Unbelievable. 

The combo of Miyeon, a soft to touch gray hoodie, and a pair of round glasses. So simple. So effortless in style. A synthesis of rolling out of bed fully aware of her cursory impression, yet not an ounce of care was given. 

Curiously tossing Shuhua into a state of mind containing a jumbled amalgamation of the following urges: squish. 

Pinch Miyeon’s cheeks through her hood.

Give Miyeon head pats.  

Crap. Her instance of overwhelming cute aggression must be quelled as soon as possible. Voicing it might help rid her obsession. Maybe. 

“You look good,” Shuhua murmurs. 

Her eyes widen. She did not just say that aloud. 

“What did you just say?” Miyeon’s attention is elsewhere—not even bothering to glance at Shuhua. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”  

“I said ‘what are we doing next’.” 

Shuhua wears practiced indifference like it’s her raison d’être. Puts forward a glazed stare of boredom. 

Miyeon blinks at her, peering intently. Seems to buy it. “Soyeon texted me ‘there’s a manticore running loose the next street over. Go kill it.’” 

“Nothing like ending the day chasing a mythological hybrid,” she replies.  

“While looking good doing it,” Miyeon tacks on, breaking into a jog. Shuhua comes very close to choking. But she does falter and miss her footing. Loses her rhythm. 

She redoubles her efforts, catching up. Miyeon doesn't comment on her misstep—preoccupied, slipping into silence pertaining to hunting high-stake dangerous monsters. Requiring total concentration.

The manticore is no ordinary opponent. 

As they jog, Shuhua surveys the area around them, making mental notes. An empty street. Closed shops with dark interiors. Some cars parked on the side. A lack of bestial screaming. 

Though it was raining earlier, there are no visible tracks. 

The hunch that they’re heading into a trap doesn’t leave her.   

Slowing down, Miyeon brings out her bow, nocking an arrow. Shuhua also draws her sword. On alert for the smallest hint of noise, treading lightly. It doesn’t need to be said that something is wrong. 

It’s way too quiet. 

At the bus stop at the end of the street, she spots a bearded old man, illuminated by the flickering street light. Was he there before?

She tugs on Miyeon’s sleeve. “Check Soyeon’s message again.” The man leans on his cane, head turning towards them—eyes startlingly grey. He nods once in acknowledgement and goes back to waiting for the bus. “I’ll go ask that old man whether he saw anything before.” 

Miyeon’s hand shoots forward, holding her back. “What old man?”

“At the bus stop.” 

“Shuhua, no one’s there.” 

She looks again—Miyeon is right. The man was no trick of the light, she swears he was there, he can’t have vanished. 

“Be on guard,” Miyeon warns. Takes a step, leaves crackling beneath her foot. Synching with the high-pitched whistling of an arrow. Now louder. 

Belatedly, Shuhua realizes what’s going on. 

She pushes Miyeon in the back. Hard. 

Sends her to the ground—far from where a needle-sharp quill is embedded in concrete. 

Impact creating a dent, Miyeon groans. Lies helpless. Shuhua might’ve overdone it. But better a faceplant than a quill through the heart. 

Flapping wings, a fearsome descent, the manticore makes itself known. Landing in between them, cutting Shuhua off from Miyeon. 

“What a peculiar turn of events, the elder reaper could not perceive my glamour.” Head of a man, a lion’s body, the winding tail of spines akin to porcupine quills. “Though that should be expected, it appears I have met her before,” the creature muses. 

In the middle of its chest is a grisly darkened slit. Bruised and depressed, a never fully healed scar. From the entry of an arrow if she had to guess. 

With Miyeon out of commission, she has to end this fast. The manticore could devour Miyeon at any moment; it’s a strange blessing it hasn’t done so. 

Drawing blanks, what are the manticore’s weaknesses? She can’t cut through impenetrable fur. No matter. If she can land a deep slash onto the mark on its chest, that’ll at least get the beast reeling. 

Shuhua goes for it, swift in motion. Sure to hit the mark.    

Swings down. 

But nothing. 

No blood, nor guttural shriek.  

The manticore has caught her blade between its paws, matching strength for strength. Straining. She can’t wrench it free. 

A burst of force slams into her hand.

She’s in the air.  

Whirled. Thrown, hurtling. Trained reflexes kick in—she rolls hitting the ground, softening the blow.       

And her katana is gone. Knocked out her hands, meters away. 

She can’t run to pick it up, turning her back. The second her eyes stray from the manticore, death would be certain. 

“In all my years, I have never tasted reaper flesh,” says the manticore, palpably deriving sadistic pleasure. 

Her next move—she doesn’t have time to think.  

Quills shoot from the manticore’s tail. 

The spines come at her relentlessly, thousands in the sky. Raining black needles. 

She dodges as much as she can.

Twists, ducks, but there is only so much she can dodge. Quills cut into her skin. Scraping. Only by skill, sheer luck, do they not embed. Aren’t deep cuts. 

She can hear the manticore laughing in the backdrop. The light flares of pain she can handle. She soldiers through. Keeps moving, survival instincts overtaking every thought. Live. She has to live.   

The onslaught continues—the pain goes, replaced by numbness. Paralysis. 

Her feet aren’t moving as quick. Shuhua has to force herself, sluggish. Limbs not responding. Losing feeling. 

Poison. 

The quills are venomous.  

Her eyes stray from the manticore, spots Miyeon behind the manticore. Elbows on the ground, getting to her feet. 

Without warning, the manticore swipes with its paws.

Inhuman speed, faster than her eye can track. 

Miyeon goes flying. Crashes through glass into a shop, the alarm rings. 

Shuhua yells anyway.  

“Miyeon!” Shuhua can’t see her, there’s no sign of Miyeon getting up either. 

Her lungs drop into her stomach with the lack of response, into limbo. She might just throw up. She feels absolutely sick. Shuhua wants to run over to her, except the manticore—it turns back. 

Cunning grey eyes boring into her own. 

Triple rows of vile teeth grin at her. “You thought I wouldn’t notice? You gave it away so easily.” 

Saliva drips onto the ground, corroding. Melting. “Little reaper, you have much to learn.” 

She loses feeling in her arms and legs. Completely. The next round of spines fire and nothing can prepare her. 

They pin her to the wall through her clothes. Avoiding major arteries. Organs. The numbness had spread to her upper body, there was no pain slamming into the wall. 

The manticore stalks towards her. 

“The elder reaper’s name is Miyeon?” 

Shuhua doesn’t respond. Despising every moment. The sound of Miyeon’s name rolling off its tongue enrages her like no other. Driving her sword into its skull would be beyond merciful. 

“I will feast on her flesh and bones,” less than a hand length away, she can smell the manticore’s rotting breath, “she will taste much sweeter with terror in her soul, knowing you are dead.” 

Glaring at the beast in contempt, in the corner of her eye, Shuhua sees Miyeon stumbling from the wreckage. 

She does everything to contain her relief. 

“Purgatory is too good for you," Shuhua spits. Her eyes don’t wander, hatefully taking the manticore’s advice. She won't look. 

She trusts Miyeon and she'll do her own part, the manticore cannot catch onto them.

Roaring, about to inhale her whole—Shuhua faces, stares into the void of its maw.     

It never happens. 

Gurgling, blood splatters over her shirt. Revoltingly stained. Striking hatred piercing, pointed her way for a last curse of vengeance.  

The tip of her katana protrudes through the manticore’s chest. 

Her blade is removed; Shuhua grimaces at the wet sound. And the manticore falls with a thud. 

Miyeon stands, shoulders heaving. Her knuckles have turned white from how tight she’s gripping Shuhua’s katana. 

Her glasses are broken: the lenses are cracked, the left hinges detached, the left temples missing. Very much worse for wear, dirt and random debris cakes her face. 

“I couldn’t find my bow in the wreckage so I borrowed your sword,” Miyeon states plainly as if everything is alright. All in a day’s work. 

Shuhua has never seen anything more beautiful. 

Blue flames ignite from Miyeon’s palms as she walks closer, wincing from the movement. Shuhua will have to ask Minnie or Soojin to check over Miyeon after. Reaper or not, a big smack, and crashing through a window would mess up anyone’s insides. 

Slowly, the spines are pulled out attentively, Shuhua’s wounds are sealed with every pass of fire. Feeling progressively returns to her limbs. 

“We still have to get Soojin or Minnie to heal you,” Miyeon grits her teeth, extinguishing the flames. “I’m not really good at the healing arts.”        

Letting Miyeon steady her, every movement comes with ease. Shuhua isn’t too concerned about the slumbering fondness—the homely comfort— embracing her chest as she takes in Miyeon’s expression, studying how her eyebrows gather, scrunching.  

She has a lifetime to figure it out. 

“What are you looking at?” Miyeon swipes her thumb across the edges of her own mouth. “Is there something on my face?” she asks.

Shuhua shakes her head, feeling her lips curve into a smile. 

“It’s nothing.” 

AN: title from Julia Michaels - Issues

I normally leave things up to the reader to interpret, but I’ll just sneak in my two cents.

The final scene came to my mind and I knew how I wanted Miyeon and Shuhua’s journey to end. It would be a scene of vagueness, an atmosphere which has been asive throughout the chapters, but adjusted to pick up hope as an overtone.

We would know their relationship was on the mend and things will work out. They’ll be okay. 

Would Shuhua and Miyeon become romantically involved eventually? Who knows. 

Immortality is after all, an eternity. 

Thank you everyone who joined me on this journey.