A figure sits in the gloom of the room, windows absent, lit only by an archaic-type candlelight that flickers and lights the table with its orange glow.

The table is filled with printed papers, the papers most notably all following the same format; a picture of a person’s face, alongside their names and addresses and other personal information. Many of them have crosses marked out on them in red ink, except for a select few - the one on top has a star at the top left corner of the page, and written in small neat handwriting are the words incomplete task - Kim Heechul.

The figure shifts, outfitted in a plain black jacket over a dark grey shirt and long pants. There are light black boots by the door of the room, replaced by white slippers that the figure wears as footwear of choice.

A quiet sigh escapes his lips, and he turns to face the other person lying on the bed in the corner of the room, almost completely covered by the darkness, but just barely lit by a tinge of orange from the flame. The body is still, unmoving, covered in white blankets. His face, deceptively peaceful, has a few red cuts on them.

The figure stands from his chair, walking over to the bed to survey the still body. He speaks, and his voice echoes hollowly around the room. “I didn’t expect you to be the one to fall.”

There is no reply, and he releases another tired sigh, returning to his seat and idly toying with the paper on top of the pile. “What am I supposed to do about this, Heechul-hyung?”

And once again, there is no reply.

Raindrops splatter against the window, lazily almost, sliding down the same way tears roll down smooth skin. The skies are tinted in hues of grey, painting the world beneath in a similarly dark shade. Thunder growls harshly, and occasionally the skies light up in a brilliant flash, enveloping the world in white.

He stares out the window. It’s brightly lit on the inside of the house that he’s in, but now he enjoys the rainy day, the crash of thunder overhead and blinding gleam of pure white. His gaze trails to the simple white clock mounted upon the wall. 6:24pm. It has been a total of five days.

Five days since he’s moved into this house, five days since he saw Heechul for the last time.

“Jungsoo-yah,” he hears his name being called by the voice he’s become even more familiarised to over these five days. He turns, watching Kangin standing there. He responds with a half-hearted hum.

“Thinking about him again?” Kangin sighs, causing Jungsoo to flinch a little. “You’re acting as if he was a lover or something. He was only your future killer, just be glad he’s dead now. At least you’re safe.”

“Is he really dead?” Jungsoo blurts out.

Kangin stares at him with a raised eyebrow, and his face flushes slightly, knowing of the man’s disapproval of his constant breaching of the topic. “Yesung stabbed him pretty hard there. If he’s been lying there for a while, with no one to stop his blood flow, it’s quite definite that he’s dead. Didn’t you study-”

“I know. The more blood he loses, the more platelets. There will be too much clotting and the blood loss won’t stop.” His voice sounds dry, mechanical. “The body begins to malfunction. The strain on the circulatory system will be too great. Organs, like the heart and the kidney, will fail.” He pauses, the last few words stuck in his throat. “The endpoint is death.”

Kangin nods, almost approvingly. “You studied well. Unless someone rescued him almost instantly or if Yesung was kind enough to stab him so less blood would be lost, Heechul is already dead.”

Jungsoo in a breath.

Oh.

It’s been five days.

Which could mean that - if some form of a miracle happened - Heechul is either conscious somewhere or dead.

He prefers to think of the former, but his thoughts only stray towards the latter.

Why am I attached to him?

His gaze grows dull, heavy. Youngwoon is right; he was only going to kill me anyways.

And yet, he wonders why he feels a sadness thinking about the assassin’s death.

Perhaps because I never got to know him better the way I wanted to.

Alone he sits, quietly sipping at his coffee, eyes trained on the skies that begin to transform quickly into darker shades of grey. There’s the sound of fingers tapping against wood; an impatient sigh escapes his lips.

“Where are you?” he murmurs, his voice received only by the empty air. “You’re not supposed to go down that easily.”

He frowns, standing from his seat and moving over to the balcony where he peers at the ominous weather. “I cancelled all my plans with friends for five days now because I thought you’d turn up at my doorstep one day with that perfect gleam in your eyes again, but you didn’t come.”

Kim Heechul.

He taps his fingers idly against his glass doors, wishing that he could somehow summon the man in front of him. You can’t be dead.

There’s the shrill ring of his house phone, echoi