to bear. And so much of Kyungsoo was unpleasant, and there was so little good in him to love. People gave love then took it away, and always on their terms. That was how it had been his entire life.

“But will you stay?” Kyungsoo hated how childish the question was, how fragile and desperate he sounded as the words left him. Will you stay, even all the goodness you see has dried up and all that’s left of me is unbearable?

“Of course. For as long as you need.” The doctors voice was even and steady and Kyungsoo clung to it like a drowning man as he forced himself to ignore the otherness that lurked just under his skin with a ferociousness that wasn’t quite human.
 

He could see the figure of a teen — pale skin and slender, tall and almost elegant, with a sharp but sloping visage. His exact features were blurry, as if Kyungsoo were viewing him through hazy glass. As much as he tried, Kyungsoo was unable to pick out any distinguishable features to cement the person before him in his mind as a person in their own right — the more he tried to focus, the more the teen seemed to distort into an unidentifiable mess of blurred light and shadow.

There was a sharp ache in Kyungsoo’s chest that was biting its way up his throat. It was that awful something that had been gnawing on his insides for far too long.

“Why don’t you love me?” The words left Kyungso with a spray of bloodied mud. He paid it no mind.

“But I do.” The teen replied from beyond the haze. “I do love you.” Even his voice was indiscernible, reaching Kyungsoo as a convoluted mixture of all the voices he had ever heard before. He hated how sincere the teen sounded.

“You don’t.” Mud flowed from Kyungsoo’s mouth in steady rivulets and splattered against the ground at his feet. “Not the way I want, not the way I need.”

“What can I do?” The teen asked, voice disembodied but pained. The sound of a flowing river was building somewhere in the back of Kyungsoo’s head, consuming all other sounds as it built in volume. “You know I love you, even if it’s not enough to satisfy you. So what can I do?”

Kyungsoo doubled over, muddy, blood tinged water spewing from him like water from a faucet. Mouth agape and eyes bulging in shock, the expression on his face was reminiscent of a scream. Kyungsoo could only stand rooted to the spot in terror as filth continued to pour out from somewhere deep inside him. For a fraction of a second, he swore the vision of the teen before him sharpened almost to clearness.

“You can’t blame me for the terrible things you’ve done.”

The spell was broken before Kyungsoo could truly take anything in. He bolted upright in his hotel bed, drenched in sweat and shaking violently. Bile rose in his throat and he staggered from his bed into the attached bathroom, hurling himself to the toilet just in time to vomit violently. For a moment his vision swam and all he saw was bloodied mud. He shut his eyes tightly — when he opened them again, the vomit in the toilet was just that: vomit. No blood, no mud. A moan of pain left him as, without warning, the stabbing pain in his head made itself known to him. Slowly, he heaved himself upright and stumbled from the bathroom towards the small table he had been seated at just hours earlier. Sheets of the shipment reports he had spent hours going through were strewn across it, some having even fallen to the ground. Only one stood out to him: he had circled a name and address in bright red pen —

Could he trust himself? He had endured for so long, and now he felt only weak and worn down. The more he had looked at the killer, the harder it had become to be strong. The love had been potent and addictive and in the face of it he had realised with a startling clarity that he was not as strong has he had believed himself to be. Could he trust himself to continue to fight the good fight? Could he trust himself to be good, when the badness had rooted itself so very deep?

Kyungsoo rubbed at his eyes until stars burst behind his closed eyelids. The throbbing in his head thrummed and pulsed with each beat of his heart. He didn’t know the answer anymore. He had been so sure for so long that he could endure in the name of goodness. Now it seemed that goodness was no longer enough.

He stared that the stark red ink against bone white paper, the dark ink of the finely printed name and address that he had circled a taunt he could no longer ignore. From behind the curtain beside the table, a streak of morning light cut into the room, settling on the paper. Kyungsoo watched as the sheet burst into flame, paper curling into blackness and disintegrating into ash. He blinked.

The fire had vanished and the sheet of paper sat untouched, flawless.

...
A/N

Long time no update. I'm sorry for the long wait - I've been terribly busy with uni work.
Thank you as always for subscribing, upvoting and commenting! A lot of my descriptions of Kyungsoo's mental state come from my own experience with anxiety and the disassociation that so often accompanies it. I hope what I've written is understandable. It's suprisingly difficult to clearly express mental health issues despite having first hand experience, simply because the experience is so confusing and unnatural. 

I'm feeling very rusty re: writing, but I'm on break from uni for a while now so I'll try to update again soon.

Please let me know what you think, and see you all next update!