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Summary
The cold caress of a phantom hand, fingertips grazing along the slope of his nose and tracing the line of his jaw. He is drowning in visions; flashes of dark tufts of hair, crimson pools of metallic liquid, low lights of a bar Jisung has never stepped foot in and the labored breathing of a set of lungs that is not his own. A strange feeling of elation, euphoria coursing through his veins which throb in his arms and neck. His own body is standing stock-still, outside the bar, and he watches himself as his shoulder is grabbed by a police officer. Jisung feels jealousy unlike anything he has ever possessed, a carnal urge to rip the officer’s ribs out of his body and lick the blood clean from bone.
“While there is little to no information regarding the creature attack, the only thing we can do is hope and pray he has fled the city for good.”
Or: Jisung gets a box. Inside that box, Minho is waiting patiently.