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Controlled gentleness governs the weight of the other’s hands, the other’s actions.
Neither born out of any fear towards him and the capability of the volcanic eruption of psychotic rage that rests inside him nor due to any machination to lull him to a false sense of security. It wouldn’t have worked anyway, not at this stage, not when his eyes are already peeled open, forcibly, into an understanding of just what humans like him are capable of.
No, this sort of gentleness is out of an earnest desire to treat him gently. At least, as close to earnestness as the other is capable of.
The other’s hands are the same, as is his voice, even if his face looks a little different now.
“This?” Moon-Jo asks lightly, one hand tapping at the edge of his jaw, while his other hand adjusts the bracelet on his wrist. “Make-up is a wonderful creation.”
Jong-Woo doesn’t have any knowledge about make-up aside from the fact that every woman he knows wears them. He isn’t surprised that Moon-Jo’s able to wield it skillfully as a weapon. He’s hiding in plain sight, brandishing a smile to charm the nurses and using make-up to contour his face to something that is oddly divorced from his pictures on his IDs and his pictures as the Yu Spring’s Dentistry’s Seo Moon-Jo.
“How did you do it?” Jong-Woo asks, voice already settled on a register that’s far from the hoarseness of his all-consuming anger and murderous impulse from before. He should be the furthest thing from calm, but he is. There are hardly any ripples on the surface of his deep well.
He did not lie when he’d said he’d killed Moon-Jo. He’s believed it with a force of certainty that couldn’t be swayed. And yet, he isn’t all that surprised to see Moon-Jo saunter into his hospital room, with a jawline that looks sharper, with a nose that looks a tad flatter, with a forehead that seems opened wider. It’s still the same set of eyes though, the same searing stare that seems to stab straight into his soul.
If there’s anyone who can accomplish such a handy disappearing magic trick, it’s got to be Moon-Jo.
Whoever’s said that the devil is found in darkness, clearly haven’t met Moon-Jo. Right now, he’s here, under the bright fluorescent lights of the hospital, in a room that has its windows opened to welcome more daylight in. He’s pale, but it only serves to make him look effervescent instead of creepily sick.
Moon-Jo’s finger traces the biting cold of the metal bracelet, angled so that his fingernail digs into the veins of his upturned wrist. “Hm. Isn’t it convenient that Unit 302 has a similar build and hair as me?”
Jong-Woo closes his eyes. The half-finished Word document banishes from in front of him. Moon-Jo, seated beside his bed on a plastic chair, breathes loud enough for Jong-Woo to hear him, a steady metronome that grounds him. Moon-Jo’s fingers dance from his wrist to his upturned right palm, tiny pinpricks of contact that he’s surprised to discover did not draw blood.
“It’s also convenient that his face was bludgeoned to the point that it’s unrecognizable,” Moon-Jo continues, steady like the mountain stream slicing against the earth. Slow and steady in its erosion of everything that blocks his way. “Oh, and his fingertips have been rendered useless too. Sadly, he can only be identified via his dental records.”
Jong-Woo murmurs, “Which you’ve already dealt with.”
“Which I’ve already dealt with.” Moon-Jo sounds positively delighted—none of the faked cheerfulness and friendliness from before. This one is almost embarrassing in its obvious ecstasy, but Jong-Woo finds that he likes this. Much like how he’s felt about the other’s blatant stalking, it’s become something of an acquired taste. It’s almost comforting, in itself. Here is someone who likes every part of him, who encourages him to let loose. Here is someone who can watch over him, even if everything is burning around him.
“And so, with Seo Moon-Jo being declared as ‘deceased’ while Yoon Jong-Woo is exonerated of any charges…” Moon-Jo trails off, his voice tapering off in sharp contrast to the way he interlocks their hands, a physical manifestation of his unwillingness to part. “…We can do whatever we want, can’t we, honey?”
People are dangerous, his mother had warned him.
This person holding his hand and declaring his love for him isn’t a person. He’s a devil. He’s a devil. He’s a devil.
Jong-Woo breathes in, asks, “What do we do next?”, and jumps into the abyss.
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