He knows Mino is suffering and he knows Mino lives in a world of puzzles and a disorientated mind. Taehyun never know that his hyun would be brave enough to run away, though. Hatred filled the ridges of his knuckles at first, spiralling into his mind. He wants to leave too. He wants to hold on to the older boy and with him, slug their way through the murkiness of an idol's life. Then he remembers it was Mino who was affected the most. (It's always the ones who want to do good, he thinks.)

He listens to Mino's thoughts late at night. He pulls up the laptop, browsing through the unreleased tracks. Shudders wave over his body at the darkness emanating from the powerful words. He feels as though Mino (and everyone else's) mind is enraptured by the invisible handcuffs, binding them to their contract. His hands move to his neck, soothing out the intertwined muscles, trying to relax himself. He wishes his hands would work through the kinks of his life, too, but a singer's hands are always stained with blood red expectations. Sleep does not come easy and he falls into a pool of depressing lyrics.

Taehyun understands the pain. His smiles are fake, twisted to please the women. His body used to lure them in and keep them in a cycle of desire; his face: the poster boy of an innocent lust.  sells, claims his manager, but he wants to pull a blanket over his head and drown himself in conservativeness. This is not who he is, never who he wanted to become. He used to daydream about the life of an idol, but now that he is here; he would do anything to tear off this fake mask and walk away. He wants to hide, to escape to a surreal landscape of his own belief's. An enigma, that's what they claim he is. Take him apart, but you would never be able to piece him back together again.

He hates being the youngest, to one all the girls scream for. He hates hearing the fans cry for their oppa, commending him when he actually does his fanservice. He is deaf to the physical negativities, but not to death himself. The phone calls are coming in. His phone is lighting up but his head in his hands. He keeps wishing he could just tear the phone apart. Are the voices really there? He barely moves his limbs but the shrieks are alreading streaming in through the screen. Radioactive voices telling him what he has done, as though his thoughts are not punishment enough. The caller's identity glares at him, forcing him to swallow his pride. 

Song Mino calling.