Seoul, Korea

 

Name: Kim Jongin

 

Age: 18

 

Gender: Male

 

---

 

"From the top!" Hats bobbed as they ran through the routine once more."Jongin!" 

 

"Yes?" 

 

"What are you doing here? Get to the studio now! You're going to be late, they need their things!" 

 

He bowed, nodding his head. Jongin swallowed. He swallowed his annoyance. He swallowed his pride, his impatience, and he swallowed his smirk. Gathering up the thick leather jackets and heavily scented coats of SHINee, he slipped into a small closet. Crouching his lean form to not touch any of the cleaning equipment, he took a deep breath. 

 

Big mistake. 

 

A scent of putrid eggs and lemon cleaning disinfectant entered his nose. He coughed. 

 

"Hello?," he froze, the voice crept closer. "Is anyone in there?"

 

Jongin took a deep breath, silently. He ignored the scent, tried to clean his mind. His hands clutched the jackets tightly. He could do it, he had done it before. It was a miracle, Jongin knew it was now or never. He won't bump into such luck again, not with his record. Or lack thereof. He knew his barely-there memory wouldn't last as a job resume. It had been pure fate when he had woken above the roof of the car of the record label owner. To prevent rumours, he was offered a job. That fated meeting four months prior had given him nothing but a blank memory and a long measly chain. He frowned.

 

"Have you seen Kim Jongin or Kai?," a low timbre questioned outside the door. The reeking of rotten eggs suffocated him. Jongin held his breath, rational fear dotted his brain. The name Kai had been littered in his dreams, one that seem to just feel right. He had not told anyone, who was there to tell? He froze, his hand poised at the door. 

 

What if it was someone of his past? To look for him? His hand reached to touch the dulled doorknob to pull it open when a voice interrupted the action. 

 

"You don't know him." A low growl, almost animalistic. "I'm sorry."

 

Bang.

 

Jongin froze. What that a gun shot? It couldn't be, he was sure, he was just delusional. Although the slump of a body and screaming confirmed his thoughts. Several shots fired. Jongin wanted to burst open the door when he reached into his pocket, a weighted penchant, the same he had tossed into the couch of his motel before he had arrived. It weighed in his hand meaningfully. He took a deep breath, he could do it. 

 

He was selfish. Yet, he bore no guilt. They were looking for him, he assured himself, they wouldn't hurt anyone else. 

 

With that, he vanished. 

 

The cupboard was opened. A trio of men lead an air of sulphur and metallic rouge into the room. They turned, "Let's go. They are going to arrive." 

 

Two hours away, Kim Jongin stepped outside the closet. Much to the workers surprise as he stood, in huge midst of the large shopping centre. He then raced towards a pawn shop, effectively ridding him of those wretched jackets with a hefty sum in return. Jongin tugged on his - formerly Taemin's - tweed jacket and paused in his steps. 

 

He sat on a nearby bench, his head between his hands. They died. He could feel it in his bones. Could I have saved them? The voices danced his mind, the way he had dreamed of moving. Haunting. Taunting. But I just left.

 

I just left then to die.

 

Jongin cried out. The shoppers eyed him with distaste and worry, he did not care. The sobs wracked his body silently, he tried to remember the face of his boss, the kind man whom had given him a home for the four conscious months of his memory. Or the secretary whom he had always knew had a crush on him, the one that brought him coffee claiming to have won the roll up; he had always spied her ordering two. 

 

No tears shed as his throat burned. A dog barked, Jongin quickly stood, he scanned the park roughly and rubbed his eyes. 

 

Shrugging his shoulders, he stepped outside. The wind danced about, a terrible nostalgia of the lemon and sulphur that had tinged the air. He turned. Before he took a step into the oncoming traffic, Jongin vanished.  

 

He stood beside a large oak tree, the season was cold. It was bare, and somehow, Jongin felt kinship towards the lonesome creature. He stood to the right of the tree, then not a moment later, at the end of the bench. A twitch of his mouth, he was atop the lowest branch, perched like a bird awaiting it's flight. Jongin jumped, only to flash away and land twenty feet behind. 

 

It had almost brought a laugh to his face, he realized. He had a power. 

 

A small silver camera of a low tech phone peeked from the bushes twenty eight meters away. Jongin continued to practice to his desire, the boy crouched behind the tree patted his dog to simmer the excited pup down. His eyes wide and eager, curiosity feeding the footage as he laid upon the thin layer of frost. 

 

Jongin spotted a piece of floating paper in there air, he shrugged. Reappearing at the garbage even farther from his starting point. The paper still rolled about the ground. He eyed the distance of the tree and that of the shopping mall, which was a large structure sitting to the mouth of the park. Closing his eyes, he vanished. 

 

Jongin smiled brilliantly as he stepped out of the closet of the large market, he missed the scowl of the woman who he had bumped into before. He slid into the men's room, before appearing behind the park. Beneath his feet, pinned a piece of paper. 

 

His breathed caught, as if finally remembering the weighed penchant on his chest. The neatly detailed sketches of twelve logos, he assumed, placed neatly across the simple paper. Thin pen had been used, and cross stitching as Jongin the shapes. Eyeing the matched one of his penchant, he realized he wasn't as lonely as he thought. 

 

The boy stood and brushed off the dust. Realizing his phone was dead, and the man had not come back. And probably won't, again. His pup peeked up and barked, a scent tinted the air as both turned towards the silent crunching of leaves beneath feet. 

 

"Hello," he slid his phone away from view. "Sehun, right?"