Footsteps slow to a halt. The figure stands still, swathed in the darkness of the blue-black of the sky, outfitted in grey sneakers, long pants and a casual black hoodie, hood pulled up and a mask over his nose and mouth.

“Why are you here?” A figure strides out, shoes padding gently on the ground, an edge to his low tone. “You became active again pretty fast. Aren’t you supposed to be recovering?”

The slightly shorter man moves to the glass doors that prevent him from entering the house. “I came here to check on my target.”

There’s an arm blocking him from the door in an instant; the taller figure stands stiffly, his gaze a cold glare. “Don’t you dare take him away, Kim Heechul.”

Heechul glances through the door, glimpsing only an empty living room. “I came unarmed, Youngwoon. This is a simple request. Once fulfilled, I’ll leave.”

Youngwoon hesitates, looking at Heechul’s barely-threatening casual outfit and bare hands before reluctantly relenting, opening the door for Heechul to walk in and following closely. “Heechul, answer me one question.”

Heechul nods his head in form of acknowledgement.

“Why do you call us by our real names outside of fights as assassins?” Youngwoon queries. “Why do you call me Youngwoon? Why do you call Yesung Jongwoon? And why-” He hesitates for the slightest of moments, as if afraid of what the answer would be, “- Why do assassins from your company not change their real names?”

“Firstly,” Heechul doesn’t look back as he replies, instead opting to stare at the full-length mirror on the wall and idly the scar on his cheek, “Assassins in my company do take on fake names. Kyuhyun never did because I took over as his partner before his mentor could assign him a name, and I chose to let him retain his actual name. Hangeng’s name was Hankyung, you know?”

Youngwoon only listens in silence.

Does it not hurt you anymore to talk about Hangeng?

“I was the only one to always call him Hangeng.” Heechul shrugs. “As for me, this is my life. It wouldn’t make sense for me to have a fake identity when this is the true me.”

In that fleeting moment, Youngwoon can swear that he feels his heart temporarily jump to his throat at the man’s casual admittance.

So his life consists only of killing?

He really is like a king… The man that Yesung has been aiming to be all this while.

“As for why I call you by your real names,” Heechul pauses, “You all live different lives, don’t you? Look at you now. You’re in your house, staying with an old friend who you love dearly. That’s not what a killer would do, right?”

Heechul’s eyes soften a little; then he pulls away from the mirror, lets his hands drop to his sides, and ceases talking about the matter. “Let me see him.”

In their rare calm quietude, Youngwoon leads Heechul to the room. The door is opened, revealing a figure curled up on a bed.

Jungsoo is dressed in a slightly oversized shirt, most likely borrowed from Youngwoon’s wardrobe; his hair is messier than normal, ruffled in his sleep, but his features are tranquil, his chest rising up and down in the steady rhythm of unconsciousness.

“Heechul.” The assassin turns to Youngwoon questioningly. “Will you come back to take him one day?”

A long pause follows.

“Maybe.”

And then, just as promised, Heechul brushes past Youngwoon, tracing back his footsteps past the mirror and out of the opened transparent door.

Youngwoon watches, waits until he hears the sound of the door closing, before he turns to the bed where the figure rests.

“Jungsoo, you’re awake, aren’t you?”

Slowly, groggily, a pair of eyes flutter open.

“Mm.”

“I’m sorry for allowing him in.”

Jungsoo yawns quietly, tilting his head to look in Youngwoon’s direction. “Why are you sorry? I miss him, kinda.”

Youngwoon swallows hard.

You shouldn’t.

This path is familiar, painfully so.

Shadowed by the comforting blackness of the night, he continues.

He doesn’t quite know why he chooses to come here.

It’s empty around him, only the earth and the sky, comfortingly so.

But he can still remember the way this area used to look, all those years ago. Over two decades ago.

A barren, lonely tree stump. It used to be the tall green tree adorning his backyard. The area a few metres directly in front of it, the place where what he used to call ‘home’ once stood.

When was the last time I came here?

The last time he had come, the moon had been full.

He peers up at the night sky, catching the faintest glimpse of the moon’s glow. The first quarter.

Close to three months, I guess.

He doubts anyone will come to this area - especially since its abandonment a while back - and he doubts anyone will care enough about him to come looking for him.

He still remembers the charred remains, the high-pitched screams, the tears, the stabbing panic.

He still remembers standing alone in his backyard, watching as everything was ripped away from him.

When he was six, his house had gone up in flames.

He doesn’t fully remember all the details stumbling through his frantic mind; he remembers, though, the acerbic smell of too-thick smoke flooding his lungs; he remembers large hands wrapping around his thin frame, pulling away f