❝ put your lips on my skin and you might ignite it ❞
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chanwoo had always wondered how it would happen — how his death would unfold.

it was an idle question, one that crawled through his mind like an unwanted visitor, a thread of discomfort always lurking in the corners of his thoughts. the prospect of death had never seemed far away, not to him. it was as if, somewhere in the fog of his mind, he had always known it was coming.

but how? that was the question that rattled around in the dark recesses of his mind, unanswered and all the more ominous for it.

would he die in agony, in sharp, white-hot bursts of pain that tore through his body, each breath feeling like a knife against his chest? or would it be slow — graceful even, like the final exhale of a leaf falling from a tree? would he simply close his eyes one night, the world fading from his senses, slipping into an endless sleep, quiet and unremarkable? no dreams, no nightmares. nothingness.

and what if, he often wondered, what if it were to be the death of him young — before he had even learned to live, before the weight of regret could settle fully upon his shoulders?

so many questions, too many. none of them answered.

chanwoo did not want to die, but he did not want to live, either. there was something about the sharp edges of existence that gnawed at him, making each breath a little more laborious, each step more of a burden than the last.

sometimes he found himself wondering if his soul had long since detached itself from his body, floating somewhere far above him, watching with dull eyes as his life played out, a series of dull, familiar motions. he had grown numb to his own reflection. what was the point, after all?

the words echoed in his mind like a dark prayer, and they weren't his own. they belonged to his mother.

"you bring shame upon us." her voice had trembled, not with sorrow, but with disgust.

her eyes, swollen from weeping, never met his. instead, they stared into the floor as though she could burn holes into the wood with the force of her gaze. he had always wished she would look at him, really look at him, but in that moment, he knew she never would again.

and his father — his father's words still seethed in his blood, a venomous reminder of the night they drove him out ;

"your very existence is a sin!" his voice, thick with rage, had almost shattered the air between them. it was a sentence passed down, a verdict that chanwoo had been too small to understand until it was too late.

loving a boy — while being a boy — was a betrayal of something sacred. a crime against the family, against the universe, against the world itself. and he had known it then, at the tender age of thirteen, that he was already broken. a terrible sinner. his very skin felt like a grotesque mark, a stain he could never wash away. it burned inside of him, a shame so deep it became part of his bones. a terrible abnormality, something that did not belong in the world.

but no one knew, not really. and if no one knew, did it really matter?

chanwoo tried to convince himself that it didn't. that his secret — his guilt, his burden — was only his to carry, buried deep where no one could see. but that, too, became a lie. he had to see it. he had to feel it. and by the time he was sixteen, he had learned that no matter how far he buried it, no matter how hard he tried to forget it, that weight would always find its way back to him. it pressed down on him like the air inside a coffin, heavy, suffocating.

and then, the night everything cracked open.

it was his first kiss, and he still couldn't remember the boy's name. the kiss had been sharp, awkward — a messy thing, full of unexpressed words. but in that moment, something inside of him had felt alive. the kind of alive that terrified him.

and then the world had erupted in flames. his parents had seen him, their eyes wide with disbelief, with horror. it was as if they had uncovered something monstrous, something unholy, like they had discovered a twisted, grotesque creature living beneath their roof. this thing, this son of theirs... a monster.

the shouting, the accusations, the fists that fell upon him like heavy stones — he could still feel it all. still taste the metallic bite of blood in his mouth.

"disgusting! shameful! an abomination!" his father had yelled, each word more suffocating than the last.

his mother, barely more than a shadow in the corner, had stood frozen, the words from her lips so soft, yet so cutting: "we don't know you anymore."

and just like that, he was no longer their son. he was a stranger, a curse, something they had to discard. the door had slammed shut behind him with finality, the sound reverberating through his bones, leaving him cold and alone in the dark.

and there was no place left to run. no place to hide.

so, in the nights that followed, chanwoo wandered, hollowed out by the memory of what he had lost, searching for something — anything — that could ease the ache. he was a boy without a home, without hope, nothing more than an echo of the person he once thought he was. bruised, battered, broken in ways no one could see, he had trudged from one half-hearted job interview to the next, each rejection feeling like another blow to his spirit.

who would hire someone like him? the filthy kid who had nothing to his name but bruises and shame? who would dare to give him a chance when he was nothing more than a stain on society?

they called him a delinquent, a lost cause. he could feel their eyes on him, measuring him, judging him. they saw his brokenness, his raw edges, and they turned away.

at seventeen, chanwoo committed his first crime.

it had been inevitable — he had no choice. he had to live. he had to eat. the hunger gnawed at him, relentless and insatiable. every time he shut his eyes, it crept in, whispering in his ear. steal. the thought had been as natural as breathing, a quiet murmur in the back of his mind that he tried, and failed, to ignore.

it had been the simplest thing, almost too easy. his fingers had curled around the wallet without a thought, as though they had already known the motion, the act. the weight of it settled into his palm, the leather smooth and cool against his skin. it was alive in his hand, a silent pulse, beating in time with his heart.

his pulse roared in his ears, loud, frantic, but his hands — they didn't shake. they were steady. too steady.

the world outside had not noticed, nor did it care, but inside, something had shifted. he had crossed an invisible line, one he never thought he would, but now that he had, it felt almost right. a strange sense of purpose settled in him, something that had been missing for so long. a spark in the dark.

it became routine after that.

his life, if it could still be called a life, became a rhythm of petty thefts and failed attempts at normalcy. sometimes he got caught. sometimes, it was the officers' hands that clasped around his wrists, their eyes hard, their voices grating, asking questions that had no answers.

and then the beatings came. rhey were brutal, but they were familiar. the sting of fists against skin, the heavy thud of his body hitting pavement ; it was nothing new. just another layer of pain he had grown accustomed to.

but the first time he hurt someone — really hurt them — was something else entirely.

it had happened fast. a push, a shove. the man had been much older, much bigger, but chanwoo had snapped, the rage inside of him blooming out like a fire. the man had gone down quickly, and for a split second, there had been silence. then came the scream — the sickening, primal sound of flesh meeting flesh. and as the man crumpled to the ground, blood trickling from his nose, chanwoo stood there, stunned, his breath coming in jagged gasps.

but he hadn't felt disgust. he hadn't recoiled in horror, as he thought he might. instead, there had been something else. a thrill, almost. it had surged through him, coursing through his veins like electricity. his heart had beaten harder, faster, the adrenaline flooding his senses.

so this is how it feels, he thought. this is what the world has made of me.

he had given it back. the cruelty. the hatred. he had simply returned it, let it flow through his veins, and pour out of his fists. and somehow, it felt like justice — his justice. the world had been so cruel to him, so relentless. what else was there to do but give it back?

maybe this was how he would die ; not in a bed, not peacefully in his sleep, but with blood on his hands and nothing left inside him. not even regret. no, there was no place for that. just emptiness. a hollow heart, an empty soul, and the quiet hum of inevitability, the steady drip drip drip of time passing, as if it had all been predestined.

maybe he had already started dying a long time ago.

now, at thirty, chanwoo had a real job.

it wasn't glamorous. nothing like what he had imagined when he was younger, dreaming of a life far from the muck he had been born into. no, now he was a courier. he moved through the city's veins, carrying things from one place to another, the contents of his deliveries unimportant. just packages, little parcels, some of which he could guess at, others which he'd never dare ask about. people who didn't want questions, who paid in cash, never looked him in the eye.

the job had been born from necessity. it had been five years since his boss had taken him in — a last resort, a man desperate enough to look past his troubled past. chanwoo had taken the job because there was nothing else, nothing else that could promise even the smallest morsel of stability. the money was better than starving, after all. and sometimes, survival was enough.

but the past... it never truly stayed behind, did it?

no, the past had a way of catching up to you, clawing at your heels, dragging you back into the shadows where you'd always been. and so, inevitably, it happened: his boss must have finally grown tired of him. perhaps it had been the endless problems — missteps, failures, slips of trust. or maybe it was just the fact that a man like him could never escape the gravity of his own history.

that day, the air had felt thick, heavy with the kind of silence that stretches just a little too long. chanwoo stood in front of his boss, the man's face unreadable. there was no anger, no frustration, just... resignation. with a single flick of his wrist, the boss slid the termination letter across the desk.

not a word. not even a glance.

chanwoo stared at the paper for a long moment, the weight of it sinking into his chest.

"you're done. don't come back." his boss had said, his voice low, devoid of anything resembling compassion.

a simple gesture, a dismissal. nothing left but the lingering scent of a goodbye that hadn't been spoken aloud. chanwoo didn't speak. there was nothing left to say. he had already known, deep down, this moment was coming. it always had been.

with a hollow breath, he took the letter, crumpling it in his fist before he left. the door clicked shut behind him, and he was alone once more, standing on the edge of a world that had no place for him, no future, no promise of anything but more of the same.

the city stretched before him, cold and indifferent, as it always had been. the weight of his past, his sins, his failures — they would follow him. always.

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a fist slammed into his face, sharp, brutal — a punishing blow that snapped his head to the side. chanwoo barely flinched. his skin had grown used to pain, accustomed to it like an old companion.

"you little son of a bitch," the man hissed, his hands gripping chanwoo's collar, his breath rancid with cheap whiskey and rage, thick with the stench of desperation. "where the fuck is my money, huh? huh?!"

chanwoo let out a slow breath, tasting blood on his tongue, the coppery tang mixing with the sourness of the air in the dim, claustrophobic subway restroom. he smiled, just a little, barely more than a twitch of his lips.

"which money?" his voice was low, casual, like he was asking for directions, not for his life to be spared.

another hit came, this time harder, more savage. his cheek burned, his head snapping back again, but still, chanwoo didn't blink. he didn't even really feel it. his whole body ached with the kind of numbness that only comes after years of the same damn thing.

it hurts like a bitch, damn.

"five years!" the man's voice was an animal growl now, cracking with frustration. he swung again, the blow landing with a sickening thud. "five fucking years and you haven't even paid back a third?!"

the man staggered back, gasping for breath, struggling to keep his balance on the slick, grimy tiles beneath them. chanwoo could feel the tremor of power in the man's movements, the last remnants of control slipping through his fingers like sand.

chanwoo opened his mouth, his usual sarcasm ready to spill out, but he stopped himself. the man, already on edge, had pulled a knife from his pocket.

ah... shit.

the blade gleamed under the flickering fluorescent light, its sharp edge catching the soft glow as the man slowly brought it up to chanwoo's face.

"chanwoo, chanwoo..." the man sang, his voice sweet but dripping with malice. "you know i like you, hm? it'd be a real shame to kill such a pretty little thing like you, hm?"

chanwoo felt a chill creep down his spine, but he didn't show it. he turned his head slightly, letting the blade slide along his skin, the cold steel pressing hard against his left cheek. not enough to cut... yet. the man's rancid breath mingled with the suffocating stench of piss and mold that clung to the bathroom, and chanwoo's stomach lurched.

he could almost taste it — the sickening rot in the air, the vile heat of the man's body so close to his own.

"ah..." chanwoo muttered, barely above a whisper, his mind scrambling for anything that might buy him a moment more. "you know i've been as busy as a dog lately—"

"2,438,531,000 won exactly," the man cut him off, his voice sharp, final. "you owe me two fucking billion won. and the longer you take, the more it'll increase."

chanwoo swallowed, the dry lump in his throat thick with dread. he's going to kill me. i'm fucking dead.

the numbers echoed in his skull, each digit more suffocating than the last. a whole lifetime wouldn't be enough to pay it back — hell, even five lifetimes wouldn't do it. they both knew it, and chanwoo had known it from the start. the man had been patient, but this patience was wearing thin. his heart raced, his thoughts scrambling, but the truth was there, sitting like a weight in his chest.

it was a miracle he had made it this far. five years of running, of bargaining, of scraping by with the last scraps of hope — and now, the end was finally coming.

"this is your last warning," the man said, his voice low and deadly.

he pressed the blade harder into chanwoo's skin, and chanwoo could feel the faintest scrape as the cold steel cut just a hair's breadth into the flesh of his cheek. a thin line of blood welled up, trickling down.

"did i fucking make myself clear?!"

chanwoo gritted his teeth, nodding slowly. the blade burned into him, and for a moment, he could feel the press of his own mortality. one final push, and it would be over. one slip of the hand, one wrong move, and this was where it would end. but he couldn't show fear. no, that was something he had abandoned a long time ago.

the man seemed to take that as compliance. satisfied, he gave chanwoo's unmarred cheek a few sharp slaps, the sound ringing in the damp air. each one felt like a mark burned into his soul. with a grunt, the man straightened up, pocketing the knife. without another word, he turned and strode out of the bathroom, the door creaking closed behind him with a finality that made the air in the room feel even thicker.

chanwoo stood there for a long moment, his hand hovering near the cut on his cheek, blood still trickling down in thin, sluggish lines. his head spun. his body ached. his entire being felt as if it were suspended in some kind of awful limbo. he could still hear the man's voice echoing in his skull, feel the sting of his words, the promise of violence that hung in the air like poison.

and yet, as he wiped the blood from his face, all chanwoo could think was: i'm still alive.

still alive...

but for how long?

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