He could smell dozens of cravings pollute the air. They were like the scent of flowers, and he, a visitor in a greenhouse – but the hungry aroma was everything but pleasant, soothing, and sweet. It nauseated him. It sickened him, because he wanted to feed as much as the others did, but he couldn’t, he had to be responsible, he had to control himself.

It was tougher to bear because he had been drinking pills for two years, and the continuous use of pills can elevate one’s lust for a pulse. He felt the racing heartbeats when an arm would brush his own or when a person’s shoulder would bump into his. They resonated with life, and naturally, he wanted it: that life. That fragile, breakable existence.

He needs to escape, but he forces himself to stay. This is practice, he reminds himself. He watches them coexist in a manner of dancing. It would be beautiful if he didn’t see the few people that had been dragged away to the corners of a room by those untamed creatures. He hates them. He envies them.

“When will you let yourself enjoy your life?”

Sehun pores over the Tender’s question. There are so many ways a word can be interpreted. He was never an advocate for ambiguity; he liked clear and concise. But common phrases are used carelessly. Even he is guilty of it. Sentences such as “I’m fine” or “Have a good day” were words he used at least ten times a week when he was still a man who could hear the world ‘life’ and reply that yes, he did have it, and that was his to use.

What he has now isn’t life. What he has isn’t living. He has read it in books, seen it in movies, heard it in people’s conversations that the human race is always attempting to draw the line between living and life. Yet to him, there is no difference. They are both laughable dreams.

To him, there is only the state of suspension. It is that feeling a man receives when a harness is his only savior, when a tightrope is his only assurance, and when a view is his only encouragement. To Sehun, his pills are his refuge.

Where are they now? He checks his pockets and waits to hear the inviting sound of the pills clacking against the plastic bottle, but his fingers touch nothing but lint and empty space. He must have left it on the counter.

Sehun turns around to retrieve it when he collides with a young lady. He had been so engrossed in moving forward that he had momentarily forgotten to stay mindful of his surroundings, and as a result, he meets the woman from the alley for the third time.

She recognizes him, of course, but Sehun, being distracted, pushes her shoulder to make a clear pathway.

“Wait!” She calls. Her fingers broach his shirt. He doesn’t stop. “Wait. Hold on. I think I know you.”

Sehun stomps through the crowd. His head is pounding, and his resolve is weakening. He is losing himself.

Those pills. He needs them.

“Wait!”

She grabs his arm and jars him. Angry, he glares at her, and she immediately releases him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Sehun turns around and bursts into the bar. Heaving as if he had been running, he approaches the seat he abandoned and snatches his pills.

“Are you okay?” The Tender asks.

Hands quivering, Sehun uncaps the bottle and pops three pills into his mouth. He holds his hand out. The Tender gives him a glass of wine. After several large gulps, Sehun sits down and sets his head on the counter. With his fingers, he counts the time. When the effects subside, he lifts his head.

“You’re hurting yourself, doing that.”

A tiny smile is seen on Sehun’s lips. “That’s the point, Tender.”

“Excuse me.”

It’s the woman.

Sehun wants nothing to do with her. Everything about her irritates him, from the glossy sheen on her bottom lip to the sparkling, fearful hesitation in her dark brown irises. She acts as if she knows him. Perhaps Sehun has met her before, but he can’t remember – he hardly cares to memorize faces.

“You’re the one, aren’t you?” She asks. “I was with my boyfriend. We were arguing, and you were there.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You punched him,” she says. Why is he pretending to have forgotten what happened? “That was you, I know it was.”

“I don’t know.” Sehun hooks his coat over his arm and stands up.

In a burst of desperate confusion, she shouts, “He died that day.”

Sehun stops. The low vibration of conversation that had rumbled around the bar completely disappears. There are only eyes, on him; minds, on him; mouths, about him. He doesn’t like it.

“It was on the news,” she continues. “He was found in that alley.”

“Are you blaming me?” Sehun asks.

She steps back. “No,” she denies. “I wanted to tell you not to worry. I wasn’t sure if you saw the news, but I didn’t want you to think that what you did made him like that. He’s an addict, and a drunkard. His death had nothing to do with you. I just … I wanted to tell you that.”

She’s assuring him, yet Sehun doesn’t feel comforted. He doesn’t remember. He truly, doesn’t remember. Sometimes, his body does things when his mind isn’t present. Had he gone out again that night? Had he mauled the man in his dreams?

His body is shaking. If possible, it’s even colder than before.

“Maybe I did.”

“What?” She asks.

“Maybe I did. Maybe it was me.” He stares at her. She can barely look at him. His eyes drive fear into her heart. It’s as if, over and over, he is drilling a stake into her chest.

“It wasn’t.” But Sehun can hear it – the doubt in her voice.

“Sehun.” The Tender calmly wipes the counter. “You should go.”

Sehun glances at the girl, and then he nods. Without looking at her again, he leaves the bar.

Himchan thinks that a feeling such as 'embarrassment' should never be associated with him. His confidence is at a height that rivals the line of pride. His self-assuredness is so strong that no matter how humiliating a situation, he is able to smile with dignity.

But that woman had made him feel like a child. He hadn't felt so easily knocked down since the morning of the day he changed. Perhaps it's his altered perspective that's given him a new mind; or perhaps it's the blood that took from and gave to him his new identity.

Himchan doesn't want to see her ever again. That's what he thinks, but his mind betrays him when it conjures dreams at night and thoughts of her in the day. He's sure that, in a normal circumstance, he wouldn't desire her; but his life has been far from normal since the birth certificate of a 'privilege' on his neck.

He'll have to conquer a woman like that at another time.

She was so sure about how he died that he didn't have the courage to tell her his conception of the truth. He wanted her to understand, but her understanding would lead to his unraveling, and he had to protect himself. Sure, that was partly the Tender's job, but if Sehun didn't put in any effort, then the world would turn a lot more complicated.

He forgets, at times, the things he can do. He's been in this state for so long that by now, he should be accustomed to his abilities, yet he still finds that he can't restrain himself when he acts extemporaneously.

He killed a man once. That was an accident, too. He had just turned into the beast he is now and had to learn, through that situation, one of the things he could do. The man was arguing with another man about a topic Sehun can't recall. When the other man blew his fuse, he punched him. It turned into a knot of several men as more people joined the fray. Sehun was pushed into the chaos. He watched as the men shouted and hit each other like children. Caught in the fire of the moment, Sehun had decided to contribute to the trading of punches.

The man had fallen down so quickly that it seemed as if a navel dropped from the ground and hit his head. The fighting ceased. The man wasn't dead just then, but he was holding his head. Sehun could see that he was internally bleeding, and that's when he understood - the infliction was inside. He didn't hurt people like normal people could. He hurt them where a human hand alone could not breach. 

He ran before he had to face the consequence.

He hasn't recklessly touched anybody since then. That man from the alley had urged his conscience. Yet despite the righteousness he laid down, his mind is in turmoil because of it. 

And he can still feel that woman's touch on his arm. Her life lingers and clings to his skin like a tattoo. It hurts, but it's the most pleasantly numb pain he has felt in a long time. 

Sehun scratches the feeling away from his arm. He can't keep the residue of her touch on his body. He might turn soft, and he doesn't want that. 

The last time he turned soft, he became like this. 

He has a scent she can distinguish wherever she goes, as if his existence is colored red while all others are colored back. But she's seen halves like him before. She doesn't understand why he's more fragrant than the rest. 

She attempts to deny her interest, but her body knows the truth. She had constantly met him halfway. The alley. The club. Even the cafe, where she stayed across the street and watched him sit by the window with an impatiently expectant face. 

He's so reluctant. She wants to force him to accept everything, but reiterating information is useless without belief. If he doesn't believe, he won't be convicted. He'll remain as he is - a conniving, pompous player with no insight to life but that it will never, ever end. 

She understands. And because she is like him, she hates him. 

She hopes he'll find her again so she can tell him that. 

"How long have you been single?"

Himchan has never considered himself to be in a committed relationship. Although he's dated so many girls that he doesn't bother to learn names, he answers, "Too long to count."

The girl giggles. She raises the glass of champagne to her lips, then smiles at him with her fake gray eyes. "Me too. My last boyfriend was one year ago."

"You're afraid to be in a relationship, aren't you?" Himchan asks. "Because you don't want to be hurt again."

Her eyes widen. He has her. "Yes."

"I know how that feels."

She leans forward. "You do?"

Himchan nods. "But there are times you have to take a chance in life. Like now. I'll take that chance right now."

He can see the flush in her cheeks. "R-really?"

He smiles. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Are you going to try? With me?"

She sighs blissfully. "Yes." She scoots nearer to him. "Yes, I want to." She kisses him. She is a good kisser, he supposes, but her lipstick is bitter, and she's being too eager. 

He's worked on this girl for two months. In that time, he's gained valuable information regarding her father's company, which he can use to forward his cafe enterprise. This is the of his show - after the kiss is the reward in which he allows himself to indulge, and then he will push her away to find another business deal. 

But she was too easy, and he finds he's disgusted; not only with her, but with himself. 

He stands up. She grabs his hand. 

"Where are you going?"

"I'm tired of this."

"We don't have to do anything now. I can wait."

He pushes her against the couch and murmurs, "What you're willing to give me is something I can get any time, any where, from any one. You aren't special to me. You aren't a chance I want to take. I'm tired of playing you." 

He exits her apartment and straightens the collar of his shirt.