Nadir ◈ Seungjin

50 ◈ The Seraphim

Here we gooooooooooo

Someone gets their ass kicked their chapter.

Forewarning: Blood, violence, use of firearms, death

The night was cold.

Colder than before as the sky grew frigid. Freezing as it slipped underneath the hoodie heated with another's body warmth, caressing the dried flecks of a mess he was beneath in those pale hands. Growing frosted, the abysmal dark beginning to turn hazy. Greyed against the horizon.

Seungmin took one final breath, sucking the stale air farther into his shaking lungs in hopes the sharp freeze would be enough to calm their quivers. Hoping beyond all else, as he and the other two hustled through the abandoned complex, he would be able to draw back the impossibly heavy weight of the hammer. He would be able to control those fearful shakes, loose nerves, weak jitters that rendered his otherwise strong muscles useless, rapid breaths, long enough for him to focus and pull the trigger back far enough for one of the seven bullets left in the chamber of the revolver staining his hands to ignite. Begging, his hands would ignore the morality of his decision, and be able to commit when those eyes met his again.

Hoping, he would be able to finish this without another death. Without having to sink a bullet or two into that vampire. Without having to take his life.

Both hands steadying his grip on the revolver, he wandered the empty spaces between the tall buildings. His footsteps light against the gravel floors despite the shoes he wore kicking up the dusted gravel disturbed with the slightest of his movements, and the two who accompanied him. Changbin head, the crunching of the steel metal against the pebbles alerting anyone to their movements in the hazy dark. Felix trailing behind them both, spinning around himself to check their surroundings, to listen for any disturbances which may have needed their attention. Rolling from heel to toe as he hunched ever so slightly, sneaking through the weaved maze those ruins contained them within. A labyrinth. Meandering with his cautious steps through that eternal torsion.

An arena.

A ring, where the shadows met him underneath the Elysian glow of the starlight suspended far from his reach. Where his own weapon would be brandished towards the creeping monsters that he followed without a hint of rationale in his mind, that slipped behind him with rattling scales warning of their encroaching danger, that chased him with smirks and gazes accusing him of his every sin he had yet to commit. Where they would try, desperately to bite into him, to sink their fangs far into his skin, his throbbing veins, his banging headache, his pulsing heart, they would taste the flavor of his blood again, they would nose along the scent of his identity, before ripping him apart. Where he had to beg, with every fracture and torn thread of his body, not to freeze up.

Not to lock up.

Not again.

No matter how the shadows squirmed in the silence, he couldn't yield to them.

He wouldn't.

Never again.

Never, as his hand tightened down on the frigid judgement of the revolver in his hand. With a blind eye, how he would be the one to tear the world bit by bit. How he would be the one. He would be the one to decide, to chose, against the adrenaline consuming his mind, against the want to decay away on the sprouting floors, against the wrath he wished to cock that hammer back with, he had to keep a level mind. He had to keep himself focused, concentrated on the sensations of the world sinking around him. Disappearing around him as he focused on that monster. Where he lurked, slithering off to hide. Finding him to deliver the rapture he was vying for when he bared his fangs to the world and claimed himself to be a king of the undead.