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Summary
There was nothing else in existence except the taught string of anguish and yearning tied around each of their middles tight enough to strangle, to choke. There was no wind, no sound. There was no pavement, no foliage, no life except their own, and even their souls were on the way to exiting out of their vessels, suspended in the air between them—just two carcasses gazing at each other's exposed flesh, at each other's gaping wounds and potent vulnerability. Rumi bled out in front of Jinu, and Jinu sniffed the air as if he could taste the heartache and enjoyed it. Relished in it, savoured it, craved it.
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Or in which Jinu will go to any lengths necessary to convince Rumi he is not worth saving.