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By the outstanding @SUBK00

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Those heart-hammering nightmares that start to lose coherence even as you’re waking up from them, but that still manage to leave their moldering fingerprints all across your day.

-Mike Carey 

A shallow breath cuts down Jimin’s throat, chilly midnight air rousing him. His eyes have already been open, but as he becomes aware of his surroundings, he realizes he’s crouching in the middle of an unknown road under a streetlamp. The thick darkness is all-consuming, veiled and blurring round the edges from where the streetlamp’s light doesn’t touch. There’s something crusted under his fingernails and something warm and wet around his mouth. 

When he wills himself to stop squinting past the cloak of night for any comprehension, he finds himself looking down at his blood-covered hands. The air rushes out of him as sharp as unsheathing a sword. His hands begin to tremble, and his horrified eyes stare down at the crimson-red substance seeping into the creases of his pale palms. 

What’s crusted under his nails is dry blood; the freshly maimed body lying underneath Jimin probably isn’t the first. Jimin's first instinct is to scream at the sight of the mangled corpse, to cry out bloody murder, but his woes catch in his dry throat—he’s still thirsty. 

Where is the murderer, are they nearby? Jimin certainly couldn't have done this. Jimin would never hurt anyone, he is a Korean literature professor, his mindset is to educate and enrich life not take it away. He’s too much of a meek person to have the courage to maim, he hardly has the courage to ask out the guy he likes. 

"Ahh," Jimin's voice comes back to him thickly husked. It's a groan more than a scream but it’s all he can muster at the moment as he looks past his hands that tremor as violent as an earthquake and down to the body he is crouching over. It was now more than ever that Jimin wished his curtain of bangs would fall into his eyes to obscure the grotesque view. 

The victim was probably handsome like any young man, but with his face twisted in a horrendous, frozen state of death, no one could be found elegant. His eyes are wide and bright, yet devoid of life, like a doll with glass buttons for eyes. And his mouth hangs open with laxity, lips pale to the point where Jimin couldn’t tell if they were full or thin from the way they blend in with his cold skin.  

But the horror keeps getting bloodier as Jimin’s gaze travels lower; he feels like retching. This man’s throat is ripped open as if an animal had sunk its teeth into him, ravenously tearing the flesh. Whatever did this couldn’t be human, lacking mercy in the eyes of the tender death.

His blood pools around them on the black cement, and Jimin is crouching in it, drowning in it. 

He reaches up to touch what wetness was around his mouth, trailing his lips with a trembling finger before he looks back down to his hand. He can't tell if it’s the blood on his hands from before or if there is blood on his mouth too.  

He’s taking quick, shallow breaths, making his head fuzzy as his entire body wracks with trembles, panic ringing in his mind loud as a police siren. 

"No...no" Jimin gasps, falling back into the blood as his legs give out. His eyes widen as tears prickle from the spectacle of what he's now fully sitting in. 

There’s someone screaming in a long, high-pitched shriek that never breaks for breath, it's distant in Jimin’s ringing ears, but he thinks it might be himself. 

He tries to escape the pool of blood, tries to scramble out of it, but his arms have lost their strength, his legs are heavy and useless. And in the back of his mind, he hears a purr, something sensually slurred and satiated. 

Jimin drags himself away with his elbows and fingernails, tears splashing down his face while his army crawl drags blood streaks down the pavement like a dry paintbrush against canvas. He clamps his mouth shut; his shrieks are letting the wetness around his mouth ooze in against his tongue. He can taste it, the blood, the metallic sweetness.  

I didn't do this.  

He can’t remember any of this; he doesn't remember leaving his apartment and going—wherever he is now. What a crucial moment to have a blackout.

Vaguely, a memory surfaced, he did blackout the other day when he was being mugged—at least that's what he thought happened.

Jimin is a blubbering mess against the cement, feebly dragging himself out of the street. He never felt lonelier than in this moment, desperately needing someone's help, someone to pick him up and save him from whatever is lurking in the shadows that tore the poor man apart. Someone to cradle him and tell him everything was going to be okay. 

"HELP MEEE!" Jimin cries, though his voice is lost in the deafening silence around him.  

Where am I?  

How did I get here?  

I want to go home.  

I need to go home.  

After hours of dazed wandering—or minutes, Jimin lost his sense of time and direction—he finds himself staggering through the door without his coat, having shed it long ago to get rid of some of the blood-soaked garments, it doesn’t feel like home.  

The worst feeling is being home, but still yearning to go home. 

His panic hadn't muted on the trek home, only amplified because he hadn’t known the way to his apartment from that unfamiliar place, yet somehow, he’s here. Some compass within him was guiding the way home.  

Jimin’s delirious, and the claustrophobic walls that now surround him do nothing to help. His body is moving faster than his mind can comprehend, he can see three of his hands instead of one. The lamp that hangs from the ceiling by that rusty chain is swinging like a helicopter’s propellers. The light that runs around the room is as disorienting as a strobe light, spinning around him and twisting his stomach into knots.  

Staggering to the bathroom, Jimin bangs into walls and knocks framed pictures down to shatter against the ground in his stupor.  

He turns on the sink faucet and runs the freezing water on full, hoping the water pressure won't fail him tonight. 

It does.  

Coming out in a slow flow, it’s a soft babble compared to his ragged gasps for breath. He’s disheveled as he sloshes the gentle water around his hands, rusty blood draining out of view. He starts rubbing the cold water up his arms, but it’s not enough to get the stickiness from his skin. He feels it seeping into his pores with unconscious guilt of something he’s not sure of.  

He wishes he could peel off his flesh, to discard the sponge of blood and start fresh by cleaning what minimal muscle is under.  

The red tar isn’t leaving his skin easily, his blood-soaked lips part for broken cries to pipe out with all the uncanny strength of his clenching diaphragm. Jimin spins on the slick, wet tile descrying how much of the water he has splashed out of the sink bowl to the bathtub behind him.  

He drops to his knees with an aching pound and twists the tub’s faucet on, waiting for it to sputter to a start before clean water gushes out. He’s praying this forceful pressure will satisfy him and rid the pungent stench faster. He dreads that instead of a pelting hot shower, he’s going to be soaking in a bath of blood. But that comes with renting a derelict apartment in the slum of the district. 

Water gushes out of both faucets now and Jimin tries to think of waterfalls and calm blue oceans to force the victim's face out from behind his eyelids. He shortly resolves to deter the opposite faucet from running out of muscle memory. But a worse imagery emanates when he glances up to the mirror above the sink. 

It's a glass representation of Jimin.  

Except, something monstrous mingles bright gleeful mischief in its eyes. The puppy-dog curve has sharpened into serpent-slits, keen as daggers. In the reflection, a sneering grin plays on its innocently guilt-tainted lips. It licks its fingertip as if the remaining blood is icing on a cake. 

Jimin careens his finger out of his mouth, terrified out of his mind from a delusion reflecting that part of him that feels giddy and full. 

What is happening to me?  

He doesn't think, thinking is impossible now, because everything seems illogical. He doesn't peel off his clothes before lowering into the glacial water that’s quickly filling the tub. It’s numbing, and the numb is good. He desperately doesn’t want to feel.  

Jimin hugs himself tightly, knees brought up to his chest, squeezing his arms around them in an effort to hold his trembling and shivers down; scared he will shatter like bone china if he doesn’t. The water soaking him is clouded red.  

Jimin remembers sitting in that pool of blood again.  

And now he really is drowning in it, sinking under the overflowing tub. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Three months later…  

“Alright, I’m here today with a Seoul police officer, Kim Taehyung, who is on the task force investigating the Phantom of Yongsan. We’re on the morning news podcast after the egregious tragedies that are becoming a recurring affair these past few months. These missing cases and homicides have been consecutively occurring almost every night for the past three months. It seems that these devastating fatalities are happening under the cover of night and though the issue of placing a curfew is under review by the Mayor, the people are protesting against this caution. What are your thoughts on that, Officer Kim?”  

“Well, as a young man myself, I understand the restlessness and want to indulge in the events that happen after work hours. But as a member of the task force, seeing the horrific nature of the victim’s remains, my first instinct is to protect the people of Seoul and to strive for what is in our best interest. These homicides are random. This serial killer is plucking people off the streets at will. It could be anyone next, a friend, your mother, your wife. We must think of the greater good and protect ourselves.”  

“Interesting. So you admit that this is no gang? But one, a serial killer? With all the deaths, you would think a single murderer would not have the stamina to slaughter every night. They also seem to be very elusive to be able to keep the public in the dark, and the police too. Do you think this is a failure on your part? Are the police feeling any guilt about not having any suspects at this time? You’re the youngest member in the task force at age twenty-six. Do you believe yourself to be unfit or too inexperienced for the job?”  

“I have provided as much headway into this investigation as any other member of the team. My age is irrelevant. There is little trace this serial killer leaves, but there is always a misstep that we can follow. But with this being our first public statement, we are solely here to bring our condolences and commiserate with the victim’s families. My team and I grieve with the families that have lost their loved ones. We care deeply for our people, and we are doing everything in our ability to find this… this monster. We will not rest until they are behind bars and our city is safe once more.  

“And though it is easy to say I am too young for the job, I am not. I have received criticism for this from the public and several of my superiors, but I have contributed my fair share in the department over the past few years. It holds a rookie-record, so I’m confident my position is well-fit and deserved, sir.”  

“I see, that’s good. We all need a leader right now to show us that there will be light after this dark tunnel. Though, the public opinion is divided at the moment of whether to follow your words of reassurance or to disregard them. What would happen if a panic outbreak happened within Seoul? Will it become a perfect storm?”  

“We are doing the best we can under these circumstances. There is immense pressure to find this serial killer before the ink can dry on paper, and without error. But there are only so many threads to tie together at the moment. After forensic examinations, we have discovered that the victims all connect having the same type of aphrodisiac in the place of their wounds. But this aphrodisiac is something we cannot connect to any chemical drug, because it is something organic, as if injected like a snake’s venom... almost. It’s not human, but it’s not an animal, because the cells are dead. They are frozen in what seems to be a preservative, and we only have minutes with the samples before they…”  

“They what?”  

“The cells, from what I’ve been told by the forensics in my department, they, um, evaporate, become dust that is unreadable and unidentifiable. We have ten to fifteen minutes to examine before the samples we collected from the victim turn to fine dust that evaporates into the air from exposure. It seems like they are a new type of zombie cell, they feed off the living cells of the victim even after they are deceased, but when extracted from a host they dissipate.”  

“Does this mean we are dealing with, maybe, a supernatural element that has yet to be discovered?”  

“No. Conspiracy is not encouraged in times like these. The cause of this asphordiac venom may well be a new drug on the market that our scientists have not seen yet. We are relying on our best teams for this case. We have leads, not based on DNA because the killer does not match any of the profiles that are in our system seeing as it is… irregular. But we have a few sightings and footage from CCTV cameras near the homicides that we are going through and evaluating at this time.”  

“Well, thank you for your time today officer Kim. The public has been eager to hear the current situation from the police, as of now. We are all mourning the loss of our fellow peers and the sooner we find this killer, the sooner we can fully pay our respects and find closure for our lost loved ones. We hope to hear the conclusion of this case in the following month, when we see officer Kim as our guest again. Until then, stay indoors after dusk, lock your doors, and your windows. Stay safe. This is Kim Seokjin, see you next time.”  

Jimin sighs, taking out his headphones and carelessly wrapping them around his phone. The world seems to have created an apex parasite this time, that not even the police can control—not that the police ever had a chance to begin with. They have always been lacking in areas the people needed them the most. They wouldn’t even show up if there was a shove in at someone’s home, only write down the report and file it away. As a child, he wanted to become a police officer, now he just cringes at the thought. 

He had filed a police report once, a little more than three months ago, and was written off entirely. The whole experience of going to the police department personally and filing it was an ordeal that he never wished to do again. To be in the room full of detainees, all big burly men aged with the narcissistic lines set deep in their brows. They looked at Jimin like a cat did a mouse. This wild look in their eyes like they were not entirely there. 

He had only been there for a mugging case, and a weak case at that. One that gave no leads or ideas other than a big man with dark hair and mask.

In retrospect, over the last few months the blackouts and dissociation seem familiar in an unsettling way. He had blacked out when he was being mugged—or at least that’s what he thought had happened. He’d been utterly terrified as a man twice his size pushed him against an alley wall, cornering him and rendering him helpless. Jimin is small, and he put up little fight, what else could he do against any serious threat? What was worse than being deficient in strength and size was his way of handling the situation. He blacked out. Completely vulnerable to whatever the mugger wanted from him.

By the time he came to, he felt like a guardian angel had been watching over him. Jimin wasn’t damaged in any serious way. There was a sore on his neck that throbbed, but nothing life-threatening. He was as pale as a ghost too, like he might’ve died, but he blamed it on the aftermath of the event. 

Jimin’s class promptly starts in less than thirty minutes and he hasn’t gone over the growing stack of papers that need to be graded on his desk. That’s the most important thing now, yes, be a cog and disassociate empathy for all the people dying at the hands of a monster.  

Since he was little, academics have always been his life. He's always wanted his parents to be proud of him, actively searched for their approval in every subject, but their expectations for their son only got higher and higher.  

He was top of his class, class president, and valedictorian, but more was never enough. In high school, he found himself easily slipping into the routine of completing future assignments until he skipped a grade, then continued working at this pace, so he could finish early. He felt too young to be graduating at sixteen, already stepping foot into Uni. He is too young. Finishing college at twenty-one then, entering a five-year master’s and Ph.D. program which he completed at twenty-six. He made himself invaluable to the department, which forced them to offer him a position as a professor.  

It was an ungodly amount of work that occupied all of his time, going straight home after class, and studying all night. He didn't have time for friends or high school sweethearts, it was only school, grades, and studying for the next class to come. 

Jimin is the youngest one in the faculty, and that is the source of this extra work. His colleagues are piling on the workload and waiting till he snaps, and he fears he already has. That night three months ago has become ingrained in his mind. It’s his every waking thought and plagues every dream. 

Except, the nightmare changes. The victims in his morbid fantasies blur together. The circumstances differ, and the setting shifts to somewhere new. The nightmare is never the same, but it all ends in red.  

Though recently there are moments where he can breathe again, not jump whenever he sees himself in the mirror. These moments are spent with Namjoon, the sweet little librarian in building A. They’re both taciturn, mostly soft whispers of where a book is or if he has a recommendation for this subject is what their exchanges consist of now. 

But the smile Namjoon gives Jimin when offering his hand of help, he feels the warm glowing sun raining down on him again, like he is no longer lost within the shadows. 

Students have filled the majority of the empty seats in front of Jimin, and though it may be a little early to begin, early is his expectation for his students. He isn't going to be taken for granted by students who are uninterested about the subject or don’t acknowledge the days he has put in for preparing his lectures and course materials. He understands his students have lives, but this is his life.  

His job is to reach every student and watch that light turn on, and by god he will, even for the students in the back scrolling on their phone. 

Jimin straightens the tight collar of his white button-up shirt, rubbing the sore side of his neck where a few months ago he had two needle pinpricks, pus weeping and swollen. He thinks they might’ve been bug bites, but do bug bites leave blue bruises?  

The peculiar thing is how symmetrical the little scars are now.  

He stands from his seat, pulling down the rust herringbone tweed suit Jacket and the vest underneath to smooth out the wrinkles from his long sitting. The attention is all on him now, eyes weighing him down and he swears he hears their hearts drumming in orchestra.  

It dries his tongue. 

Calling the class for their weekly quiz, Jimin begins the cycle again. Class, grading, and preparing for the next class to begin. 

After his three classes, an hour and a half each, split into a forty-minute lecture then workshop, he feels just a little more drained than yesterday. He's tired, and the days are dragging on, passing him by in the blink of an eye.  

Jimin is starting to hate this groove he's gotten into for the past year. It's dull, and he feels like a cog in the machine, laying the foundations of the rest of his dreadful life. And once again, it leaves him no time to be young; he’s in his twenties, still without actual friends, not living his life to the fullest, not sowing his wild oats.  

With all the hours he puts in, community, office, class, he's not paid enough for his efforts. Jimin’s time and effort is never good enough. It's always been that way. It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does now. 

Luckily, it's Thursday, and he has already put in his office hours for the week. The office hours are usually the slowest part of his day, students don't usually come in often looking for help from him. It's disappointing to Jimin, he likes to help, he wants his students to care enough about his lecture to ask for his help. 

Jimin gathers his personal belongings from his desk, as well as taking the pile of papers needing to be graded from the tray, all shoving them into his floral print messenger bag. His shoulder aches as he slips the strap of his bag over it, scrunching his nose as the weight of things he needs to do actually weighs him down. 

He has this silent agreement with the nightshift librarian in building A, they meet at 6pm on Mondays and Thursdays and small talk about books. Those are the best times of Jimin's boring life. Being in a library helps mask his usually hushed tone to the librarian, Namjoon. He has a bit of a dreamy crush on him.  

Namjoon is smoldering enough with how tall and filled out he is, but Jimin thinks Namjoon could have been a model or something, he’s just that handsome. And he's sweet too. Politely shushing people when the volume climbs, offers help and book recommendations with a genuine dimpled smile. 

Jimin really likes Namjoon. 

But he doesn't have a chance with him, Jimin wears old man suits, smells like dollar store cologne, and hides behind thick, square glasses. Not a fucking chance, with the stylish, golden blonde, sun-kissed, dimpled... 

Jimin enters the library, quietly closing the door behind him before finding the table he always sits at. The table is a stone's throw away from the librarian's counter where Namjoon sits.  

He doesn't look at Namjoon as he passes, but from his peripheral vision he can see Namjoon's head lift. Jimin actually feels a bit giddy, his fingertips are tingling, and he wants to skip over to his seat just because Namjoon acknowledged his presence. 

He’s never really pursued any of his crushes in high school, never indulged himself in something that was going to end in mere weeks as all infatuations do at that age. So, he didn't exactly have the practice now, how to flirt, how to ask someone out. "Hey, want to go out with me? I really like you." Could it really be that simple? Or does that sound dumb? Maybe an anonymous billet-doux is better, Jimin is good with words on written paper, much better than in the moment verbally. But no, not anonymous. A poem quickly slipped into his pocket. 

Jimin has his bag hooked over the back of the chair, papers spread out in front of him on the table, and a red grading pen in hand. As he hunches over the table, his stiff back tightens in a knot right between his bird-like shoulder blades. He looks like an old man, and he feels like one too. He's been achier lately, like his body is finally calling quits on him. This is what he gets for not exercising enough. 

"Professor Park," Jimin hears a whisper and turns his head to the gentle tone, Namjoon. He's standing beside Jimin, more like towering over him as he sits in this chair. 

"Jimin," he corrects, putting his pen down. 

"Jimin,” Namjoon says. A small smile spreads—and even then, his defined dimples show. “Mind if I sit with you? There's a draft over there from the AC vent, and—" 

"Do you want my jacket?" Jimin says quickly, hands already at one of the two buttons he's ready to undo. Namjoon gives him a look, like he's trying not to laugh, or cringe. Of course, Jimin's suit is tailored to himself, and Namjoon is much broader than him. Jimin wants to hit himself upside the head with one of the books in front of him. 

"It's okay," Namjoon chuckles, lingering by the chair next to Jimin. It takes him a minute before realizing Namjoon is still waiting for his permission to sit next to him. 

"Sit, sit." Jimin beckons, using his teacher-voice out of habit, while his arm acts as a shovel to move all his papers and books out of Namjoon's tablespace. As Namjoon sits with a small thump into the low wooden chair next to Jimin, he sets down the book he had been holding, in front of him on the table. Jimin peers over to look at the cover, kissing his teeth disappointedly when he doesn't understand the title. 

"You can read English?" Jimin says. He looks back to Namjoon's face, carefully avoiding his eyes as he captures in all the soft details that make up the man.  

As a teacher, he must look his students in the eye and be able to tell if they understand what he is teaching, but for some reason, Jimin just can't meet Namjoon's eyes. It's too daring, too personal.  

Jimin settles his gaze on Namjoon's cute button nose instead. 

"I can," he chuckles, "I learned it as a child, reading in English occasionally helps me not drop the language. But this book is pretty good, not a biography like usual, just young adult fiction." 

Jimin snickers at that, he may be a little bit of a book snob since he teaches literature, not bubblegum young adult fiction. But he'll humor Namjoon. 

"Oh yeah, what's it about?" Jimin asks, his tone gentle as a dove’s coo as he rests his chin on the heel of his hand, his elbow is propped up on the table. 

"Well, It's about this girl who..." 

Jimin can see the blue spidery veins in Namjoon's throat, can hear the drumming thu-thump of his heart so clearly. He's calm, he smells... sweet.  

He’s your prey. The little gazelle is courting a lion, begging for you. He needs you; he needs you to save him from this nightmarish hell of life. So worthless it should belong to an ant. He can owe you this, take a small bite, the blood is yours to take, both sweet and savory. You know you want it, and why shouldn’t you have it? Make him yours.

"Jimin?" 

"Uh... yes?" Jimin says. Perturbed, he unconsciously licks his dry lips. His hands are shaking and holding his head up no longer seems like a cute idea. To be honest, Jimin is in a cold sweat now.  

That voice in his head isn’t his, the one tempting him to do something ungodly–he barely knows what that voice was telling him to do. It’s appalling, even the inclination of what it meant made Jimin’s head cast a dizzy spell over him. 

"You're as white as a ghost, does the book really sound that horrible?" Namjoon says with a droll, chuckling. 

"Oh, no, no, it sounds... nice."  

Jimin is treading water with his anxiety but really, he’ll sink from only a thrown stone to disturb his still pond with a rippling new current. 

Look at him sweetheart, he wants your attention, it can be so easy for you to lead him away and take a bite.

Jimin can't breathe in here, it’s become humid, and he can barely keep his vision in focus as it starts to blur around the edges as the voice’s repour of vulgar intentions. It's using his voice, but they are not his thoughts.  

Are his thoughts not even his own anymore? 

"Were you listening? It's a sad story..."  

Namjoon seems to deflate, his dimples fading as his smile wanes, and Jimin feels he's lost any chance with Namjoon for sure, even as a friend. If a person can’t carry out the simplicity of listening, where does the bond tie? 

"I..." Jimin sucks in a breath, shooting his unsteady gaze at a student of his who’s just entering through the library doors and coming to stand at the librarian's counter, waiting for Namjoon. "I'm sorry, my schedule has been draining me. Can you tell me again sometime?" 

Namjoon is looking over his shoulder at the student who clearly needs his help right now. "Sure, how about over coffee before work?" he says, sweetly giving a smile that glows warmth, bringing comfort back to Jimin's shaking figure. 

Jimin lets out a short sigh, "Yes, that sounds nice." Smiling the whole nine yards. Perhaps his misstep was the chance to meet Namjoon outside of the library for once. 

"Great, so seven?" Namjoon says. He’s standing again now and tucking his book in the crook of his elbow. 

"Yes." 

Namjoon nods once, tinted cheeks and dimples as he turns to aid the student waiting for him at the counter. 

Delicious

"Stop, stop, stop," Jimin mutters to himself striving to drown out the earthy tone of that voice in his head.  

But he couldn’t help but secretly wonder. He didn't know his voice could sound rich and tempting, yet brutish all the while with the Busan accent he worked so hard to banish.  

“I didn’t hurt anyone, I couldn’t hurt anyone,” Jimin reassures himself. 

The black and white photos in the headlines and the disturbing depictions broadcast on the news came back to him as a reminder that he couldn’t disfigure corpses. He couldn’t be a monster prowling the streets like the Phantom of Yongsan. He hardly had the guts to watch a slasher film. The grainy pictures in the news of crime scenes gave everyone a good enough idea of how animalistic this killer is when it comes to the joys of the flesh. Jimin couldn’t murder. It’s not his capacity. Theoretically, it would destroy his sanity altogether. Jimin may feel at a loss, but he still has some wits about him.

The library is closing when Jimin leaves. He and Namjoon part with a small wave before Jimin passes through the doors. And as soon as he steps outside, the mist from earlier turns into rain, a drizzle that's light but won’t be fugacious. Jimin stops to point his nose up to the sky and let the rain splatter across the curved plains of his now rubicund cheeks.  

It's like bits of ice shattering across his skin. Jimin’s never enjoyed the cold unless he’s dressed properly for it in a warm sweater. But better to feel something than nothing. Even if it’s the cold. 

He can tell this will turn into a downpour if he doesn't get home soon. And though the hardscape is casting dark shadows by dint of the thick grey clouds looming overhead, it's only twilight. The sunset was only a few minutes ago.  

Jimin feels wary about walking around alone at night lately. That mugging three months ago had shaken him and given him a grave wake-up call about how vulnerable he is when a threat occurs. So he takes the bus. Jimin doesn’t own a car, this is Seoul; no matter the time of day the thick traffic made owning a car not worth it.  

He stands by the bus stop with a handful of other commuters who look as uneasy about the rain as Jimin does. The women are holding their bags over their heads and the men are powering through it with their hair soaked, like wet dogs.  

Jimin puts his bag over his head.  

The bus arrives shortly, on schedule, and Jimin is more than grateful for that. This bus is usually late by a solid fifteen minutes which makes the passengers grumpy, glaring at each other from their seats.  

Jimin boards quickly, being fourth in line and still scoring himself the last seat on the bus. It’s an aisle seat, unlike the window seats he prefers, especially when it’s raining like this and he can watch the droplets on the glass connect and grow bigger till they weigh too heavy and stream down the glass. Jimin would follow his finger against the glass as they stream down.  

In lieu, Jimin is putting on flavored Chapstick. His lips are cracking and he’s biting at them incessantly, which is starting to hurt. His lips have been exceedingly dry for a few months now, and it's probably normal, maybe he should drink more water. But somehow, water is repulsive now. It has a distinct brackish taste that makes him ill. Maybe it’s just his crummy tap water, but he remembers it being blissfully tasteless. 

He’s coated his lips a bit too much with Chapstick, can feel it smush between his thick lips and taste the unpleasant artificial ‘green apple’ of it against his teeth. He doesn’t have the heart to wipe some of it off with a hand he hasn’t washed yet. Jimin has a thing about washing his hands now as well, after seeing them coated in blood and having the image replay horrendously every night in his nightmares. He’s become rather compulsive about it.  

Jimin has been looking down at his phone for a while, looking up occasionally to keep track of how close they are to his stop. The commute is an hour from the university in Yongsan to Nowon where he lives. He’s not proud of living in 104 Moon Village, but it’s where he grew up and remains trapped by his embarrassingly low salary. 

He looks up instantaneously meeting an intense gaze laid on him. Jimin shivers with the biting chill of this icy glare. It’s a young man with a reminiscent roundness to his cheeks from budding youth, sitting a few rows in front of him. He’s turned around in his seat, making an effort to stare at Jimin.  

It’s odd.  

Jimin lets it go. It’s nice to have a handsome stranger staring at him for once. The young man’s pale blonde hair fluffs in wisps around his head like a halo. The soft cursive line drawn by an artist, Adonis perhaps, to beguile the baleful lumps of coal that glare at Jimin under fringe to bring a sensual feline mischief to his eyes. His convex lips are a mysterious billet-doux that are not open for Jimin to read. Though if those lips shall ever kiss, they would read Shakespeare's sonnets. His skin looks like it hasn’t seen the light of day in years, gothically pale, and his lithe frame sharpens his broad shoulders. 

He doesn’t seem malicious, just odd.   

Jimin breaks his modest stare first and returns to his phone after those few moments of uneasy eye contact with a stranger. But as the bus squeals and brakes to a stop, passing the peculiarly beguiling man to exit the bus isn’t such a fond idea to Jimin. It spikes his anxiety watching the guy leap up to the balls of his feet light as air, like a cat. He squares his shoulders then lets them sink comfortably.  

Jimin wonders drolly if he’s going to get cornered in the alley next to his apartment again, get mugged for what little pocket money he has in his wallet by the guy who seemed fairly harmless. 

Jimin swiftly exits the bus after the rando took his own leave, and when he steps foot on the pavement, the stranger is nowhere in sight. Like a ghost, he had disappeared into thin air—or perhaps he’s lurking in the shadows waiting for his chance to pounce. Jimin doesn't know, nor does he stay as a sitting duck any longer to find out.  

He’s walking with the pace of his pounding heartbeat, keeping alert to anything happening around him as he takes the shortcuts through the tight spaces between buildings to arrive home quickly. He’s exhausted, mentally and physically. He knows he should be staying up to catch up on work, maybe rehearse the lectures he has planned, but as he steps in the doorway, he can’t help but find his eyes drooping at the warm envelope of familiarity and safety.  

Dropping his bag by the door, he hurries to the bathroom to wash his hands first and foremost. It’s been needling him ever since the bus ride, stressing himself into a dither reliving looking down at them and seeing his fingers coated with blood. 

The rush of water is numbing, something that picks up his heartbeat to a staggering pace as he stares at the water rushing clear instead of pale orange from vital fluids.  

That night, washing the blood off his hands, was a feeling he can't describe but will never forget. He had a life painted on his hands, and it broke something within him. What made his situation worse is that he doesn't remember the build-up of that night, what had happened to that poor man before Jimin got there, or why Jimin was even there.  

He should have called the police, then at least that would be off his conscience. 

He’s diligent about washing under his fingernails, maybe more diligent than he should be, he keeps separating the skin from under his nails, his fingertips are sore to the touch now.  

The blood had been crusted so deeply under them that night, it had taken a day to get it completely soaked out.  

He washes his palms with soap, the backs of his hands, his wrists as well. And when he rinses, he repeats the cycle again. He does this several times, losing himself in the rushing water. It's satisfying, but it's making his hands raw. 

Jimin catches himself after the fourth rinse, taking a deep breath and turning around to dry his hands off on the scrubby bath towel hanging over the shower door. It makes the red skin on the back of his hands burn, but at least they are clean. 

As he shuffles back into the living room, he purses his lips, leering at his desk and how it beckons him to start working on the papers he needs to grade. Obligation weighs him down; he's carrying the weight of his world alone. He doesn't have someone to lean on, nor anyone to console him and tell him, "It's going to be okay." His mother and father’s tough love would be of no help.  

But is it even fair to burden anyone with his hellish nightmares? Maybe it's best people stay away.  

Jimin brings a hand up to his mouth to cover a silent yawn. It's not that late, not even past nine o’clock, but his eyelashes feel heavy, and the cells of his body are turning on him, he aches in almost every place.  

He decides he can't stay up later than this. It's too much, and he knows he'll fall asleep on that unforgiving desk and wake up with headlines from laying his cheek on a pen. He’s done it before, and he feels worse in the morning than he did at night. 

He pads out of the room and to the bedroom that’s only big enough to fit a twin bed and a closet. Jimin cringes as he passes the sliding mirror door to the closet; it's not so much that he looks bad—though admittedly that too—but that he fears his reflection will step out of the glass. He remembers so vividly the sinister obsidian eyes and the malicious smirk of a growling wolf, the way his hideous reflection teased him and made him taste the blood on his fingertips. 

Jimin sits on the edge of the bed and leisurely unbuttons his vest, his shirt as well, and hangs them up for next week. He shimmies out of his slacks and folds them the best he can with how tired he is before setting them down on top of the stack on the floor by the foot of the bed. He's tempted to sleep only in his boxers, but with the crisp air in the room he figures the sheets won't get warm very quickly, not by him alone.  

He can only imagine what it's like for people who can go home to someone, home to someone who's warming the bed, waiting for him. That must be a nice feeling, his bed feels so, so cold. 

He carefully slides the mirrored door and takes out a baggy grey sweatshirt with the college logo along with matching sweatpants. They make him look his age, like he really is twenty-six and not one of the faculty’s middle-aged know-it-alls that are so egotistical they’ve become bobbleheads. He hopes he never turns into them. 

Jimin goes back to the doorway to turn off the light, and it's what he dreads doing every night. He hates lying in the dark. He didn't use to loathe it, but the atmosphere then had been quiet, and his head was in a good place. He didn't dream of monsters and murder then. With the flick of a switch, his stomach drops as the aura in the room shifts, like something sitting in the shadowed corner, watching, waiting.  

Freddy Krueger must be his new sandman, trapping him inside unspeakable horrors, chasing him through his mind at night while ripping off flesh from the limbs of anyone who gets in his path. But Jimin doesn't believe in supernatural creatures. It's not within science, and Jimin trusts science. So why should he be afraid of the dark? It’s such an illogical fear.  

He approaches the mirror with an impassive mask and stands before it, waiting for the conceited smiling demon to finally stretch out from the thin veil of glass and eat him, or possess him, whatever demons in movies do these days.  

Jimin stares at his reflection staring back at him with those thick square glasses magnifying the dark circles under his eyes. He’s never particularly found himself attractive with his shaggy black hair and crooked front teeth, his recently darkening circles under his eyes, the imbalance of his lips that are as full as ever with the rest of his features. 

The list could go on. And since no one has even taken interest in him either, he figures he's not just judging himself too harshly by letting his mind's eye pick him apart. 

The only feature he likes is his eyes. Kind and brown with innocence and unresolve swimming in their warmth. They chipped Jimin’s masculine macho with their lull of vulnerability exposed so plainly for anyone to see. 

The minutes tick by and no demon or change in the mirror comes. Just a tired young man looking back at him.  

At least I am kind, at least I'm humble, at least.  

Jimin turns away from the mirror and goes to his cold bed, slipping under the covers before he takes off his glasses and sets them on a small bedside table. And as he shuts his eyes, his mind swirls with thoughts of what tonight's dream will be, if they will be kind to him tonight. He thinks he needs to see a therapist, maybe talk some of these dreams out into something substantial, maybe talk about that fateful night where his world shifted.

He didn't do it. He's not a monster.  

He knows it's unfortunate to blackout at crucial times, but he's looked it up, put in the footwork, and knows that if the brain registers something as overwhelming trauma it can essentially block it out. It's a reassurance to know he isn't just randomly losing moments of his life, but still, it’s worrisome.  

And these moments, where Jimin's stressing before his mind shuts down to let him sleep, he feels bitterly alone in the middle of a typhoon. Having someone beside him, someone he could cuddle like the pillow he's snuggling to his chest now, was that too much to ask for? Will this standstill be what the rest of his life looks like? Is he living up to his potential? Will anyone ever love him? Does it even matter? 

Sleep doesn't bring any comfort to him as he slips under the spell of a nightingale’s song. 

Thereupon the nightingale’s nightmare begins. 

Sitting up, running his stubby fingers through his hair and heaving a sigh from his lungs. It isn’t exhaustion. It’s an enfeeblement from a sandy burn in his throat. It's what controls him, the thirst. But, Min likes to think nothing can truly control him, for there isn’t a creature to match the raw power he wields under darkness. Every night is his to claim, while he watches the city burn before his eyes. He just wants to have a good time, counter to his meek daylight walker. 

Min hums as he looks around the somber room, ruffling his dark hair and chuckling to himself. It's his kind of atmosphere, the kind that threatens the innocence of light. Min thrives in the dark. 

He slips out of bed and flickers over to the closet—he never bothers to act human when he’s anything but. He likes his speed, how he can run faster than a street racer down the tarmac. 

He pulls out an old box that hides in plain sight underneath the stack of shoeboxes, it's amusing to him that Jimin has still yet to find the box. Perhaps Jimin believes it’s the box he had put all his less desired clothes in from college. But to Min, it's full of the treasures he’s collected over time, the clothes he prefers to wear, and the jewelry he’s respectfully stolen over the course of three months. 

He unburies the box and discards the top as he digs out one of his shiny silken shirts, black so the blood doesn't show. It's a thin shirt, clings to his body yet flows around him lavishly. He has close-fitted slacks folded at the bottom of this box, flaring below his knee making his steps flourish. He slips on a few jeweled pieces, but his treasure that he keeps wrapped in a handkerchief is a big garnet ring set in white gold with an intricate dragon’s claw design. 

He changes into these and heads into the bathroom, laughing as he catches sight of himself in passing the mirror. 

"Don’t try and wake up. It’s not going to work." 

He opens a cabinet and snatches out the gel, squirting out a dollop and smearing it between his palms as he brushes his slick fingers through his hair. Min can feel Jimin’s conscience stirring now, watching in an astral projection as he always does. Min takes his pickings of what he remembers in the end, but he indulges in speaking to him on the occasion.

"Nightmares are imaginary Jimin, and I’m not an idea. Until you learn that you need your rest, I can take care of us, feed us, without you doing the dirty work. I clean you up after, too. Is that not enough? I admit the first run was difficult since you seemed to be so adamant about fighting me, but it was entertaining to see you try. You have such a simple mind. A parasite can so easily attach itself… You need a better haircut, Jimin. You look like your pathetic father." Min sighs. He washes the gel off his hands and smiles amused as Jimin’s subconscious cries.

 "I’d be careful, becoming dependent on a virus is a nasty thing,” he says, pulling down some fringe from his slicked-back hair. 

Next is the eyeshadow palette to smoke out his eyes. It's the palette Jimin's had forever but had yet to ever use, until Min reclaimed it for his own use. Jimin often looked at it on the shelf with embarrassment. After he visited his parents a few years ago, he never wanted to use the thing again. 

They had a girl and her family over without telling him beforehand, trying to pair them off since their rule over his life extended into his romantic life as well. The full face of makeup hadn’t gone over well with the crowd, especially his father, who pulled him aside to smack him upside the head once the girl and her family left. He earned himself a sharp-tongued lecture of what it meant to be a man in this family.

Min smoothes black pigment over his lids and under heavily, winging it out to his temples. To live in obedience of fear is for the lambs. Min is the lion.

Contrary to Jimin, Min doesn't wear those hideous glasses, his sight is crystal clear. Or rather, Jimin is still holding onto his human habits; he’ll learn soon enough. 

"Oh Jimin-ah, you should see yourself you little twat. You could make heads turn," Min says, amused. He leans closer to the mirror as he searches in his eyes for a remnant of Jimin. The boy asleep, drowned out in the white static. 

He leaves the bathroom with faint cologne dabbed on the inside of his wrists. Slipping on a pair of thick-soled boots, he bites his dry lips, feeling his fangs prick his bottom lip. Jimin’s throat is clenched around a burning dryness, and his tongue lays in his mouth like sandpaper. 

Some sheep die for others to prosper of wool and meat, and some humans die for others' vitality. Livestock is raised for the slaughter.

It's undemanding to pluck someone off the street into a junkie alley where needles amongst other things are dropped carelessly. It's a plain sailing meal, and Min is so swift they hardly know they're dead. There isn't much fun in it, no sounds of distress or sense of their fate being met. 

The night is still young when he saunters out of the alley. The stars don't show from the city's light, overwhelming it with neon gewgaw signs, not even the heavens can see what he's doing. 

Min desires a buzz, he wants a sip of adrenaline and the sweet taste of sex. With little to do, he scans the street as he hovers in the places the streetlights don’t touch. There’s a parking lot across from him; a sleek Porsche grasps his attention out of the numerous Mercedes and Rolls-Royces. He steps out of the shadowed alley and walks across the street to the sitting ducks just waiting to be stolen. 

Min’s near the university his counterpart works at, this is the rich side of the city, far from where he lives. Yongsan is where he enjoyed the hunt best, to humble the high and mighty that overlook the little people who do the heavy lifting. And stealing their playthings is a dirty pleasure of his. 

As he stands beside the Porches, he whistles at the sight of the low-riding, sleek, grey design. He murmurs drolly, "Who doesn't like a little grand theft auto?"  

And luckily, it's a valet lot for the grey giants surrounding the area—probably all computer slaves who now have to work extra hours just so they could afford a gewgaw car to drive. But their mid-life crisis is what makes Jimin's night entertaining. Knocking out the night guard and finding the key to the car, and it's all thanks to them. 

He slides into the sleek convertible like a natural. His hands grip the leather wheel, giving it a fond squeeze as crimson lips curl into a smile. The car's engine is a low rumbling purr around him, powerful and quiet. It's definitely a luxury kind of race that could zip down the tight streets with ease, almost like Jimin can on his own feet, almost. Min gets faster and faster every day, it's only a matter of time.

Hot pink lipstick is smeared over Min's neck from messy lips of a boy he lured away from a gay bar in Itaewon. Min brought him back to his car so he could drive them to the boy’s place, but he was too glammered from the first bite to resist the circling arousal in his veins now. 

Taemin could've been a vampire from the way he bit his neck. He's enticing in a way as he tries to hold dominance over Min, telling him where to place his hands as he straddles his lap in the backseat of the stolen Porsche. Min feels like he’s tripping, all the colors Taemin’s wearing, his clothes, his makeup, his hair. His kiss was like a tab of acid on his tongue. 

The windows are beginning to fog and sweat, just as they are. Taemin has a bead of glistening sweat dripping down his temple, but Min swears it’s diamond. The smell of the heat stirs his thick, metallic blood to turn savory, like salted caramel. It’s intoxicatingly rich. He takes deep breaths just to feel that heady buzz. 

The car's stereo vibrates the walls of the cars from the legato bass of some provocative song Taemin hooked up to the aux earlier. He's a minx, knew what he wanted from the get-go, and Jimin simply played along with hushed words to egg him on. This hunt is a game, easy prey, and Min wished Jimin understood—he could have anything and anyone he wanted with a few slow bats of his pretty eyes. 

"You're so pretty, baby," he murmurs as Taemin's satiny lips glide up his jaw, biting at his lobe.  

Taemin’s wearing a tight, little dress and the colorful overcoat is shed, laying in the passenger seat with his shirt. There are flowery designs inked into his warm skin that Min's fingers dig into as Taemin grinds his hips in a slow lapdance. He’s power tripping as he pushes Jimin’s grip away and takes hold of his wrists with surprising strength. For his lithe, little frame, he made holding Jimin’s wrists up to the headrest and keeping him there look easy. But it wasn’t as if Min wasn’t letting him do as he pleased in his last moments, Min’s strength was inhuman.

"Oh?" Min smiles sickeningly, his needle-like fangs pointing into his kiss-raw bottom lip. 

"Be good," Taemin says. He lifts up the hem of his blue satin dress that already only reached just below the swell of his ass. The plush skin of Taemin's milky thighs splaying over Min's lap has his mouth-watering. That decides the tenderest place to bite into Taemin, from between his legs, sink his fangs into those creamy thighs. 

"Oh darling, I don’t think you understand who’s holding who here," Min huffs. He’s beginning to get impatient as the stripper takes his sweet time with the foreplay. Perhaps it was something to take note of, this teasing game. Unfortunately, Jimin is not… experienced, which renders Min in the same deplorable position; though he has the confidence the other lacks.

The hem of Taemin's dress uncovers his plump bum, revealing the sheer white lace decorating him like a little doll. It's this escalating little lapdance Taemin teases Min with that sets in the animalistic drive. He's taunting Min, with small gasps puffing off his thick lips whenever he bounces over the tent in his pants. Taemin is enjoying himself too much, and it's too humid in the car to give Min the patience he needs. 

He shouldn't have let Taemin turn up the heat in the car. 

It only takes a second, and Taemin is against the black leather seats with Min between his legs. His speed is inhuman, and Taemin seems to take note of this in the wideness of his doe eyes. Min stares back at him silently, kneading Taemin's thighs till the startle leaves his expression, replaced with something wonton.  

His lips may be sore from all the tugging of Taemin's teeth, but not sore enough to still nibble and suck at his inner thigh. Taemin is whimpering at the pain, and Min watches with cunning amusement as Taemin's cock twitches before him. 

Min's nibbles turn rougher the higher his lips travel up his thigh, turning into violent bites, mouthfuls of skin between his teeth. And only when he reaches the sweet curve of Taemin's upper thigh, his cheek pressed against the lace restrained cock, does Min finally sink his fangs into the most tender, juicy part of a human. 

He's never been able to drink from humans other than their throat and wrist. The wrist was too crunchy, and the throat was too messy. But the thigh, oh, it’s so sweet, so soft and easy to drink from. And the moans it draws from Taemin’s lips are incandescent, clearly immersed in the spike of aphrodisiac venom entering his system so near his arousal.  

Min pulls away, licking the hot blood off his lips, “Are you going to beg me to stop?” 

“No, Min, keep going, please it felt so good, please,” Taemin begs, curling his ring laden fingers into Min’s hair almost pushing him back down. And when Min goes down, he switches thighs, piercing the other one. 

A frenzy begins, and Min can't stop drinking the thick wine of man. With his smoky lids closed, he feels Taemin become relaxed, loose and limp. And when Min drinks the very last drop, he pulls away with a little pop, licking his lips, then the bite he made on the other's thigh. 

"You tasted surprisingly sweet, darling." Min hums as he picks up Taemin's limp hand, sliding the heavy-set silver rings off his fingers and onto his own. 

"Very pretty, it's a shame I can't have seconds. Humans are so... fragile." Min sighs disappointedly, glowering into Taemin's blank eyes. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A scream rips through Jimin's throat, a graveled shriek that cuts through the crisp morning air and throws Jimin forward. His eyes have barely opened, and he's already feeling cold tears trail little paths down the curves of his cheeks. The sheets and comforter are wrapped around his body from all the tossing and turning. It feels like a makeshift coffin suffocating him as he sinks six feet deeper than he'd ever felt. A heart-wrenching cry blubbers past Jimin's lips. It's not a pretty cry. It's a nasty snotty, ever wet cry that only halfway mimics what he feels inside. He could rub his wet nose with his sleeve till it's raw, and it still wouldn't be dry. 

Why are nightmares so cruel? And why do they feel so real in the moment? 

The mornings are always the worst part of his day. It's a horrible way to start the day, grieving with guilty sobs and a rusty taste on his tongue. It's only the morning taste in his mouth, but it feels like the taste of his victim in the nightmare. 

Jimin doesn't want to hurt anyone. He doesn't want to see the vacant look in their glass eyes, taste their blood on his tongue. It makes him sick, so sick that he runs to the bathroom and dry heaves the dinner he never ate. Dry heaving feels worse than actually getting the sickness out, because it curls around his gut and makes his head swim with nausea. 

He's on his knees, arching over the toilet letting drool slowly drip down from his lips. His throat tightening and loosening with small gags, or sobs; he can't tell at the moment. He would sit there for as long as he needed if it weren't for the alarm of his phone chiming away like Notre Dame. He finds the strength in his knees to drag himself back to the bedroom, using the walls as a crutch as he goes. 

And as he turns off the alarm that still rings in his ears, another little bell pings with the reminder, "Meet Namjoon for coffee." This reminder is what slows the tears, the reminder of a friendly man who notices him and makes him feel warm, safe in that little library when they are together. A sharp snotty sniff is what sets Jimin right. Though he's hiccupping, the tears have stopped running from his swollen eyes. Now all he had to do was work on setting his breathing back to normal, but that's something he can do in the shower. 

He turns on the hot water slowly, in a normal apartment the tub water could have been boiling without the balance of some cool mixture. If it weren’t for the rest of the apartment using it up, it might’ve not been lukewarm. But instead of fretting more with the heavy load already on his shoulders, he scrubs it away with a loofah. He scrubs himself raw, making sure to get every remnant of the nightmare off his skin. And his skin looks horrible as it is, a sickly pale that only looks more like stone as the days pass. 

When he gets out of the shower, his skin isn't raw-pink, it's the same as it was before the shower, like he's healed within the last two minutes. He tries to shrug it off, to think that he is clean enough, that he shouldn't get back in the tub and repeat the process. 

He gets dressed instead. It's a light grey suit today, thread-like purple and pink checks adding subtle color to the otherwise dull three-piece suit. 

The coffee shop Namjoon had invited Jimin to is the one on campus. It couldn't be anywhere else since everyone in the faculty went there, because that meant they could enjoy an overpriced cup of coffee in their classroom. It's not a fancy place, but it makes good lattes, and the barista who works there is his student. She always wears a smile when serving others and he's happy to see her enjoying her life. She seems to be doing a lot better than Jimin in that way. 

He runs through a short checklist in his mind of what he needs for the day. Going around his morning chilled apartment and picking up a few spare pens and books he needs, adding it to the bag he never unpacked last night. 

The daylight doesn't seem any safer than under the cover of night. It's a bleak day, the sun is shining bright, and yet its light makes the city look greyer and grimmer. The bus ride was full of commuters so Jimin had to stand, holding onto a rail above someone's head. He accidentally leaned into someone when he lost his balance as the bus lurched to a halt, getting a quick insult that made his day that much better.  

It seems so easy for people to be able to pick him apart, like Jimin is an open book with his insecurities written on his forehead. 

"Get off me fucking four-eyes," 

Ouch. 

It's a miracle Jimin has a smile on his face as he walks into the coffee shop. Namjoon is standing tall in the three-person long line for coffee, he's a head higher than everyone in line. His thick blond hair is parted to the side and he's wearing a black privacy mask that compliments the black of his entire outfit, black turtleneck, trench coat, and jeans. Jimin hesitates by the door for a few moments, Namjoon looks intimidating, and Jimin's never felt that way around him. 

But when Namjoon's attention turns to Jimin after the little bell above the door rings when it closes, his eyes curve up to cute crescents that squish around the corners, giving him a wave. Yeah, that’s more like it.  

Jimin weaves around the tables of faculty or students studying and over to Namjoon, joining him in the line.  

“Hey, hyung,” Jimin says through a bashful sigh.

“Hi, Professor Park, ” Namjoon teases, which comes deep and muffled by the mask. 

“Yah, how many times have I told you? Jimin is fine. You make me feel old when you call me that,” 

“Sorry, sorry~” Namjoon chuckles, brushing his knuckles over the back of Jimin’s hand, “You look cute in your suit,” and the compliment releases even more butterflies than the simple brush of their hands. He thinks Jimin looks cute in this old suit? 

“Oh, really? Thanks… it's just the uniform I have for class, you know. I don’t dress like this usually.” Jimin rambles. He dressed prim and stiff for work to try and prove himself to all the other faculty who seemed determined on snubbing him out.  

There’s a quiet moment where they move up in line and read the menu painted on the wall behind the counter. Jimin adjusts his glasses on his nose to try and see that far, but he finds when he looks over the brim without the lens, he can see the words better. Strange.  

“I’m sorry if I stole your morning over some silly reason, I kinda wanted to talk to you without having to whisper for once. The library is a pretty grim space anyway, the tension in there during midterms is thick enough to cut with a knife.” Namjoon snickers and Jimin smiles, trying to find the right words to say to continue the conversation when there is so much else on his mind. Like how he sees better without his glasses now.  

As Jimin takes off his glasses and tucks them in his coat pocket, Namjoon’s eyes weigh heavy on him.  

"You look tired," he says, sounding genuinely concerned for Jimin, more than he’s ever heard anyone be. It’s almost like asking if he’s doing okay, and that meant something to Jimin. It's been awhile since anyone cared if Jimin was having good sleep. 

"Yeah, I haven't been sleeping well lately." Jimin says. He lifts his hand to rub his forehead and try to smooth out the pinch between his charcoal brows.  

“You know, I’ll always be here for you.” Namjoon’s rich voice caresses Jimin’s ears telling him something he needed to hear for a long time now. But could it be real? Did Namjoon really just say that, or is he imagining it?  

Jimin doesn’t have time to get the right words out because it’s their turn to order now, Namjoon is already requesting a house brew. Jimin is looking between Namjoon and the barista, unprepared in both aspects. He stands there for a bit too long, staring at Namjoon, too long to play it off coolly.  

“Chai latte, please,” Jimin's voice breaks at the end and Namjoon’s laughing as he pulls out his wallet.  

“Did you have breakfast?” he asks with a warmth that oozes with a lasting kindness while looking at the small setup of pastries.  

“No not yet… don’t worry about it.” Jimin really doesn’t feel hungry after the events of this morning,  

“Two croissants as well.” And Jimin is left squabbling at Namjoon while he pays for everything.  

“I could have chipped in.” 

“No, I asked you out, and it's my pleasure, Jiminie. Don’t worry about it.” 

Jimin blinks at Namjoon, his brain had turned to mush after Namjoon said, “asked you out.” What did that mean? Was this a date?  

Sitting at a small round table Jimin drags his nail over the dents on the side, staring at the croissant before him and not feeling the familiar appetizing appeal it used to hold over him. And he didn’t think it was just the stress this morning that caused it, because he often would like to treat himself after a bad event. Namjoon is happily eating his and sipping his house brew coffee, why is Jimin just watching him?  

When Jimin finally takes the golden flakey pastry to his lips, biting and listening to the deafening crunch, it takes everything in him not to gag while he’s chewing. It's a painful lob to swallow, disgusting really, tasting like pure yeast. And when he tries to wash out the worsening aftertaste with his latte, he cringes as it both burns and sours his tongue with the sharpness of bitter beans and curdled milk.  

Why is this food so disgusting today? How can Namjoon stomach this? 

“That’s a sick ring, is it a ruby? Garnet?” Namjoon asks suddenly. 

Jimin furrows his brows, he never wears jewelry to work, even then he only has his grandmother’s old wedding ring that’s practically worthless in the pawn shop’s eye. But when he looks down his heart stutters at the huge blood-red jewel on his finger. This is not his. He has no memory of purchasing this ring that looks way out of his budget, nor does he remember putting it on this morning. 

Jimin’s mind scatters like broken glass as he searches for answers for Namjoon and himself. He finds avoiding the ring in question altogether the best option.

“What is this? You said you asked me out earlier and…” he trailed off, quieting until they sat in silence. Well that wasn’t what Jimin was looking for, but it looked as if it hit Namjoon as hard as his question struck Jimin.

“Oh, um” Namjoon chuckles, prolonging Jimin’s embarrassment with another sip of that disgusting coffee, “Well, I want to get to know you better. So, it could be a friendly conversation… that could lead to something more?”  

Jimin’s heart feels like it's about to jump out of his chest, Namjoon suddenly likes him? Or has Jimin been oblivious to the signs? When, how, why? But it doesn't matter, Namjoon’s cheeks are rose-tinted and there is nothing in the world Jimin wants more than for this to be a date. 

“I feel the same,” Jimin’s smiling silly but he hides the toothy grin by smiling into this lap, “I want to get to know you better too.” 

“A date?” 

“A date.” 

They melt into a light banter, Namjoon carries most of the conversation while Jimin sits and listens, making a few grunts here and there to show his attention is still there. They talk about books, it's one of the things they have most in common and Namjoon seems to utilize that heavily to keep interest. But when Namjoon asks what Jimin is reading at the moment, there isn’t much to say. Jimin hasn’t read for pleasure in months, every time he sits down with a book balanced in his lap, his mind drifts back to his nightmares and what their underlying metaphors and themes might be, analyzing and comparing them to his actions as of late.

He never finds a connection. They are dreams of a monster that has no similarities to himself, other than they share a face. He’s horrified and intrigued by this monster—how he seeks out danger and plays a part in what’s happening in the city right now. Like his mind had made up the Phantom of Yongsan, and he was getting to see through this monster’s eyes when he fell asleep. Maybe that was their connection, Jimin’s anxiety over this hostile serial killer turned into nightmares. Maybe he should stop following the news reports. 

There’s no easy way to tell all this to Namjoon without sounding deranged and obsessive. No matter if Namjoon wants to be a shoulder Jimin could lean on, there are lines that can be crossed. Everyone has a limit of how much crazy they want in their lives.  

But Namjoon is intuitive, he’s got those clever eyes that seem to see the color of your aura and a sixth sense of when to change the subject. Or it's possible Jimin is just an open book. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and his thoughts are written plainly on his forehead.  

“So, what do you like other than books?” He chuckles and his dimples deepen, “We’ve exhausted that enough, I tend to ramble, I’m sorry.” 

Jimin waves his hand gently to dismiss the apology. 

Namjoon apologizes a lot for simple things that most people don’t dwell over. But that’s because most people talk extensively, because they love the sound of their own voice.  

“Tell me about you, you know enough about me,” Namjoon says after sipping his coffee—the last drop of it probably from the way he lifts the cup ninety degrees.  

“Well, what do you want to know about me?” Jimin breathes, wiping his clammy palms on his slacks. He’s never been good at speaking about himself, because he knows he’s probably the most uninteresting person to hang out with. And he’s not just being down on himself, it’s a fact. 

“You’re abnormally young to be a professor, why is that?” Namjoon asks, resting his elbows on the table as a pretext for leaning closer to Jimin over the table. Jimin gets a good whiff of something he can’t describe. It's not his cologne, but it's something much more natural and luring. It stops Jimin’s train of thought and brings him to lean closer to Namjoon, as well. 

“My parents are from Busan, but I was born here. They do well for themselves. They’re fishermen. Though, they only have high school diplomas, so I suppose they moved to Seoul because they wanted me to rise above them and their reputation, to make something of myself. I studied from dusk till dawn and didn’t do anything else.” Jimin says, internally thinking he hadn’t contacted his parents in months. The fact they hadn’t called themselves to check on him was a bitter pill to swallow too. 

“I’m sure they are proud of you.”  

I hope so. More is never enough.  

“I shouldn’t be so hard on them. I hope I'm not painting them in a poor light. We own a cabin they used to take me to every summer. It’s in the woods, a freshwater lake nearby. They taught me how to fish out there. It was very serene and gave me some time to reflect as I lured. I sometimes find myself still out there knee-deep in that cold water, fishing.”

“Fishing for what?”

Jimin looks down at his ring. Deep red. Blood red, shining brightly in the dimmed mood lighting as the greedy claw of a dragon keeps a firm grip around both the precious jewel and his index finger. His brows sink over his eyes where his concentration is held like a brimming teacup. 

When Jimin doesn’t answer, Namjoon takes it upon himself to change the subject, thankfully.

“I thought I heard a little Busan satoori, you have a lilt to some words.” Namjoon says. Jimin laughs, holding his hand over his smile as he leans back in his chair, putting space between them. 

“You caught that, huh? I’ve been trying for years to rid myself of that. It’s the bits and pieces I’ve picked up from my parents.” 

“Well, I grew up in Ilsan so it’s pretty easy to pick out something like that. But it’s cute, you shouldn’t try to blend in so much.” Namjoon’s golden skin looks so rosy when he blushes. Jimin pulls his lip between his teeth, digesting cute as a word to describe himself. He’s never been called that, and though it should be taken as a compliment, it doesn’t sit well.  

“Slipping under the radar is what I strive for. I’m okay with being middle of the road.” Jimin chuckles drolly. He’s tried to sink into the cracks for so long he forgot he’s still doing it, and maybe that’s the cause of the harassment of bullies throughout his juvenile years. But as much as he wants to be noticed for his efforts, he doesn’t want to be put on a podium up for critical judgment. A pat on the back would suffice. 

“No, anyone with eyes would see that you’re a hard worker.”  

It seemed every low thing Jimin could say about himself was returned with a heartfelt compliment that made his heart bloom daisies. And the way Namjoon spoke to him was if he was interested in hearing about Jimin, always prompting for a bit more information.  

When Jimin has to go teach his class, Namjoon asks for his number.  

They text later that night, planning to meet up again tomorrow morning, same place and time.  

They continue with this for a month. It becomes a part of Jimin’s morning routine, and it gives him something to look forward to every day. Something that keeps him lighthearted when he wakes up from a heavy nightmare, knowing Namjoon will soon be beside him, bringing sunlight into the shadows. He feels less alone, but the nightmares are still something gone unspoken to Namjoon.  

The serial murders are still occurring nightly while the police scramble to catch up as the bodies pile up. Namjoon offered to start driving Jimin home after work, which Jimin kindly refused. He didn't want Namjoon to see his neighborhood, or the apartment complex. Didn’t want to be alone with Namjoon.

Jimin feared himself. He didn’t trust that his nightmares were only a fragment of his imagination anymore. He didn’t trust himself with the one person he held close to his heart.

Jimin woke with tears damp on his cheeks, a hollow, cold feeling seeping into his bones as his mind played an encore of his nightmare.  

A man with skin torn like tissue paper, his face frozen like a statue with his jaw agape mid-scream and eyes wide as globes. The flesh on his arms hardly looked like skin with the way it tore from the bone by gruesome bite marks. Jimin could smell how the deceased’s flesh already stank, though the blood tickled his nose with a lure. 

A shadowed figure was cloaked in darkness by a far-reaching leather trench coat that’s hem sat in a pool of blood as he crouched over the body. Jimin was standing over this scene, the color of his face long gone. He took slow, careful steps back trying to make his escape, but the monster could hear his heartbeat, how it fluttered like a humming bird’s wings.  

He looked back at Jimin with a slashing grin, blood coating thickly over his lips and flowing from his mouth, down his chin to splatter on the ground when he stuck his long tongue out mockingly at Jimin.  

The night around them went deadly silent as sharp teeth and predatory eyes made Jimin’s blood run cold. Those eyes void of life, like the vacuum of space. A mute garnet red. They’re flat in color, no shine like the jewel their color took after. There was something consuming about them, ominous and just evil. They looked ready to kill, again, and again.  

And what made Jimin’s sanity tight walk was, he was terrified of his own face.  

Min pounced on Jimin, knocking him to the ground, Jimin’s head hit the cement and he swore he felt his brain touch his skull. In a daze, Jimin thrashed weakly, pushing and kicking against the hold of this face-stealing demon. 

“SOMEBODY HELP ME, GOD, PLEASE!” 

“Oh, go ahead scream all you want, no one is going to hear you. No one will come for you. Want me to scream for you? Someone help him! He’s being attacked by a vampire!” Min shouts, and the bloody look of mockery on his face as he looks back down at Jimin makes him squirm more. 

Jimin didn’t lose hope, he kept screaming until he felt like his vocal chords were bleeding. Min seemed to grow annoyed by his helpless pleas that went unheard to any passerby, so he swallowed them with his bloody lips, smashing them onto Jimin’s. Their teeth clinked horribly, and Min wasn’t shy to dart his serpent tongue into Jimin’s mouth. 

He used Jimin’s initial shock as an excuse to pin his wrists by his head, then sit on his stomach.  

Jimin could taste the blood. And in that moment, all he could think was something weakly squeamish like, ew stop kissing me with blood on your lips.  

Once Min had him pinned to the ground, he laughed airily, before pressing their foreheads together and staring into Jimin’s horrified eyes. He was terrified his nose was going to get bitten off now. Min’s gaze was piercing like needles pointing into Jimin’s corneas, like he was skimming through Jimin’s head, taking note of all the secrets he has been suppressing. Terror made Jimin close his eyes and thrash his probably concussed head to get away.  

“Fucking insolent little boy, look at me,” Min says, lifting himself off Jimin’s abdomen only to slam back down and punch the air out of Jimin’s lungs in one painful heave that caused Jimin to lurch up and drop back down like an out of water fish. Tears start slipping out the corners of his closed eyes. 

“LOOK AT ME!” he shrieked violently, threatening to burst Jimin’s eardrums. And Jimin was meek, he obeyed quickly to the other’s command, silently pleading for the other to stop shouting at him. 

He didn’t understand how his own face could look so menacing and hideous. How Min could merely glare at Jimin, and he would lose control over his bladder.  

Jimin was audibly choking on air as he tried to breathe again, his lungs felt like one large bruise and Min was so heavy on top of him, it strained his every breath. Hot, sticky tears ran freely from his eyes as Min grabbed his cheeks in one hand, squishing them so his lips jutted out and shook his face side to side like a doll.  

“Please, please don’t kill me!” Jimin wailed, though he lost the strength to struggle anymore. 

“You’re pathetic, you know that? You’re a sheep, no not even that, a little lamb. You follow everyone’s orders and hope with your whole heart that someone will appreciate you.” Min throws his head back in laughter as if that was the funniest joke he’s ever heard, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard to Jimin.  

As Jimin cries, his head turns to the side to come face to face with the corpse. Except it’s his corpse now, flesh and bone, laying in his own pool of ruby. 

“You need to wake up, wake up baby lamb, before I tear your throat out.”  

Jimin cried a lot this morning. He’s bawled every morning for months, and he thought after some time he would get tired of crying, grow numb or become desensitized to rivers of blood in his nightmares. 

But he was beginning to feel comforted by it. The tears felt cathartic. A signifying difference between Jimin and Min, Jimin felt human emotion, grief and guilt. Min was void, though knew how to react when needed. So, it was a bittersweet road becoming the crybaby he is now.  

Namjoon commented on his red puffy eyes once, and the only thing Jimin could say was his eyes were always like that when he woke up, allergies.  

Jimin hates lying, especially to Namjoon who has been nothing but kind to him. And Jimin really likes him. He wants to be with Namjoon. He wants his chance at happiness. But he isn’t sure if his mental stability is good enough to be with him. 

Namjoon has a compassionate streak of comforting anyone and anything that seems like they are in a state of distress. He has a habit of taking in strays. And he can smell sadness in the air as if it were applied to one’s wrists like a pungent perfume. So, there is no doubt Namjoon sees through every one of Jimin’s lies. He wondered if Namjoon was only sticking around because of the pity he felt for him. Just another one of his strays.

But Jimin worries more about the looming question of Namjoon’s safety.  

Am I dangerous?  

Maybe.  

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

“Hey, Jimin!” Namjoon chirps as he opens the door of Jimin’s classroom. He had asked around the learning center to figure out what time Jimin’s office hours were because any pretext to see him after their morning coffee was another chance to get his nerves under control and ask him out again. 

Namjoon wants something more than a routine coffee meet up. It’s not like that wasn’t enough—well, it wasn’t—because he wants a solid date with all the formalities lovers hone. He’s ready for the next step, and he’s becoming wary of how they teeter over their relationship status.

Jimin gives him weird signs, like he’s afraid of touching him when Namjoon pulls him into a tight hug when they part ways from the coffee shop. At first Namjoon thought it was just Jimin being shy—and Jimin seemed very shy—so he didn’t take it to heart. But after the month of Namjoon trying to pry Jimin out of his shell, he seems to only be crawling in deeper.  

Jimin’s head lifts from his papers, and a smile graces his plump lips. Namjoon just wanted one kiss, just one peck, from those rosy lips. But at least Namjoon’s presence could raise a smile, even if it was a small achievement, it was what he strived for every time they were together.

“Hyung? Um, these are office hours, if a student comes in, I’ll have to—"

“I know, I know. You can kick me out, I won’t mind. But I wanted to ask you, uh, something. It’ll be quick.” Namjoon stumbles verbally as he becomes hyper-aware of how Jimin’s suit coat wasn’t molding his body into that stiff boxy shape. It’s only the suit vest and the white shirt with its buttons undone around his neck, his tie loosened.  

It isn’t a hot day, Namjoon was wearing a big fleece-lined jeans jacket, and he walked through rain to get here. 

Jimin raked his teeth over the swell of his bottom lip which is where Namjoon’s attention pinpointed, hardly noticing the hesitance in his voice when the younger said, “Sure, what is it?”  

Namjoon grabs his wits together to focus on the reason he came here, “Well, so, we’ve been just having coffee, and it's nice, you know?”  

He’s making a fool of himself as he stumbles through the words he already thought out and rehearsed meticulously on the way here. But Jimin doesn’t grimace at his squabbling, only nods his head once, looking placid as he silently prompts for Namjoon to continue. 

“Will you go out with me?” Namjoon blurts. It's a little too quick because Jimin doesn’t even blink, his eyes have become flat color without a sparkle of excitement.  

“Like as a—” 

“Date,” Namjoon finishes. Jimin was speaking too slowly with his Busan lilt sharpening like a blade in Namjoon’s ears, all the while pooling heat in his face as he wipes his clammy hands subtly on his jeans. 

It's a quiet minute between them as Jimin stares at him with calculating eyes that don’t waver or travel away from Namjoon’s. Like a predator locking in its prey, it's unsettling.  

He’s never seen Jimin like this, distant and cold, but even Namjoon can’t decipher what’s going on in his own head. He can usually read Jimin well, from cover to cover, but the mix of an ominously flat glare sends a shiver of something glacial, like fear, running down his spine.  

Jimin mutters something unintelligible before he rises from behind his desk, gesturing for Namjoon to come closer with a finger. He dumbly obeys, feeling weak in the knees as he stands in front of Jimin, trapped between him and the desk. 

“What are you thinking?” Namjoon asks. He still hasn’t gotten an answer, and this is far from the situation he thought he’d be in after asking Jimin to be his boyfriend.  

“You’ll never understand.” 

Jimin grabs the back of Namjoon's neck, pulling him down to smash his lips hard onto Namjoon's. Their teeth clink and Namjoon has to grasp the edge of the desk he’s been pressed against to stabilize himself. It’s the kind of kiss that Namjoon thought the gentle, timid Jimin wasn’t capable of giving. But he’s biting Namjoon’s lip with sharp teeth, and his hands found an odd, uncomfortable place around his neck to hold him bound against the desk. 

Namjoon isn’t one for spontaneous kissing. He takes the time for a real bond to build in relationships before doing anything like this. He’s a level, stable person that doesn’t act without serious contemplation.  

Of course, now he’s overthinking things. His brain is in overdrive and he keeps blinking, unsure of whether to close his eyes or keep them open like Jimin. He’s wondering if he likes this or not, if it's too soon, what this means. 

Why is he kissing me? Is it a yes to being my boyfriend? If so, boyfriends kiss, this shouldn’t be so nerve-wracking.  

But if this is what Jimin wants to do, to kiss Namjoon in response to a mutual feeling, then who is Namjoon to push him away?  

“Wait—” Namjoon says against his lips. It goes unheard.

Jimin is pushing his lips onto Namjoon’s with such a ferocity that it's becoming closer to pain than much else. He cringes at the way Jimin’s lips press against his flatly, like he’s trying to match their lips. Jimin doesn’t choose a top or bottom lip, rather choosing both in a mouthful. 

It’s odd.  

Namjoon turns his face and gives a small push to Jimin’s chest to separate them. Jimin’s hands fall to his sides as he looks up to Namjoon with a flat, expectant line on his lips.

“I-Isn’t it a little too soon?”

“What? You don’t want me to kiss you? You just asked me out.”

“Well, at least go on a date with me.” Namjoon says, which makes Jimin quiet. The younger crosses his arms now petulantly as his eyes narrow, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing! Jimin what is up with you? You randomly kiss me and now it’s my fault?”

“What’s wrong with me is you. I don’t understand you.”

“That’s the point, go on a date and understand each other better—”

“It’s a kiss, you should—”

“Have you ever kissed someone before? That wasn’t a kiss.”

It almost seems unheard of, a twenty-five-year-old who has never kissed someone. Which also made obvious the fact that Jimin probably hadn’t done anything sexual either. The question hadn’t seemed invasive in his head but out loud Namjoon immediately regrets it when he sees the way Jimin’s eyes darken. 

Jimin stays silent and steps closer, putting a finger on Namjoon’s abused lips, dragging his bottom lip down till it pops back to his top. 

It's a predatory move, he’s playing with his food. 

“I have kissed many people,” Jimin says.

Namjoon starts to squirm, worried when this snake is going to strike again, and whether the serpent had poison laced in his razor fangs. This Jimin isn't the one Namjoon thought he knew. And whether Namjoon likes the danger lurking in his eyes is still up for debate. 

Dim eyes with a shadow cast over them from inky black bangs stare at Namjoon blankly. He can’t tell if Jimin is lying or not, he can only read this as a silent plea for help, some kind of guidance of how to continue after an internal embarrassment. And Jimin's lull of response seemed to try and comfort both Namjoon and himself with a half-truth.

He would be lying if he didn't feel a little bad for Jimin. The more Namjoon learns about him, the more he realizes how cut-off Jimin is from everyone around him. It must be lonely, but he doesn't have to be lonely anymore. 

Looking for an opportunity, Namjoon notices how the usually straight unstyled hair flows in waves from freshly cut layers like a black river. Though Jimin isn't flaunting it now, Namjoon can see the sides are closely shaved. 

He experiments by bringing his hand up to Jimin’s hair to feel the soft fuzz of the dramatic undercut with his fingertips. Grazing this light touch from Jimin's temple to follow the curve of his ear so when the trail ends his palm is cupping the younger's angular jaw. 

Jimin’s eyes soften, and his entire demeanor shifts, it seems they finally found the right playing field. A smile of small victory spreads across Namjoon's face and he catches Jimin's eyes drop to his cheeks where his dimples most likely indent. The light finally returns to Jimin's eyes again, and Namjoon feels like kissing him again.  

Namjoon leans in to brush his nose with Jimin's in a soft Eskimo kiss as his thumb caresses the side of Jimin's face he holds. 

"Show me," Jimin whispers. 

“Later.”

“Okay.” Jimin nods.

"So, was that a yes earlier?" Namjoon asks, letting the palm that cups Jimin's cheek slide down to his shoulder. 

Jimin giggles with a little smile that makes Namjoon's heart swell. 

"Yes, it's a yes." 

"Tomorrow then? We could go biking on a trail that looks over the Han and find a place to eat after?" Namjoon is an outdoorsy man. He hikes often which is what keeps him fit, finding pleasure in this regular activity. This date idea is something Namjoon thought critically about when he was plotting out a date they would both enjoy. He was sure the younger would enjoy the fresh air after being trapped in a fusty library with him. Yet, Jimin's face twisted with disappointment. 

"What is it?" Namjoon says. He takes his hand away from Jimin's shoulder, indecisive of where to put his hand now.

"I don't have a bike." 

"Oh," Namjoon sighs, relieved, "we can rent one, there are places all around that rent bikes. It's no trouble." 

"Alright, that sounds really nice," Jimin chirps. He steps back, letting Namjoon breathe.

"Tomorrow, five 'o'clock?" 

"Yeah, text me where." 

Namjoon nods before turning to leave. 

He throws back his gaze as he opens the door, “Bye, Jimin,”

“Bye, hyung.”