He'd be lying if he said that he didn't think it would be easy. 

Leisurely, Seunghoon hops off the platform as it finally whirrs close to the ground. He lands right at the edge of the desert biome-- behind him, stacks of tall sand loom in peaks, the sky is a hot, dry red. Directly in front of him though, his opponent lies panting in cool, green grass; the soft, dewy kind. Behind him stretches a glimmering blue lake and the clearing is dotted with trees. Misshapen hunks of white metal hover indecisively at different heights, platforms resembling clouds that might allow them to take the fight into the sky. 

Seunghoon sneaks a glance to the image broadcasted into the sky. His opponent's artificial health bar is getting critically low, the numbers fizzling bright red against the electrical dome of the force field keeping them in the arena. 

"--oof!"

He's sent flying backwards; he'd let his guard down, underestimated his opponent, and for that probably deserves the fist he just took to the mouth. Rohann grits his teeth, digging his feet firmly into the ground. As he sweeps his arm in an arc, his blades follow-- ten of them, all sharpened and poised right at Seunghoon.

Seunghoon leaps back in a flip, dodging them as they fly at him one after the other, tracking his movement and the very last one catches his blind spot-- he's winded and moves just a second too slow, and upon making contact with his warmth it explodes in a ringing blast that sends Seunghoon crashing into a tall dune, filling his lungs and mouth with sand and obscuring his vision in a flurry.

In a real fight, that blast would've caused some real physical hurt-- as it is, the percentage on Seunghoon's health bar plunges by a whole chunk; he can hear the tinny beeping of the counter as the energy field registers and calculates the damage. Unfortunately, while the artificial counter prevents them from sustaining real physical damage, it certainly still allows them to feel the simulated pain in order for the fights to make sense. So excuse Seunghoon if his side is throbbing with a splitting pain and the heat from the blast aches in his bones.

The rings on Seunghoon's fingers buzz with a familiar warmth, lighting up with cold blue energy, as do the rings in his hair, sizzling to life in a snaking chain reaction. His thin braids, wrapped with energy, like a nest of vipers poised, tense around his head. Just in time, as the dirty sole of a heavy boot plunges out of the sandstorm, right at Seunghoon's face-- his hair whips at Rohann's ankle, slithering to wrap around his leg and viciously wrangling him off-balance. 

He crashes to the ground as Seunghoon uses the momentum to swing himself to his feet. He bats away the incoming assault of blades, his hair like whips pinwheeling around him in a storm; Seunghoon's eyes narrow in concentration, fingers frozen, tense with anticipation-- and then-- one tendril lashes out faster than anyone can blink and snatches a blade right out of the air; reeling back, like an extension of Seunghoon's body, the writhing braid plunges the blade right into Rohann's chest.

The horrific crack echoes throughout the arena as his forcefield shatters, and his health bar drops to zero with a pathetic beep. 

They belong to the region of Yeongnam and deal in the earth and in technology. Rich in precious gems that underline the foundation of their economy, and at the same time a geographically convenient port city that allows them to deal in the latest technology and to welcome all sorts of travelling scientists and engineers and academics. 

The ruling family of Busan, they make this status known. His father wears diamonds in all colours embedded in his teeth like a canine rainbow, and Seunghoon has always been intimately familiar with the milky glow of the large moonstones set in his mother's crown and the way they refracted colour into the walls of his nursery. His sisters wear rubies around their ankles and these elaborate chains clatter when they move, anchoring them to the earth, to the land that has given their city everything.

At once the most standout and the most underwhelming, Seunghoon is represented not by any dazzling stones but by elemental metal, cold, clean silver. He is the Silver Prince for the hoops that glitter in his ears, and the stud on the right side of his nose, but most of all for the profusion of rings woven into his hair. The inky blackness is trimmed in neat layers toward the front, fringe framing a handsome but austere face. In the back, a trail of long, thin braids-- like scorpions' tails. Twinkling sharply in these braids are silver rings-- much like the ones Seunghoon wears on his fingers, and the similarity is very much purposeful. 

These are the result of state-of-the-art engineering, the latest in technology and energy manipulation. Most equipment and weaponry tap on some sort of technological enhancement, but Seunghoon's rings are a marvel for the strength channelled by such tiny vessels, and of course his weapons are unconventional-- the energy his rings channel turning his prized braids into supercharged whips. He is worthy of his title in that sense; an embodiment of what Busan has to offer, skilled in his mastery of both battle and wit. 

Unknown to the public, however, there is one more layer to Seunghoon. Technology is all good and well, but there has also always been nature; mystique and the other world. Seunghoon has married the two; in a twisted turn of fate some years earlier, that welded these elements together into his physical body.

Tucked into the back of his neck, right where the cervical vertebrae that protects the nerves controlling his fingers sits, rests a softly iridescent natural pearl.

He's in a really good mood, to say the least, when that evening's dinner rolls around. It's a mid-tournament special of sorts, to mark the end of the one-on-one battles. Having kept up his perfect streak, Seunghoon wears a handsome grin and keeps a tall glass of wine in hand, more for show than anything else. 

"Great job today," Ikhwan claps him on the shoulder heartily as people mingle around them on the ballroom floor. His childhood friend and longtime sparring partner, Ikhwan isn't from royalty, but part of a respected fighter's guild. He's never missed any of Seunghoon's battles, and today's was no exception. 

"Thanks," Seunghoon raises his glass for a toast, and Ikhwan matches it with a clink, although he lets out a disparaging snort. 

"Should you be drinking that?" he asks, digging an elbow into Seunghoon's ribs. "I'm sure someone can get you a little soda around here."

"Shut up," Seunghoon grumbles, "And not so loud."

It is at this moment that, from the corner of his eye, he catches a fleeting glimpse of a familiar profile, head lowered as usual, flitting between bodies and disappearing toward the back of the ballroom. 

"--sorry," Seunghoon interrupts, craning his head to look after Kim Jinwoo's retreating back. "Could I catch you later, man?" 

Ikhwan looks a little perturbed but not otherwise offended, and lets him go with a nod and a hard thump on his back which rattles his lungs. He comes up wheezing, and Ikhwan only snickers as he moves onto the buffet table. 

Trying to be as subtle as he can, he slinks through the throng of bodies and the sprightly laughter. Jinwoo was moving towards the left-- away from the central balcony to which the sliding doors have been left thrown open, where he can see a gaggle of guests gathered and chatting openly, through thick curls of grey smoke steeping into the night. Which leaves Jinwoo with the smaller, quieter balcony to the corner; which means Seunghoon might finally catch the intriguing island prince alone. 

When he steps through the wood door which rattles clumsily from disuse, red wine sloshing in his cup, Kim Jinwoo turns slowly to face him. The moonlight flickers over his face, the shadows dapple across its smooth ridges as the light changes. Seunghoon in a breath. Jinwoo an eyebrow imperiously; and even then, it's an expression that looks all too handsome on his face. "I didn't take you for a smoker," he says, and his voice is wonderfully low and soft, washing over Seunghoon in waves. 

"Ah, I'm-- not," Seunghoon finds himself answering stupidly, fingers tugging self-consciously at his suit jacket. 

He seems confident-- more so than when they'd just met. Maybe it's less abrupt than at the entrance, or maybe Jinwoo has settled into the swing of the tournament. Either way, Seunghoon is glad for the appraisal; as Jinwoo's gaze travels over him with a sweep of his long lashes. The night is quiet and it's just them. Jinwoo's mouth settles into a thin smile around the cigarette as he tilts his head. "Then to what do I owe the pleasure?" He gestures, sweepingly, to the openness of the balcony they're on. 

Seunghoon pulls at the collar of his shirt now; the balcony suddenly feels far too small, but in spite of himself he manages to stuff his hands in his pockets resolutely and make his way to the bannister, where Jinwoo has his weight propped carelessly on his elbows as he takes another drag. "I just wanted some fresh air," he says, which is not an entirely a lie. The other part of the truth: I wanted some fresh air where you were, goes unsaid, and if Jinwoo picks up on that he doesn't show it. "Is that alright?" Seunghoon prompts.

Jinwoo chuckles. "It's your balcony, your Highness." 

"Right," Seunghoon grins back sheepishly. He takes the laughter as a good sign, a lapse into a more relaxed mood, and drapes his arms over the bannister beside Jinwoo. They fall into a stilted silence; he sneaks a look at the island prince and he seems content to keep puffing on his cigarette, calmly disinterested in Seunghoon's company.

For some reason, this grates on Seunghoon's nerves and he feels that it's absolutely necessary, now, to start a conversation. 

"So," he starts cautiously, and Jinwoo turns his attention to him politely as he lights another cigarette. "I've never seen you at the festival before."

Jinwoo smiles. "No," he says simply, "I've never attended."

"Why?" 

He tilts his head slightly, right as a gentle breeze rushes through the night; a couple slick strands of hair come undone and fall into his face. "I've never felt the need," he answers casually. 

There's a pregnant pause, and Seunghoon finds the awkwardness stifling. The light makes his drink gleam, and against his better judgement Seunghoon raises the glass to his lips and lets the alcohol pour down his throat, if only to have something to do for the moment. 

To his surprise, Jinwoo picks up where he left off, in a thoughtful tone of voice. "Imjado... is an island," he says, at once rather matter-of-fact and ruminating, "We don't exactly need... all this." He gestures to the courtyard below them, and to the city spread out even further beneath. "The sea gives. The island gives. I am... content." He gives Seunghoon a sideways glance, as if expecting him to have understood from those words alone. 

"I'm sorry," Seunghoon says, "I don't know what you mean."

Jinwoo laughs. "You're honest. I like that." he admits, and in spite of himself Seunghoon finds himself blushing as he waits for his companion to continue. 

"I like being on my island. I'm proud of it, and I'm happy to watch it grow. Imjado has never exactly needed the rest of thr world, you know? We could be self-sufficient if we really needed to be... so I measure my worth as its prince by how well it thrives and not by, well," he eyes Seunghoon, "How well the rest of the kingdom sees it, I suppose." 

"It's all good diplomacy though," Seunghoon shoots back, a little more defensive than he means to sound. "Isn't it? The tournament is a good time to gather. To see what each city has been working on."

"To size each other up." Jinwoo corrects, an edge of disdain creeping into his voice. "No?" 

Seunghoon bites his lip. 

"No offense to you, Prince," Jinwoo says, softer now, with a sympathetic smile. "I saw your match, you're a fantastic fighter. Your city is beautiful." He turns away, and lets out a slow exhale. They both watch the smoke curl.

Jinwoo sighs. In a clipped tone, "I've just never felt the need to leave my island, I suppose." He shrugs now, in a manner that suggests that this much of their conversation has elapsed. 

To his credit, Seunghoon is nothing if not persistent, and a little audacious. "So what brings you here now then?" 

Another one of Jinwoo's curious little smiles tilts at his lips again. "Curiousity?" Jinwoo muses. "Necessity?" He chuckles, more to himself than anyone. 

"Well, I'm excited to see you fight, tomorrow, in any case." Seunghoon swirls his glass, and watches as Jinwoo's eyes follow the movement of the red liquid within. 

There's a lethargic pause as his eyes don't seem to focus on Seunghoon, the humid air starting to seep into their skin. Finally, he answers simply. "I won't be fighting tomorrow."

Seunghoon startles. "It's a two-on-two battle, though?"

"Heera can manage it," Jinwoo shrugs offhandedly, tapping his cigarette impatiently. Seunghoon watches the steaming ash sweep into the wind. "I don't need to be in her way."

"Would you be in her way?" 

He turns languidly, a thin smile creeping up his mouth. "No, probably not." His lips quirk as he fixes his eyes on Seunghoon, thinly-veiled amusement apparent on his face. He looks Seunghoon up and down as if seeing him clearly for the first time; wordlessly, he tilts his head, regarding him for a few moments, before he nods, once, twice, and simply turns away for another cigarette.

Seunghoon takes another swig; the alcohol tastes sour on his tongue.

Pearls are not of the earth. Pearls are of the-- 

Ocean.

The arrival of the two hulking ships is impossible to ignore, casting their shadows over the people and buildings below as they come to dock. These are not conventional; most nations prefer sleeker models of transport and even the more advanced iterations of technology for flying cars and bigger airships are easily accessible. 

However, Jeju and South Jeolla are well-known for their royal ships; magnificent, dated things made with wood and nails and starched white canvas sails-- old-fashioned, like the pirate ships from history books, but outfitted with huge engines and propellers to keep them airborne. The way they cut through the sky now, on a day like this when the sky is a brilliant shade of colour, it is almost like watching a ship emerge from the ocean, the way they draw close, gradual, framed by swathes of blue.

The first to alight is Jeju's son, Jinhwan. He wears a thin black band around his throat and a sword hangs by his side in its scabbard. The dock emerges in excited whispers as he steps down the stairs that have descended from the side of the ship. He is small in stature, as Seunghoon has heard, but he still cuts an imposing figure. 

Rather than curtly greet the media and disappear into the royal grounds, however, Jinhwan waits for the second airship to settle, shifting under the flash of cameras and the scrutiny of the crowd. The docking ship is a classic 18th century affair; Seunghoon knows from the political records that it has been constructed to be a reimagination of the legendary Queen Anne's Revenge. Quite unlike Blackbeard's malevolently-named vessel though, the big bold lettering along the side of Imjado's grand ship reads: GOLDFISH.

It was a decision made by Imjado's crown prince, who commissioned the ship and caused a lot of buzz in doing so. He has thus far lived very much out of the public eye and has never made at appearance at any edition of the annual festivals; interesting considering the prestige and tradition of the festival, not to mention the political clout that comes with it. This is part of the reason that this year's games are so anticipated; when the news had broke over breakfast that the prince of Imjado would be travelling to Busan not just to visit, but to participate, even Seunghoon had perked up in interest.

A sturdy flight of darkwood steps are lowered into place, and Kim Heera steps off the Goldfish to a roar of applause-- her brown hair is twisted into two thick plaits that fall to her waist, where her famous flintlock pistols rest against either side of her hips. Unlike their prince, Imjado's First Princess is a recognisable, seasoned fighter. She wears a wide-brimmed black hat and a harness that criss-crosses over her torso, and a self-assured expression as she grins into the crowd and steps onto the cobbled ground. Moving with a confident gait, she waves at the cameras as Seunghoon's staff guide her towards the guest compound. At the same time, Jinhwan moves over from the neighbouring ship and bows slightly to her in greeting as he passes; she slaps him good-naturedly on the back but Jinhwan's gaze has left her just as a reverent hush falls over the watching crowd.

Kim Jinwoo is as stunning as they say; effeminate features but handsome, perfect nose and the wide eyes of a doll. He's dressed in a simple shirt of white linen that billows around his wrists, and pants that tuck rather haphazardly into tall brown boots. His gaze is downturned as he disembarks but it doesn't take a square look in his face to tell that he is enchantingly ethereal. His expression is distant, though; like a porcelain doll, perfect and impersonal, and that's what keeps Seunghoon standing where he is just a little longer, despite the initial urge to surge forward and-- make himself acquainted, or just say anything at all-- 

"Hyung," Jinhwan calls, and then he comes to life. As he moves towards his cousin, the corners of his mouth pull into a smile, his cheeks dimpling and a liveliness lights up his eyes, and oh--

Seunghoon doesn't even realise he's been holding his breath unless he remembers to exhale and it all comes rushing out from his lungs in a quiet rush. In three steps, he's swept in front of a guard just as she's pointed the cousins towards the path to the guest quarters; Jinhwan gives him a look of polite recognition, albeit with a note of surprise. 

"Kim Jinhwan," Seunghoon says with a curt bow, "Good to see you. And sir-- Kim Jinwoo of Imjado, yes? I believe this is our first time meeting."

He peers dimunitively up at Seunghoon. Up close, Seunghoon is taken aback by the symmetry of his face-- the shape of his mouth, curved exactly like cupid's bow, pink and gently parted and inviting. His tongue darts out to push momentarily against the inside of his bottom lip in contemplation and Seunghoon's eyes track the movement.

"Yes," he finally replies, with a slight twinge of uncertainty. His mannerisms are hesitant, straddling shyness and disinterest-- an interesting contrast to that face, handsome almost to the point of arrogance. 

"Lee Seunghoon," he smiles with a tilt of his head, offering his hand to Jinwoo, who clasps it waveringly. "Of Busan."

"I know," his acquaintance furrows his brows in an expression of mild confusion, before looking up at Seunghoon, then his cousin, then back at Seunghoon-- and startling, slightly. "I know?" he repeats, shaking their hands in an unsure rhythm.

"Sirs, this way," the staff calls, and with a click of his tongue, Jinhwan wraps his fingers around his cousin's wrist and tugs him away. 

"Thank you for the welcome." Jinhwan directs contritely at Seunghoon; and just like that they're on their way. Seunghoon stares after them, a little odd fascination building in his chest. 

Song Minho is one of Seoul's top fighters, and today he's fighting a two-on-two match against the sister duchesses from Ulleongdo. He's lost the quirky accessories he'd had on at the reception: instead of the fluffy carrot-top hat, a pair of black goggles sits atop his shock of dry hair, the the blonde-black roots fading into the hot pink that's ebbed away over the last week. The mask is gone and everyone can see his full face, broadcasted onto the big hologram screens surrounding the stadium-- it's a striking one, sharp-angled and proud, especially like this, with his eyes narrowed in focus. 

The biomes for his match are interesting: one half crackles an eerie orange-red as dark cracks zigzag through the hard black ground. Glowing lava bubbles and spits in these crevices and in disparate pools. As Seunghoon watches, a howl shrieks through the arena as a geyser erupts, billowing dust and boiling smoke right where Minho stood a second ago. 

Taeha takes the momentary distraction to make the first move, launching herself right at Minho and catching him square in his chest as he comes up from his roll away from the exploding geyser-- she digs her spear into the ground and uses her momentum to swing with him has he falls back, smashing the blunt end of her weapon into his stomach with vicious certainty. He flies right backwards and lands with a thump into a pile of snow that explodes around him in a white flurry. The other half of the arena is shrouded in ice-cold winter, barren and frozen over. Taeha's boots crunch loudly, quickly in the snow, bearing down on Minho, when the thick leather of Danah's whip slices the ground open and the still-rushing water swallows Taeha in a surge. 

"Be more careful," she smirks at her brother. Like his, her hair has been dyed, but it is a flaming shade of red and cascades wildly over her shoulders. She clutches her whip and clicks her tongue before racing off towards the Duchess Haena who approaches with a weighted net; Minho has time to roll his eyes before Taeha's hand reemerges with a splash, and she heaves herself from the water, soaked and very, very mad.

This time, Minho is ready. He fixes her with a calculating stare, and then bares his teeth and roars-- and the audience goes wild for this, they always do, when Minho reveals his fangs. Bright gold and sharp as hell, they match his gold claws. Flashy bastard, Seunghoon notes amusedly, his fangs are studded with small purple gems this year and they wink at the watching spectators as the drones zoom in for a close-up. 

Normally, he'd love to watch his friend fight, and to banter about his every little misstep in his room after. But he's distracted today by the fingers curled around the railings head of the very first row of seats-- Kim Jinwoo watches impassively, leaning over the edge, gaze fixed on the arena rather than the screens, following the four skirmishing dots and the columns of smoke and dust. Seunghoon, in turn, watches him.

Before he can think about what he's doing, Seunghoon finds his feet carrying him down the flight of steps-- no one pays him any mind, everyone far too engrossed in the excited chatter of the match. Jinwoo looks up in mild surprise when he gently bumps their shoulders. He doesn't protest, though, and Seunghoon takes it as good enough.

His hair is soft and unstyled. Seunghoon wants to reach out and touch it. Would, if he didn't feel like a truck had run him over. 

"You're awake." Jinwoo remarks, a wry smile tipping at the corners of his mouth. He wears a fluffy towel around his neck, legs bare in a pair of shorts. Seunghoon makes a pained groan that can luckily and easily be attributed to his physical state, rather than a physical response. A chuckle, and it still sounds like sunshine even through the pounding migraine. Jinwoo muses, "Who would've thought you're an egregious lightweight?"

His weight dips into the foot of the mattress and Seunghoon tries not to be distracted by Jinwoo's warmth, inches from his toes. Instead, he tries to focus on recollection the series of events that might have led him to his very moment. Reading his mind, Jinwoo folds both legs up onto the covers, pressing his palms between his thighs and leaning forward conspiratorially. "Nothing happened." he says empathetically, before breaking off into another chuckle, like he's having an inside joke with himself. "At least nothing worthy of a big scandal that would tarnish the Prince of Busan's reputation."

He tilts his head, eyes twinkling with mirth and mouth quirked into a wry smirk. "You started passing out-- your glass was still half-full, by the way. I took you back to my guestroom because I thought it might be more clandestine-- to avoid dragging an unconscious royal around." 

Seunghoon groans, cheeks heating up from the embarrassment and headache only intensity. "Thank you," he mumbles, struggling to sit upright, tugging down the corner of his crinkled dress shirt that has ridden up over his stomach. "And sorry for the trouble-- I didn't mean-- I only wanted to speak to you a little."

"You did do that," Jinwoo raises his eyebrows again, into that arrogant expression Seunghoon shouldn't be quite so fond of seeing. Then comes the lapse into shyness-- "It was nice of you." Jinwoo adds, more saccharine this time. And there it is, that duality that Seunghoon cannot quite figure out, the detachment he cannot put his finger on. 

The enigma that makes him want to push forward and oddly, Jinwoo's face or-- or-- something like that, something unbecoming. Jinwoo pushes off the bed and drapes his towel over the chair, making to finish his routine ablutions as if glossing over the disturbance of Seunghoon's presence. He pulls the nightshirt he has on over his head. Maybe it's the residual alcohol but Seunghoon stares unabashedly, at the swathe of bare skin, tanned by island sun, the dimples in his lower back. The way soft linen cascades over his spine. 

He's startled out of his reverie by Jinwoo's voice, conversational and even as he makes to tuck the front of his shirt into his pants, still faced away from Seunghoon. "Whose match is it today?" 

"Seoul," Seunghoon answers automatically. Something clicks-- "Ah, !" he exclaims, and Jinwoo's face twists into questioning surprise. 

Sheepishly, Seunghoon explains. "My friend, a friend is fighting. If he wins he'll make it to the last round."

"With you," Jinwoo nods in understanding. He gestures to the mirror propped against the wall now. "You'd better go then. You look--"

"Yeah," Seunghoon laughs. "Yeah, I know." 

Jinwoo's smile doesn't look quite so crooked or strained his time, when he pushes Seunghoon's dismally crumpled suit jacket into his arms and clicks his room door closed.

A loud splat.

Then another. And another. And another. 

A shadow casts itself over Seunghoon and there's a shrill whistle of wind as the dead drone tears through the sky and rockets right towards his head-- 

He smashes it away with a solid, crushing punch and it careens violently sideways where it lands with a screeching clank by the roots of a gnarled tree. 

The drones. The drones are all down. 

Dread creeping up his veins, Seunghoon bites into his palm, impulsive, and a little bit wild, and his teeth sink into the flesh-- not enough to tear or to hurt but they shouldn't have at all, no, the forcefield of the artifical damage counter should've prevented real contact. Which means--

The arena's been shut down--

So they're all stranded in the jungle space marked out as the arena for the third round, a battle royale type finale tricked out with all sorts of traps and structures; without supervision of the medics and technicians-- and the audience gathered back at the mainland to watch the tournament must be staring in wild confusion at a out screen. 

Seunghoon feels the same sort of turmoil. An error as huge as this has never happened before, and he hadn't thought that it was possible. He gazes up into the dark sky-- surely his competitors have all noticed the situation, and if he could find them, and they could all gather-- perhaps by daytime there would be updates or at least a team sent over to retrieve them. They're only about an hour away, but the fog is high tonight and they'll need to wait for the sun to rise.

Unless--

The arena's been cut off.

The trees to his left explode into a tornado of flames and he takes a sharp dive to the right, hair whipping to life and launching him way out of range with practised dexterity. It's when the rocks start hurtling at him that he realises it. 

This is an ambush. 

The blood splatters into the mud-- splotchy darkened patches in the ground, Seunghoon tastes the hot iron on his tongue and wipes it off his chin hastily with the back of his hand--

His braids seize around a fist, Seunghoon twists violently and his attacker wrenches back, as does Seunghoon, desperate to put distance between them. He takes off on his feet. If he could just find one of the others-- if he could just find Minho--

--he fights nothing like how he looks. All brute force, merciless, just staggering, inordinate power-- like waves, and with all the strength of the ocean when the ground Seunghoon is standing on shatters--

Cursing, Seunghoon leaps into the night, his hair like tentacles catapulting him into the bushy foliage of an awaiting tree, then like vines, swinging him from branch to branch deeper and deeper into the forest; the silver against his skin burns hot with electricity. 

Ruins come into sight, a tangle of brick and overgrown foliage, and he lands with a crunch into some slippery moss. The air is still for a second; Seunghoon sinks into a squat and holds his breath. 

With a deafening crash, the wall tears apart at the seams, cement splintering and bricks sent flying, ripped apart like nothing more than tissue paper

Wind whistling as he dives into a forward roll, bands on his fingers buzzing to life-- his hair splitting into dark tendrils in a poised web above his head for all of a millisecond before there is a horrific snap as his neck is yanked back with enough force to choke the air out his lungs.

He whips through the air and through the ground in a grating arc, knees carving into the dirt and he finally comes to a stop keeled sideways. Gasping, he heaves, propped up and all his weight on one arm. His mouth is gritty with soil. His head feels too light.

Blunt ends fall into his line of sight. They wash softly in choppy lengths over his cheeks. 

"Seunghoon, was it?" 

Black hair wisps around his pale fingers, strands unravelling like ribbons as they float merrily into the wind, ripped right off Seunghoon's head. The silver rings tinkle like chimes into the loamy earth. 

Jinwoo's beautiful mouth tips into a serene smile. "I'm going to need you to hand that to me."