Yongguk awakens to grit in his eyes, in his mouth, a dull pain radiating all over his body.
He awakens to the lingering chill of morning, the brightest star and dreadful moon still white silhouettes in the sky.
In the corner, what used to be a bed frame creaks against the barest breeze coming through a torn window, the posts about to topple with huge chunks of the finished wood gouged out of them.
His chest feels empty and cool, hollow and burned out.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he lets his gaze roam over the remains of the room, over the ruined wardrobe and curtains, the overturned furniture, over the drying,
dark splashes of blood.
The only thing that is not ruined is the mirror standing by the arch of the bedroom door, the cloth that usually covers it reduced to rags.
He sees himself in it, unscathed and unmarred save for the ink scrawled into the skin of his forearms. He’s running out of room on them.
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