Bunny Cam | JJK

Fire 1

The man paced as fast as his heavy legs could take him, trying his best to seem confident and not an object of suspicion. Sweat was building in his temple and he could feel it. In that moment, all of his senses were at their peak and he'd probably be able to feel the flutter of a fly's wings or a mole beneath his feet. As he wasn't the most athletic, he was already out of breath from the steps he had taken, but he clamped his mouth shut. His eyes wandered around everywhere, staying no place more than a few seconds.

When he opens the doors of the building, he's greeted with another presence.

"Good evening Mr. Jang." A young janitor, probably his son's age tells him. It has an unsettling effect on him – one where his eyes widen, and eyebrows raise. He responds with a forced smile, teeth clamoring faintly, as he continues to walk on by.

"Yes, good evening." The worker's pupils follow the blue suited man all the way to the elevator, where they are involuntary required to make eye contact again as he waits for his lift to arrive. Another forced smile from his side.

The elevator doors open quickly to Jang's relief, and he gets inside. He hits the top floor immediately and looks towards his shoes. For a few seconds he just blinks, trying to see if this was some hellish nightmare he was stuck inside. If he could somehow wake up to a better reality. With her lying next to him.

The lift reaches the top floor and lets him out, he quietly walks into the windy night enclosed by the vacant terrace. There he pauses, running a palm on his bare head a few times to ease his discomfort. She did that for him too, it always calmed him down.

His phone rings. Again.

"Y...Hello...yes I'm at the rooftop. Yes, I'm alone."

The aging man shifts on his legs as the distorted voice replies to him. It was that contrast of the unusually deep baritone in one ear and noiseless summer night in his other that ran a chill up his spine.

"I'll do it...but please can I ask wh- no! NO! I'm sorry! I won't do it again. I'll do what you asked!"

"Just please," He begs, bringing his hands up in the darkness to his head, "Don't send those photographs to my wife..."

He sniffles bitter and exhausted, as the call ends and he's once again completely alone. Eyeing his phone, he stands there for a bit just exhaling through his nose. The calm before the storm let's say. Never in his life has he considered himself a kind man, he always took what he wanted from who he wanted as much as life allowed him to. His wife was just some rich whore he managed to impregnate in the 80's, he didn't mean to make a life with her. He also didn't mean to just watch as life left her. But he can't change what happened; he can't change that they have a son who rarely speaks to them, he can't change that he found another woman – much younger, much tighter. And he can't change taking a generous life insurance policy out on her ill body. Divorce isn't something he could afford, not when he's this close.

Instead was he a murderer? No, he couldn't cause someone's death even if he was hoping for another's. So that has to account for something, right? It was the least he earned to be able to love himself...didn't he? With a deep sigh and a muffled sob, he clicks on his boss's name and waits as his phone starts ringing, holding it next to his ear.

"Hello?"

He did it...he called him. Now he should start talking but no – the words won't come out. Should he tell him the truth? Should he stick to the script? All he could do was stand there with his mouth catching flies as the other line repeats his greetings.

"Hello? Jang, what the fuck? I know it's you. What the fuck do you want at this time of night?"

Compared to the other call, this man's voice was louder, and he hated it twice as much. Perhaps this was destiny, a twisted fate of all the choices he's made in the past couple of years. Kim had always been a brat, the reason Jang dreaded going into the office he should've originally been in charge of. The brat didn't have half the qualifications he did, nor did he have half the rights to speak to him in such a belittling manner. Nonetheless, luck only delivers to the wealthy or sons of the arrogantly blessed. Seniority holds no place in competition to those privileged enough to win. Perhaps this was karma, another card of destiny – taking back what was unfairly given.

He failed to register the threat looming right behind him, caught up in his pleasing daydream of a payback. His own karma watching him with hawk eyes.

If this is destiny...then he doesn't have to feel bad about this, does he? It was always meant to happen, and he was just doing what the cards told him. He was just a messenger delivering a message.

And so, with a large gulp, deliver he did.