There are no words for the day Kyungsoo meets fate—merely the hushed silence of wind and the haunting afterglow of history; the constant throbbing near his wrist and the rapid decease of heartbeat.

Only, Kyungsoo’s fate isn’t death.

Quite the contrary, his fate is strung out in carefully plotted lines of life.

And Kyungsoo breathes in stale air, realising that he is trapped in an endless circle of despair mismatched against the beauty of landscape:

“I-I would never…” he starts.

“Actually, you would. You would even tear me limb from limb—if that meant a glimpse of freedom.”

“N-no… You’re wrong.”

The dainty fingerprints left behind in an attempted suicide—they now burn brighter than his guilt; so there are no more sentences after, only hacked sighs and precise tears.

But Jongin is right—he is always right.

Because Kyungsoo is so perfectly predictable against the pages of his story. And behind those innocent eyes lay the demeaning glare of childlike wonder—curiosity that never managed to kill the cat.

Kyungsoo is like that—constructing lies and feigning purity; unholy rituals and avoiding accusations.