Lies were pretty things, Jongin had always thought. The way a true wordsmith could weave and twist words to ease another's pain, or crush their, will was in his opinion, beautifully devastating. He admired those who could spin a tale so farfetched it was akin to a myth, yet make it seem as normal as sitting down to listen to the news in the evening. It was only inevitable, really, that he would meet someone whose lies spiraled and tangled around themselves, in such a way that Jongin really couldn't tell if it was a protective

wall or a prison. And it was certain, that when he did meet them, nothing would go as planned.