Chapter Text
The whispers were a suffocating shroud, seeping into the marrow of my bones. "Where are you running, little one? Don't be afraid of us. We will not hurt you. You are our precious little one, only we can set you free from all these bonds. Just say yes, darling. Just give in to the darkness. We promise you, it has its own pleasure as it's gonna slowly consume you." The words were a chorus of dark, deep voices, swirling around me, each syllable a venomous caress. Long, bony fingers, cold as grave dust, wrapped around my neck, slowly, deliberately cutting off my air supply. Not enough to kill me, just enough to plunge me into the delicious, terrifying realm of unconsciousness.
I knew they came for me. Every night.
They still do, even in this white box they call a room, where the walls press in like a tomb. Here, they strap me down to the bed, the rough canvas digging into my skin, a cruel parody of protection. The nurses, their faces a mixture of pity and professional detachment, give me those blank stares. They think I'm crazy. They think I'm delusional because I see Min Yoongi and Kim Taehyung, my bosses, in my dreams.
They don't understand. They read the news. They know about the plane crash, the fiery wreckage, the official pronouncements of death. They believe the headlines, the eulogies, the tearful tributes. They think I'm grieving, hallucinating.
But they don't know them. Not truly.
The Chasm of Transformation
Before the crash, before the whispers, before the cold, bony fingers, they were just… them. Yoongi, for all his sharp intellect and sometimes blunt demeanor, had a dry wit that could disarm anyone. He was the kind of person who seemed reserved but paid attention to everything, often offering an unexpected word of encouragement or a perfectly timed, cynical joke. I remember late nights in the studio, Yoongi hunched over the soundboard, silently bringing me a stress ball when I was overwhelmed.
Then there was Taehyung. He was the light, the effervescent energy that balanced Yoongi's intensity. Always with a warm smile, a contagious laugh, and an uncanny ability to find beauty in the mundane. He'd cheer you up with a silly dance or a heartfelt compliment, treating everyone not just as colleagues, but as friends, valuing connection above all else.
We weren't just employees; we were a team, almost a family. They believed in my potential, encouraged my ideas, and celebrated our successes. These weren't just distant, untouchable figures; they were real people, with quirks and kindness and ambition.
This is what makes the current nightmare so unbearable. The voices that promise consumption now, once offered mentorship. The fingers that choke my breath, once clapped me on the back in congratulations. The eyes that glow with predatory hunger, once held warmth and genuine concern.
The Struggle Within
Every waking moment is a fight, a desperate clench against the encroaching tide of memory and desire. When the nurses leave, and the sterile white room hums with the silence of my own panicked breathing, the voices begin to seep in, even without the darkness. Not the full, suffocating chorus of the night, but insidious whispers that hint at the pleasures promised, the freedom dangled.
They tell me, "Why fight, little one? This is a cage. We offer boundless skies." My own thoughts, once a clear stream, are now muddied by their influence. A part of me, a deep, weary part, yearns to surrender. To stop fighting the current and simply let it carry me away. The exhaustion is profound, a bone-deep ache that no amount of sleep can alleviate. Because even sleep is their domain.
During the day, strapped down, I focus on anything real. The frayed thread in the institutional blanket. The faint stain on the ceiling tile. The rhythmic beep-beep of some unseen medical device from down the hall. I try to ground myself in these mundane details, to build a wall of normalcy against the supernatural horror that stalks my nights.
But the real struggle isn't just about resisting. It's about denying the seductive pull. Min Yoongi, with his cutting intellect, knows exactly how to dissect my fears, my loneliness. "They think you're mad," his voice, a phantom whisper, reminds me. "They keep you locked away. But we… we understand. We accept you." And Kim Taehyung, once so warm, so empathetic, now uses that very quality to lure me. "Imagine," his voice croons, "no more pain. No more judgment. Only peace. Only us."
They offer to take away the suffering, the very real agony of being disbelieved, of being caged. They offer a kind of dark peace, a twisted liberation from the constraints of a world that labels me insane. It’s a powerful temptation, especially when my own mind, battered and bruised, starts to echo their promises.
Sometimes, in the quietest hours, I find myself almost agreeing, the word "yes" hovering on my lips. My throat aches with the effort of holding it back. Is this madness? Or is it a desperate plea for an end to this torment?
What keeps me fighting? A flicker of something. A memory of the world before the crash, before the whispers, before the shadows of my bosses became this monstrous reality. A memory of laughter, of sunlight, of a life untainted by this supernatural dread. It's a tiny, fragile thread, but it's enough to keep me from unraveling completely.
I remind myself that their "freedom" is consumption. Their "peace" is oblivion. I remind myself that even if the world thinks I'm crazy, I am still me. And giving in would mean losing that, forever. So I bite down on my tongue, clench my fists, and prepare for the night, for the inevitable descent into their terrifying embrace, hoping that just one more time, I can resist.