MARCH 27, 2019.
4:45 PM
JUNG HOSEOK.

PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR FROM PANJIN DISTRICT MISSING

out of sheer boredom, jung hoseok flicks through old newspaper articles he finds stacked inside the bottom counter. most are political statements on the economy, a handful on celebrity chick flicks, and a meager amount on cases such as this one (jung hoseok skips through these ones without pure hesitation. he isn't a big fan of police cases—particularly these odd disappearance ones—, he finds them unsettling to read).

there's nothing to do. business is as slow as usual.

it isn't a surprise. a small, shabby convenience store at the centerface of a sordid alley. the roads around this area are not exactly ideal, and the lack of proper renovation and standoff-ish qualities just drives everyone out.

the electricity is out because of the construction next door—must've interfered with the wires or something (hoseok doesn't really care) so he's resorted to lighting cheap unscented candles near the counter and relying on mere sunlight from the windows.

it's not like he can complain. a college dropout with three jobs to keep a dingy apartment near a construction site with a 12/5 subjection of noise pollution (not his fault the tuition to continue pre-med costs more than both his kidneys and half a portion of his soul—an unfortunate price for being poor in a capitalist economy) but hoseok does the best he can to save up and (hopefully) manage to continue pre-med.

fuck capitalism.

"afternoon," hoseok greets, sparing a brief glance at the man and down the counter where he sprawls a couple of stuff hoseok could care less about. "that everything for you?"

nice—a customer. he barely gets any nowadays with that new store a few blocks away. he's not surprised they'd choose a cleaner one than this gloomy shithole.

he doesn't reply.

"ooookay," hoseok drawls. "that'll be 18000 won, please."

no reply.

and that's fine. he could be shuffling through his pockets for some change or something—nothing wrong with that. but the thing is, there's literally no movement at all—it's like he's just standing there completely still.

hoseok stares at the grey butane lighter on top of the pile the man has sprawled on the counter (he assumes the man must be a habitual smoker of some sort—honestly, what's so good about smoking? it literally damages your lungs). it's a cheap one, and the design looks awfully funky so it can't help but stand out like a sore thumb.

he looks up.

the man is staring at the article.

hoseok smiles sheepishly and absentmindedly organizes the stack. "yeah—it's um, old news. from uh, two years ago, i think? sorry, the counter's really, really messy—i was reading some of this old junk to pass the time, i'm so sorry."

red hair. that's what hoseok last catches from the article before pushing it aside.

the man stays still.

"that'll be 18000 won," hoseok says again slowly. "please."

there's this pregnant pause before the man does this weird thing—and it's creepy. it's just plain fucking creepy that hoseok freezes momentarily because this bastard is staring right at him. it's dull and he's not blinking—this bastard's not even fucking blinking and it's not helping that hoseok is a class-A coward in regards to every situation ever and is awfully and terribly sleep-deprived at the moment.

"that'd be 18000 won," hoseok says again. he's nervous.

the man stares at him.

"sir, please," hoseok says, attempting to laugh it off. "is anything like, wrong or something—can i uh, help you in any way? because like, you're really starting to freak me out right now and—"

red hair.

hoseok's eyes shift to the newspaper article.

hoseok's eyes widen. "you're—you're him—" hoseok grabs the paper frantically. "you're him, aren't you? the missing detective?" hoseok takes a good look at him and shoves the paper in his face. "i'm right, aren't i? you're him—"

it all happens so fast because suddenly the man has his hands around hoseok's neck—and hoseok can't breathe. his hands are grasping at his throat and hoseok's fingers uselessly claw at his hands as he heaves small, ragged gasps. park jimin's fingers curl around hoseok's neck and he's struggling—

hoseok manages to grab the candle from the counter and frantically splashes it at the detective's face. his grasp falters and hoseok falls—

"what the actual fuck?" hoseok yells as he struggles to breathe. "you're fucking crazy!"

his eyes widen.

park jimin's face is melting.

hoseok had just poured hot wax on his face, understandable, but a face doesn't fucking melt like that. yes, it would scald—it would damage your skin like any normal injury would from a burn. what's scary is that park jimin is unfazed. he's staring at hoseok with the same dull expression. but his face. it's melting.

just like wax.

"your face," hoseok says in disbelief, "what's—what's happening to your face?"

there's utter silence, like the sheer, utter silence before breaking glass shatters on concrete.

and he stares.

jung hoseok watches as the missing investigator from panjin district walks out of the store in broad daylight, eyes fixed solely at him.

they're dull.

-
i promise it gets better ahAAAAAA ... anyway, how are u guys???? hows quarantine??? please stay safe and stay healthy! always remember to eat well and wash ur hands!