He’s awakened by the uncomfortable sensation of an aching spine, coupled with a soreness spreading across the bottom half of his body. He stirs, feeling soft fabric against his legs; as he cracks his eyes open groggily, he’s met with a sight that most definitely is not his room, he finds himself lying on a bed that definitely isn’t his, he finds himself trapped in the confines of a dark bedroom.

.

He kicks the sheets off him, scrambling to sit up and then feeling his cheeks heat up to a hot embarrassed red when he realises his exposed body. With the minimal help from the tiniest stripes of sunlight streaking in through mostly-drawn curtains, he pinpoints a plain black chair where clothes are folded neatly - his clothes.

He throws them on faster than he’s ever before, his entire face flushing an indignant, ashamed colour.

Impossible.

He screwed up.

How could he - what had he been thinking?

The tears are coming too fast too early in the too dark morning; frustrated droplets that course their way down his cheeks hotly - how could he?

He had wanted to forget.

He had wanted to forget everything; the same way everyone who ever existed in his life forgot about him.

And so had Heechul. He remembers what the beautiful assassin had whispered back then, his normally stoic voice so raw with desperation.

Let me forget.

And so he had succumbed. Let the devil have him as a temporary little plaything. Gave himself up so both of them could lose themselves.

He bites his lip, casting a swollen gaze around the dim room. It’s simple, plain, decorated in shades of sable. A table is pushed against a corner, a few books stacked atop one another neatly, a pile of papers organised into a bundle to the side, a few framed photographs lining the edges of the table.

He blinks a little, observing the photographs - simple old photos, coloured sepia by the current of time, encased in minimalistic black frames.

Admittedly, he’s a little surprised at this - this humanness of the assassin.

The first picture is of a child, sitting in what seems like the backyard of a typical house, dressed in a striped yellow outfit. At the bottom right corner of the frame, written in small, neat handwriting is the word remember.

The second picture is of two women - one is slightly older, a motherly smile adorning her lips, while the other looked to be a teenager, her eyes alight and a playful grin etching the corners of .

Once again, the word remember is written, a little bigger this time.

The last is of four people - he recognises the same two women as before, along with a slightly more grown-up version of the child. The last person in the photograph is a man, perhaps in his forties, with a kind smile and the friendly crinkles around his eyes.

With a jolt, he recognises the wide eyes of the child, the way the lips curve - once so wide and filled with a childlike innocence, once smiling so big with the joy only youth can retain; now coated in such cold malice and now arching down in the harshest of frowns.

It’s him.

The assassin and his family.

It hits him hard that Heechul, his killer, is equally as human as him. It hits him hard that they possess the same crimson blood, share the same sweeping sorrow, it hits him hard that they’ve all known life as a human being.

It hits him hard that Heechul has - had? - a family; has a father and mother, has a sister.

His grip tightens on the photo frame.

Perhaps once, Heechul knew what it felt like, having people so important to you that life would never be the same without them.

Perhaps once, Heechul knew what it was like to feel his world, everything he ever knew, crumble down into sheer nothingness around him.

Perhaps once, Heechul knew what it was like to lose everything.

Perhaps once, Heechul knew how it felt to love.

Perhaps once, he had loved his father. His mother. His sister.

Jungsoo’s fingers tremble around the smooth frame.

Perhaps once, Heechul understood the same pain that haunts his every waking second.

Then why did you take them away from me? Why must I suffer the same way that you did?

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

He hates Heechul, for taking everything away.

And he hates himself, for not being able to fight.

There’s one more framed picture that incites his curiosity the most; unable to satiate the growing inquisitiveness within him, he reaches for it. Unlike the other three, it’s face down on the table.

He picks it up, and he forgets how to breathe for a moment.

He recognises those faces.

The first, Heechul. In his teenage years, maybe - he’s dressed in a midnight blue outfit, a sheathed dagger held in his palms. Beside him is a lithe man of around the same age, with no sign of emotion written across his expression.

He recognises those eyes.