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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME... SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2001, JUNG HANBYUL. )
( TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE, VIOLENCE, MENTAL ILLNESSES, CAR ACCIDENT. )
in these kaleidoscopic dreams, fracture of the mosaic has never really dissipated. instead, it blooms to the full moon, leveraging a gash wide enough in the cosmos that nothing can suture it shut. and this wound, this wound buds and wilts in the seasons of decay, whittling into its eventual death. rinse, lather, repeat. this tale will be told through his tattered mouth, about a man whose nightmares haunt him enough he eventually hangs himself off the chandelier, the beads of its jewel-crusted ends dangling from his choked neck. and in here, he was birthed — a hysteric mother, umma is everything he’s ever wanted: deranged, lonely, and withering.
& so, the cycle of life begins: to consume or be consumed. umma chooses to devour everything like a vulture, licking flesh off the bones. she has always been a throned war, spine crafted out of unbent steel. she reigns in her empire while he carries the weight of his boyhood on his globed shoulders. say, a boy is not a boy without his own ghosts, whispering. say, a boy is not a boy without his nails filthy, digging. in the backyard cemetery, he buries the corpse of all his childish wishes, twinkle twinkle little stars now six feet underground.
seoul is burning, umma would tell him as a bedtime story — most of the times, it feels like a deathbed story. her truths are so distorted he doesn’t recognize her face anymore; and when she burns with the skeleton of her beloved aston martin, he’s barely startled. he is six, an omen. and in here, rests the residue of her ashes. and in here, rests the metal of her teeth. they have left marks so deep, indented forever in his flesh. he doesn’t miss her anymore.
a family friend believes that charity is to reassemble his childhood pieces, trying to mend them together again. he thinks it’s almost tragic, toys neglected on the floor, for he’s never learned how to play them — umma always taught him to play with his limbs, his fists. at eight, he’s dropped out of a judo lesson for the extreme violence exhibited, rendering a child injured too gravely. his ‘parents’ bow so much their spines snap. homeschooling becomes his life, until a gentleman offers them to take him to a school that can contain the beasts inside the boy.
the basilica provides him with an outlet for the darkness that swells, letting it flower with ease. there’s nothing that can resemble spring as much as how this boy sighs petals out of his lungs; they laugh at him for having ‘muggles’ as parents. he doesn’t understand how to speak back in tongues, so he speaks back in fists. their erupted laughter quietens, leaving too much iron on the floorboards. since then, people stop talking to him, keeping their voices in their blackening throats.
the corners of his mind start fragmenting with each sinister rumor, each transient thought. madness is hereditary — he’s been equipped with the manual to shattering since birth. he doesn’t know how to capture the grains of conscience that keep escaping the interstices of his fingers, so he constructs a coping mechanism: to fight, to live. he wears the veil of an anonymous man, calling himself zero. zero for the nullified intents. zero for the synthesized formula. it always starts at zero, before the plus, before the minus. he’s a crescendo of neutrality, he thinks, and he believes that it’s how he communicates what the monsters have been trying to convey. talks to the ghosts in his bones like friends; he doesn’t know how to remain sane without tearing himself apart to fallen, falling pieces. against the capillaries of this cityscape, he embodies the culture of justice, in spite of being nothing of that to himself.
a mid-winter fugue, where everything turns static in frost, and he’s looking into the mirror with thoughts haunting. in the reflection, he sees more snowfall than not. it feels like even the universe cries soft, frozen tears, reminding him of nights when rapture wasn’t too far from his fists. illusionary, almost telltale. these nights wither under his touch like brittle, white-stained branches. and in here, he learns to commemorate umma with all her artificial sanities, donning them like his robes all over again. and in here, he learns to coruscate like blistering winter dawns, sinking them into his layers of skin. and in here, he learns to die again, and again, and again.
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2022, ISOLDE SONG. )
( TRIGGER WARNING. PARENTAL DEATH, MURDER, FIRE. )
You, dear girl, are a flower that borne in the wild and taught to see a garden. Your parents wall up the wings of your great, sprawling house so that no one can interrupt the beautiful savagery of green and nothing, wolves and sparrows. You are a rose allowed to bloom, singular, in safety and knowledge. That is the tragedy of most flowers, you see: those that live in gardens never know there is more to see until they are pulled up by the root and limb and glimpse the faraway as they head to their tomb. Those outside of it have their petals swallowed whole.
When you are young, precious thing, you see gold. It is on your father’s wrist and around your mother’s neck, but most vividly you see it in the air: the lovely, twinkling champagne-thick halcyon that coats your room fondly as the sun goes down. It comes from the stained windows, the gilt of the walls and turns soft, kind. Gold is not as cold as some imagine. To you, it has always been quite kind. Your home is a picturesque storybook and the fairytale within it. I suppose that makes you the princess.
There are those that start the fires and those that put them out, darling dearest, and the ones that raise you are the latter. But it cannot be helped that this world is on fire, the cities burning, ships overturning in the great mouth of the sea while a girl screams you will turn it to ruins. Before you are old enough to understand (and this is a very deliberate age, see, that’s why your parents started then), you begin your transport across the globe with the ones that love you. Your father is an atlas and a roadmap, as much papyrus as the scrolls he seeks out and the runes he memorizes. Your mother is lavender and dragonscales, wild and wonderful and never afraid of anything.
Little one, you cannot quite understand it yet. They were chasing sunsets for you, looking for the last good place. For all the years they spent trying to make a good place, phoenixes in their own right, nobody begrudges them the time they spend trying not to fight but to forge. And it is enough, for a time; you and mother and father, chasing tigers in India and scarabs in Egypt. You get an education of oddity, taught on the sleeping back of your father, while your mother traces constellations into his back and the white canvas of the tent waves warmly in the sahara heat. You play puzzles which are not games and learn hide and seek with the knife edge of survival, teach you how to hide the sudden lightning that overtakes your body. They are warning you of something without giving you a name.
You, sweetling, grow as beautiful as you do full-brained, and there’s no way to mention which suits you more. Magic does not flow in you, it hums. It speaks warm and true, loud and sweet, and in turn you learn to be all this things in much as mind and body as you do blood.
You, you, you. You have no idea the things that have proceeded your birth, or that it has been looked after and waited for since a great-great-great-somebody you won’t ever know. Call it a prophecy without the audience. They’ve known you were coming for quite some time. But there are a great deal of things you do not know yet.
You think your parents are reaching for the places without fires, my love, but it is their hands that put them out. When you are old enough to run on your own and they are old enough to watch, they return to duties that cannot ever be put down. And so the globe-spanning increased, kept on, boats beating against past and present and fighting through sharp white waves for a better future. Eventually it comes time to return to the place you call home, the slight regularity within all your inconsistencies. Seoul, soul. Whatever is the difference?
Charming one, they fooled almost everyone but you. Beautiful enough and rich enough and old enough, they are welcomed back into society until they are not. You know it’s fraud, their entering, joining the smothering scaly thing they have spent all your years teaching you to reject. But you also understand there is a cause here, though you’ve yet to disconcern what. It takes several years – strong, good ones – full of suspicion before they come for them. There is never definitive proof of your parents’ roll within the Order, but rumour is enough. Like wolves, or rain, or ravens, they come. And you have no sight of it; the burning of your new home, the charred remains and no bodies left.
You are alone. I am sorry.
They have robbed you, little wolf, and then watch to see if you smile. Those that eat death will take you too if you brandish the same fire as your forefathers (foremothers) and you know as much. So you tie your hair up with a ribbon, return back to the old gold-house with its high windows and glittering walls, and sob in peace until you can face the fray again. There is bravery in feeling your heart break but letting it beat anyway.
They call you into court for christening or execution, and it’s you that decides which. You bow low to the elders, speak of your grief but nothing of your anger, your need for retribution. You leave hatred tucked under the slim bands of your lace stockings and hide it in the soles of your shoes – these are not weapons, only weights. But what lays behind your eyes is, and they know nothing of that.
There is talk of your gift with numbers, your way with fate, chosen one, but your parents took great care to never let them know the extent of it. So you do not let it go to waste. When they call you in to roll out their destiny like sheep’s bones and maiden organs, you use only half your mind and not the part beyond the veil – it’s easy enough to tell them minor futures when you have the majors written into your code.
In loving memory and retribution, you take up the little shop your loves left for you. Inamorata, a tiny little place that disappears and never returns to the same location, rarely for more than a flash of moon. Nobody knows how to find it unless they have been there before, and it’s a slim little legend in the streets – the magicks shop, filled with strange potions, bizarre crafts from across the globe and fortunes told by that pretty, golden girl.
(Would you like to know something wonderful, my girl? Not all good is lost, and not all love is dead. Not even the ones you adore most. They, like all phoenixes, do not perish in a fire. They can only rise again, with black-tipped wings and hot beaks. They are watching and wanting for you, precious one. Waiting for you to come home).
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2020, ELVIRE HANG. )
( TRIGGER WARNING. GORE. )
un. your mother.
your mother is kronos, the black-star death of the world and its beginning. her mouth gapes open, wet and dark and empty enough to dangle your feet over while you rest on her teeth. your mother is kronus, owner of the world before their is one.
your mother is the witch in the fairytale surrounded by sweetbread walls. she lives in the forest, she beckons inside. she eats children with that mouth. swallows them whole.
your mother is the witch and your mother is the god both.
your mother is a legend and your mother is a cautionary tale. nothing good ever comes from the beautiful ones who live in the woods, piping hot smoke out their pretty crystalline cabins.
your mother is a fox and your mother is a wolf, and she prowls without ever baring her teeth in the night. she kisses the necks of ghouls and goblins in the night. your mother is unafraid of the dark. your mother comes away with their flesh between her bicuspids when she pulls away.
your mother has many lovers, and your mother has many children. only three live. it is pointless to ask you their names. they only ever had bodies.
your mother keeps only the ones who birth full, birth whole, birth true.
your mother is a witch, your mother is a god, your mother is the tale they tell men to ward them off beautiful women. your mother is a vila.
deux. your sisters.
your sisters are two-fold. your sisters are younger, and older, and neither are your better.
your sisters learn as you do, perfecting the art of woe and widowdom at your mother’s wane feet at your place in the cabin. your sisters know as much and as little as their middle
your sisters are pale and lovely and look half like you but half foreign, like a dream that sticks out your ear in the moment you wake up. familiar, disorienting. dissimilar. your sisters share only their motherhood.
your sisters come to paris in the age they call the beautiful one, when wet spring mornings turn the streets into shining silver spiderwebs. they name it belle epoque in the years that come.
your sisters join hands. your sisters smile, each one of you feeling the mean black stone your mother has slipped under your tongues, the daggers between your teeth. your sisters hold your chin steady and tighten the top knot of your hair as they apply your lipstick. your sisters are your competition and your salvation.
your sisters are your blood.
trois. you.
you are meant for many lives. you have too much beauty and too little heart to survive for just one. you are half-ageless, and that is your saviour.
you have your first life in paris, a foundling searching for her knees. you are young to the world but they do not understand how young. you have your spun-sugar dreams of pointe shoes and stagelights, darling men in masks and a statuette in your figure. you taste diamonds and spit out silver. you have been borne in a fairytale and raised in a dream.
you have your next true life in new york, where the devil draws the skirts higher and pours the gin hotter. you shimmy-shake shimmy-shake across town and turn your hips so fast the beads fly off your dress. you are beautiful enough to pressure bullets out of guns on your own, but when you dance you molt the metal and halt the lead. you are town darling, bright thing in a burning city. you are a star, a name of your own put up in lights that will never do you justice.
you have your third in melancholy, morose. you have lived too brightly, your sisters hiss, your mother complains. you are nigh-immortal and have many lives left, but have spent the first two too quickly. you are told fame doesn’t suit those with ages like yours. you don’t care. you drink champagne in a bathtub and wait for the arrival of the next great generation.
you spend much of this last one in fear. you have always been beautiful, always been terrible, but there are things that haunt even the great and terrible beauties - and it is war, death. your sister meets death, and your mother too. you fling yourself across the globe with grace and fright, macabre swan song, eloquent pas de deux with the devil. you look for the place farthest away from he who shall not be named and ingratiate yourself there.
you seek safety in the blackness, black velvet curtains that will hang heavily against the stages that you wish to grace. you know it is war, but you cannot give up art. you see the man on the arm of the throne and put yourself in his way, breasts first, wit second. you want his arms for the walls they make but soon find he is a roof too; windows, floors, and high arch beams. he is a castle of a home, and you cave him in around you to keep safe.
you are the bride of darkness.
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2033, CHOI TAEWOO. )
( TRIGGER WARNING. VIOLENCE, TORTURE, GORE, MURDER. )
(i) the boy wakes up to an empty house, naked from furniture and the only thing he can listen to is the screeching sound coming from a creature downstairs. he’s five and he should be scared but his father taught him that to be scared meant to be weak and there has never been a Choi that was weak. so Taewoo counts to ten and the nausea is gone and he can leave bed and climb down the stairs. he’s still there when he sees feet up in the air and a person upside down, their body twisted in an uncomfortable position, but instead of being disgusted by the guttural sounds that come from them, taewoo is fascinated that a body can be twisted like that - almost as if it’s art. and people downstairs notice him, his father, all dressed up in black smiled proudly at him when he doesn’t show any sign of weakness; they ignore him immediately and it’s the first time taewoo hears the word crucio. the sound coming from the person’s mouth makes him shudder briefly and as their eyes connect, taewoo witness desperation and despair - he doesn’t do anything, he’s hungry and wants to eat.
(ii) a eleven year old taewoo climbs up the stairs of the choi manor and enters the attic, locking the door behind him. he’s not alone this time when he sits down on the floor and takes the other boy’s hand in his, a soft but charming smile covering his lips as he takes his wand and points it to the pot in front of them. “look what i just learned”, he says and mutters a spell, and the water turns blue, just like the other boy’s eyes; the boy looks fascinated and taewoo feels proud of himself, hands gripping the muggle’s little fingers, connecting them even more. “you’re going to school, aren’t you?” he asks and taewoo nods. he’s still excited about it but it sucks he won’t be able to see eric anymore. “i’ll write you. and send you some magic treats.”, he promised. “i wish i could go there with you.” taewoo tries not to make a face at that because it’s obvious a muggle couldn’t go to the basilica, but he has learned how to cover his feelings and opinions too well. “me too”, he lies. the way he ruffles the boy’s hair and kisses his cheek is still soft and the memories are still there in his head whenever he thinks about it; because eric was never seen again, since he left to school.
(iii) he’s fourteen when he discovers how muggles can be just as vile as wizards when he’s taken by a group of muggles. he doesn’t remember much because he was sedated and by the time he woke up he finds himself in the dirtiest floor; his vests are dirty and he tastes copper in his tongue because someone found it interesting to punch him and see how he would react. “i heard he knows magic”, he hears someone saying so he guesses those were not just random muggles. “he looks just like a punk to me, a rich one. we should have fun with him and then ask for some money. lord knows how many his family killed”, a second voice. surprisingly taewoo isn’t scared, he’s more curious, interested because he had learned that muggles were inferior and weak and could be taken by a wizard anytime, but these aren’t exactly harmless. so taewoo spends days, starving because those muggles still didn’t know what to do to him until it’s eleven days later, when one of them makes the mistake of believing the wizard is too weak to react. but taewoo still has something inside him, he still wants to know why his family abandoned him. so when he uses a small piece of wood he managed to remove from the bed he was sleeping on, to stab the man on the throat, he smiles when the blood starts to cover his vests and hands, everything is warm and alive again as the light vanishes from the muggle’s eyes and taewoo licks his lips and then his fingers, taking a step back from the dead form and starts to look for a way out.
(iv) he’s nineteen when he hacks for the first time. muggles were really predictable and he didn’t take much to discover the ones that kidnapped him - like he had suspected they were muggleborns stripped of their powers and that seek revenge; taewoo couldn’t say they didn’t have the right but they should go to the right people; he didn’t care though, he wanted some kind of compensation but killing wasn’t in him anymore - the nightmares still plagued him from time to time so taewoo just destroyed their lives by hacking everything they had, from credit cards to bank accounts, he exposed their secrets until they couldn’t do anything other than die.
(v) a lot has happened and taewoo’s fame grew up but he still lives in the shadow. the dominance of voldemort’s armies still makes the world an unsafe place to live and taewoo lives in the shadows, a double life where he hides his true self for his own protection. the idea of equality makes him a desired target from all sides and for him it would be too easy to rely on the fact he’s a pureblood from a family that’s loyal to voldemort and the death eaters but he’s not like that. evil is everywhere, and one (good) can’t properly exist without his opposite (evil); still he doesn’t know how people can’t see that. perhaps he should help them see the truth and come for the light. after all, darkness an light is everywhere, you just need to find balance.
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2025, YOO YOUNGSHIK. )
{i.} Blood of Our Union
As far as he remembers he’s always been the son of his parents. Mother had always been fond of jewelries and a slight danger. She found it in the form of his father, hands that saved lives by day and hands that took them back at night. Both her figure and words are easy for the eyes, soothing to his ears. Their love was subtle dominance, with hints of power play here and there. She was someone born with mountain of riches covered in old dust and he was someone who held a simple crown, a young ruler-to-be. Their love was built upon ambitions and greed, playing with fire and toying with a sleeping dragon. There’s victory in defeat, lessons to learn and delayed success within failure. They were both calculating and mad, perfection for each other.
And when he was born did they start to grew cautious. Suddenly life wasn’t so fleeting like how it used to. Dread gave birth to wisdom and within that wisdom there were numerous of work to do, a lot of threads to tangle and straighten, plenty of truth to blur. These two people who thought they had nothing to fear, started to tremble with the thought of losing their son when none of them were ready. He bore no name of his father, given his mother’s maiden name under the watching legal eyes.
To them, he’s fatherless. To him, he’s his father’s son.
{ii.} To Soot and Ashes
Mother has always been close with Death. She was frail and delicate, a striking contrast to the fire in her eyes and the power on her hands. Life will always be too short for her and if she must wait for Death to finally come for her, she might as well welcome Him with a celebration. She lived like a firestorm. Burning bright and loud, right to the last of her breaths.
Father has always been too close to fire. His silence was similar to the sound of the eye of storm, feet dancing teasingly way too close near a sleeping lion. Life will always be too long for him and if he must wait for Death to come for him, he might as well look for it himself. He lived like a hurricane. Destructive and fleeting, a mad man till the last of his heartbeats.
And there’s him, the son of two suicidal fools. He knows they both loved the way they lived, how they probably laughed when Death really came for them. And he really didn’t know whether he should mourn or congratulate them.
“There’s a victory in defeat,” his father often said to him. Youngshik only nodded his head, already accepting the fact that his father might be wasn’t quite right in the mind. He mourned for a night, for the loss of parents that he loved. When the tears dried on his cheeks he rose to his feet, a wand on his right hand and a weapon on his left. It is time ascend the throne.
{iii.} Within His Legacy
After his father died, came a realization. A Hydra cannot be killed that way. One head is gone, yet they let the roots live and spread, old enough to support the new king with goals in mind and taste of vengeance on the tip of his tongue.
On his grasp, slender fingers tracing the outlines of the old crown that he took when it rolled down from his father’s head. He is the New Order. Gone were the reckless youth, long live the New King. He set his eyes towards the tower where the Dragon resides, laughing, laughing. He knows where the starting line is.
There’s a brilliance in desperation that shines brighter than polished gems. He notices the greedy hands that are willing to grasp on tightly even to the smallest thread of power if it means they can rise higher from where they were. The weak, the powerful. The well-loved, the outcasts. They’re all the same, we are all the same. Creatures with greed, born starving for something. And Youngshik knows just what the next few steps he should take, the kind of crowd he can gather and create.
He walks the same path as the man before him with resolute strides, working in the shadows, building and breaking down structures. He ties the correct knots with the right strings, like a spider building a home, gathering those he deems as fitting and grooming their loyalty. One day they will rise, he says. He truly is a king for an empire-to-be.
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2023, CHOI SUNHWA. )
WHAT ARE GIRLS MADE OF? SUGAR, SPICE, AND EVERYTHING NICE.
i. skin
choi sunhwa; 27 years old, daughter of the queen’s most favored minister and a highly-respected duchess. her beauty turns heads and her singing voice lulls you to sleep. soft-spoken and graceful, yet carries poison with each saccharine that drips upon her roseate lips. the way she brings herself is humble but never submissive. gaze stern and sure when she looks at you in the eyes. singer, housewife, socialite, spy, free to be shaped into whatever fits the cookie cutter. they say she’s a trophy- but a trophy doesn’t latch her nails into your skin and let you bleed to death.
ii. flesh
in general public, she assumes her role as a wife and a lady. demure, reserved and gentle. some would poke fun at her inability to completely understand jokes or sarcasm, the other would mistake her to be innocent for her gentle features and lenient expressions. never to raise her voice in any circumstances or perform any impudent act such as violence. there’s a motherly aura that surrounds her in correspondence to her protective nature. she is a smart girl, has always been from the start. although not as well-versed in magical dueling as most purebloods, sunhwa is a skilled diplomat and analyst.
she considers herself as a better ghost of her past, wiser and sees the world clearer than before. despite that she still retains her short-fused temper and stubbornness that seem to follow her around since youth. very difficult to cross but once angered, can be extremely vengeful to the point of being ruthless with the person that wronged her. her mindset that her responsibility should be put above her own well-being would also cause harm to herself at times.
overall, there are many layers to choi sunhwa’s personality. depending on the person she is with, sunhwa will adapt to them accordingly to prevent unnecessary conflict. if she considers you close enough, she will show her true, much more colorful personality in your private moments.
but then again, keep your friends close and enemies closer, right?
iii. bones
father tells you to be frail, mother tells you to be strong. you think you cannot be both.
father wants you to be his perfect little girl. ethereal and untouchable to anyone that lay their eyes on you. so you learn how to do a pirouette and deliver a clean note, balance a stack of books in high-heels and fitted-skirts.
mother wants you to be tough and self-sufficient. able to fend for yourself without being dependent. so you learn which pressure points to hit during hand-to-hand combat and reads all the thick books in your father’s shelves, utilize the magical blood within you to the maximum.
when adolescent comes it places gems upon your skin and a beautiful tiara on your head. tells you that ruby looks good on your lips with the ivory dress you wore to your debutante ball. in return you show crescent eyes and pretty smiles for each candidate that wishes to put a wedding band upon your ring finger until your father settles for a nosy brat.
girls your age would say your life is perfect, but instead you feel empty.
finally, the night before your twenty-third birthday mother tells you of your origin. that the blood running in your veins aren’t only hers but also a muggleborn executed by your own father twenty-two years ago. that you were never as pure as you thought you are. you think this is some kind of a calling and do what you do best; search.
( order of phoenix sounds better than ‘obnoxious purebloods’ to your ears. they accept you as their version of mata hari )
five summers and one eventful night later, you find yourself standing on an altar, sharing vows and similar ring to a man that also shares your worldview. the baby-fat on his cheeks when you two first met replaced by a dimple and the lighting of the chapel looks good on his handsome features but all you can think about is how you are going to balance your life as a spy and the wife of the head of a mafia.
“i promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. i will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”
father tells you to be frail, mother tells you to be strong. now you think you’re a little bit of both.
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2032, BANG TAEJUN. )
( TRIGGER WARNING. PARENTAL NEGLECT. )
you are the hidden son. wrapped in lies and opulence, you are born cursed and magic forsaken.
your mother was a powerful woman, a pureblood with a will so strong she could move the heavens if she was determined to. hotheaded, outspoken, gifted with magic and true force of nature. your father was a muggleborn servant, magic itching and unused in his blood. he practiced healing potions when no one was looking, and in his silent strength, he learned and mastered healing potions. where your mother’s presence was like a raging, wild fire, your father’s was more of a warm hearth. your mother fell in love with that, and he became her quiet anchor. their love was riotous, unstable, a compromise between worlds so different but a union between soulmates.
this is where you began, somewhere between a contradiction and mystery, you are hidden because you are not meant to be. your father is only a muggleborn, and while your mother is powerful, she is married to a man who lives abroad most days of the year, and he cannot know you. therefore, you remain hidden a thousand rooms deep in a suburban mansion. the other staff hardly know you; your father brings you meals and your mother teaches you everything she knows. once in a blue moon, she’ll bring you along when she goes into the city to see the world, but you are always more of an accessory than a son, and she leaves you in the car more often then not. say nothing unless spoken to, is what your father plants into your head.
you remember being eight years of age, listening through the keyhole of your mother’s bedroom, little fingers splayed across wood. something about sending you to an institute. eyes open, and there’s a bubble in your chest: excitement. your father had told you stories of learning, of schools made for people who yearned to learn. but the way in which your father expresses his disagreement is icy, and your heart churns because you cannot understand why your father does not want you learn. “he’s powerless, this is something you know and you can’t change it!” your mother replies. this is how you find out something is very very wrong with you. you are too afraid to ask your father when he comes to your room later.
a few weeks later, private instructors come to your rooms one after another, each engaging you in different aspects of knowledge. you are nervous, but your father always remains in the room, and you feel a sense of security. you become well versed in martial arts, philosophy, music, anything but magic. during some nights, when you mother is at her house in the city, you would sneak downstairs to the servants quarters just to watch your father exercise what little magic he could wield. you want to be just like him when your are older. you tell him this, and he shakes his head. “you will never be normal, son. you are a squib.” what your father means: you will be helpless, useless, powerless. you train longer and study harder.
fifteen is the age at which most boys are mastering quidditch techniques, but you are fiddling with an old flying car you’ve found, reading books on mechanics and learning to drive through trial and error. soon, you find joy in taking everyhing apart, from bicycles, to computers, to cars and engineering is your first love. sixteen is the year your mother brings you to the house in seoul; your father does not accompany you. it is in seoul that your mother no longer becomes your mother. she and her husband are wolves among purebloods and you are nothing more than a love child with no talent. your mother brings you to the house as her “favorite servant”, and you never noticed the words “mudblood” on the nape of your neck until now. you’ve read enough newspapers and books to understand.
rebellion is something new to you, as you have been told to keep your head down and stay silent. however, you are your mother’s son regardless of how much she tries to hide you. perhaps people can see your likeness in the way your chin juts, the eye smile, the quirks of lips. if they see it, no one says a thing. the man your mother calls “husband” does not look at you long enough to see the resemblances. you find the streets much more interesting than four walls, and for your eighteenth birthday, your mother gifts you a motorcycle. “go visit your father,” she says, and you ignore the wistfulness in her eyes when you turn to leave.
perhaps visits to your father are your favorite times of the week. he’d race you in the old car you fixed up, talk to you about politics in soft, but bitter tones. he teaches you of the struggle of the muggle class, of the great divide between opportunities for the rising talents of the muggleborn, of the unaccounted deaths of those less powerful. under these circumstances, the flame kindled within your soul grows into a wildfire.
you leave your mother’s house for good because you cannot continue living off her, and seoul offers you many things. justice and protection is not apart of them. you know what they do to squibs, and so you stay off the radar as best you can. you start as a underground fighter, then a street racer, protesting through your online blog all the while. you are a smooth-talker, someone who can rally and weave as group together through words and part of you hates your father for telling you to keep quiet. you use your words to unite people in rising up against the system, and perhaps this is how you attract hexagon’s attention. they urge you to join their ranks, and you do, because you like what they stand for. you believe that change can come without violence, and perhaps being a part of something bigger than yourself gives you hope for the future. you join then, but you do not trust them. none can know that you are handicapped; you do not want to end up as a lab rat for death eaters. but you do not let your handicap deter you. sure, you may not have magic, but you have a voice and you are determined to use it.
your thought process changes when you hear that your father has disappeared. you go to your mother, but she will not see you, and the name she calls “husband” looks down his nose as you. you hurry away before he can look any closer at your face. you go to the police. they do not seem to care about a mere servant. your thought processes becomes this,“fuck authority; support anarchy.” you will not wish peace on people who refuse to help the suffering, who refuse to save those who cannot save themselves. perhaps now and forever, violence will be the answer for society. your love for engineering soon becomes deadly as you learn to create bombs and grenades because you are determined that a city will crumble and then all will be equal.
this is why you are perhaps one of the most outspoken activists in hexagon, doing your best to be involved and change the world, no matter what it takes.
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2026, PARK HYEONA. )
i.
on the day of her birth, the mighty earth trembled in terror. a terrible storm had ravaged her hometown - it should have been a clear warning to her parents. good things never come with storms. children born during storms have lightnings in their eyes and no mercy for the weak - they destroy everything that stands in their way. but, autumns without storms were like winters without snow. from the moment of her birth, she was the apple of her mother’s eye - the most beautiful princess in the whole world. her parents, two mighty wizards, desperately wanted to have a child and the birth of their only heir brought a lot of joy into their lives. hyeona was the most beautiful child, but there was always something dark in her eyes - they were like two abysses, always threatening to swallow curious strangers. but, as a a beloved member of the park family, she always felt special - like she was destined for greatness.
ii.
hyeona grew up in the heap of luxury, surrounded by gilded walls and mirrors. the whole world was at the tip of her fingers. it was a true paradise on earth and her parents always tried to fulfill her wildest wishes. misfortune never managed to put its claws on her. the rest of the world was plagued with war but she lived like a god on the mountain olympus. it seemed like she was born under a lucky star. she was always the precious rose of the park family but, the most beautiful flowers are often very poisonous. and so, she kept growing and with each day, she kept getting colder… and colder.
iii.
the spoiled little rose turned into a nightmare with claws. god had blessed her with beauty - it’s like she was carved out of a fucking marble. she could even make aphrodite jealous. he gave her many gifts - she has a beautiful and an alluring singing voice. she has a brilliant mind - it’s as sharp as a diamond and of course her blood is pure. but, the devil poisoned her heart with rage and jealousy. she’s colder than the bitter december. her heart was probably once a part of a glacier. the world didn’t need another stuck up princess. the world had seen way too many girls like her. they had no place for another one. she was an old story, the worst cliché - or was she? icy girl who called herself a goddess. however, when she enrolled into hanseong, things changed. her parents didn’t allow her to act like a spoiled child. no, she had to be the image of perfection. so, they groomed her and turned her into a dangerous player - the mighty queen on the chessboard. they transformed her jealousy into ambition and subsided her rage with powerful words. ’’do you know what happens to reckless people? their rage destroys their hearts and makes them do foolish things. are you a fool hyeona? or will you be patient and cunning and destroy the hearts of others with your pretty smile?’’
iv.
with age, came wisdom and she, of course, became more cunning - a serpent hidden beneath a flower that she once used to be. she mesmerised everyone with her pretty smiles and words - her beauty was terror and her tongue a weapon. she didn’t need a wand to impress others, her presence was enough. yet, her talons were always hidden beneath layers of red paint and her pretty smile hid many dangerous thoughts. it didn’t take long for her to become a valuable figure in the pureblood society. the herd always needs a shepherd - and she gladly became their leader. however, she doesn’t trust anyone, sometimes not even herself. her porcelain mask is slowly cracking and the old spoiled monster wants to show her face to the world again. she’s a nightmare dressed in the finest silk and crowned with gold. long may she reign.
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2030, SON AREUM. )
She was a rose, severed and left to wilt in murky water. A daughter in place of a son who withered away, leaving his path with her feet dragging behind.
i.
Areum grew up untarnished by the world around her, a childhood filled with endless wonder encouraging ever-changing interests. From scribbling beyond on the lines in a already finished coloring book to reading various literature, she was consumed with a love for knowledge. She’s satiated on her own terms, flourishing with every interest she chose to pick up — but it was never enough for her parents.
In order to prevent her from being seen as a weakling, they had her tutored on nearly every subject and magical skill. She grew up with lessons on how to be a proper pureblooded lady and taught how to fend herself if a time for battle came — but she would never see the bloodstained world. She was allowed to remain innocent, her brother shielding her from the terrors of community and making her oblivious to the devastation.
But ignorance isn’t bliss.
ii.
It was summer and there’s strange activity within the household. It didn’t take long for Areum to notice the new visiting faces and hushed tones. She was ushered away by her brother when they were gathered together, with a smile and a promise to treat her at a later time. It was easy to keep nodding and agreeing, eyes lingering at the closed door before she’d skip away to the gardens.
But later never actually came. She’d watch from afar as they’d file out with stern looks and greetings of goodbye. Her father would lead them out, then followed by her mother, and finally, her brother who lingered as he’s too busy fixing his sleeve that he doesn’t even notice her staring. By the time he does, there’s another smile and he’s out the front doors like the rest of them — leaving her alone.
They don’t return until late into the night, her parents’ eyes lit with some shared secret and her brother moving about on his own — his eyes doesn’t hold the same gleam and she watches ( always watching ) as they turn dark.
iii.
There’s a limit to how much you can choose to ignore and she’s testing her limits in the halls of her new school. It’s different from what she’s used to, far too disorganized and far too many purebloods for her liking, but she stays quiet — her opinions remaining her own as she moves about the halls to her next class.
Her silence is what keeps many at bay, thinking she’s indifferent to prove she’s better than most and those that try to approach her always seem to stop in the middle of their steps once they’ve seen the look on her face. Ice queen.They utter when they think she can’t hear and she enjoys it far more than she should.
This doesn’t please her parents, however, as they’d hoped she’d take the time she has in school to start forging the right connections. To make friends with future heirs and marriage prospects — was what they said to her. Being the good girl that she is, she nodded, answered that she’ll work on it immediately and by the end of the year, she’s got plenty.
iv.
It’s when everything is falling into place that things start to crumble apart. She took her position for granted and now it’s being taken away from her. She was capable of so much more, so much more — for she was supposed to become something better than her parents. But instead she’s thrust upon the abandoned path of her brother’s — while his picture stands high on a mantle, surrounded by flowers and incense.
They tell her he died in some alleyway, some freak accident with a spell that went awry. But they could never find the body, never prove to her that he was actually dead — so she refused to believe them. Her parents were quick to move on, however, turning to Areum and immediately prepping her to become one of them.
And for the first time, she fought back. Wrecked and angry that they wouldn’t even put effort into searching for their son’s body — she argued and they bit back with words that made her fall silent again.
She soon learns that you cannot remain innocent forever.
v.
Now there’s a stain on her skin, on her conscience.
For she’s marked with a dark inkling on her arm — the one thing she used to have so much interest in as a child was nothing but an ugly pledge. And she’s haunted forever by a voice — a scream and a spell that flickered green with death.
It’s all because she refused to fight, subdued by her parents’ wishes to become their newest heir.
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2029, SHIM SOWON. )
( TRIGGER WARNING. PHYSICAL ABUSE. )
THE SPARK.
i.
the world sits idly on careless fingertips.
father says he’ll give her anything she wants, she just has to name it.
the words never come to her lips.
ii.
“my sowon is just the loveliest.”
mother likes to brag.
about her, about siwon, about father’s money, about her own heritage. sowon thinks it’s because mother likes attention, siwon says it’s to reaffirm their place.
they’re the best of the best, and no one can touch them.
( sowon calls it all utter bullshit. )
even still, mother’s right. sowon is the loveliest.
with father’s charisma, and mother’s looks nothing is out of reach.
the other mother’s coo, and sowon holds her chest high when the other little girls send jealous little glances her way.
“one day,” mother goes on to say in the haughtiest of tones, “i’m sure she’ll have nearly every boy of decent birth beating down our door to ask for her hand.”
iii.
it’s not until school starts that she realizes it.
there’s a clear line, between her and them.
partially because of the lore and rumors that surrounds her family name.
partially because she’s so damned beautiful.
partially because her brother is so damned frightful.
most days, sowon likes to pretend the top isn’t the loneliest place in the world. but even still it creeps up on her in the dead of the night.
THE FLAMES.
i.
his name is lee hyungsik, and he claims to not like her very much.
“it’s people that you that make this world the shithole it is!”
it’s not funny, not really. she can see the fire that burns behind his eyes and the way his arm shakes in fury. the hatred he has for her, for people like her, is profound and incredibly obvious, but even still a cheshire grin finds it way to her pretty face.
there’s a refreshing quality in his passion.
“it’s a pity you hate me so much,” she laughs, “because i think i actually quite like you.
ii.
the saying proves true, there is a thin line between love and hate.
he says he hates her family. her mother, her father, most especially her brother. he hates the world she lives in and her friends. he claims he hates everything about her, every fiber of her being.
but in the dead of the night, his fingers lace with hers and her lips meet her skin he swears he loves her in the most righteous of ways.
he says he loves her laugh. the way her lips curl up when she smiles, the way she runs her fingers through her hair when she’s stressed. he loves her lips, and her eyes, and the way her body fits perfectly with his. he claims he loves everything about her, every fiber of her being.
sowon wonders which ones the truth, the hate or the love.
hyungsik says the answer lies somewhere between the two.
iii.
“promise me you’ll never love anyone the way you love me.”
she laughs. they’re not supposed to be cliche like this. the star-crossed lovers thing is more than enough. but he grabs her arms and pulls close to him and she can’t help but laugh, lament that they’ve become the thing they said they wouldn’t.
“why should i do that?”
“because,” he sounds far away as he speaks to her focused on something far beyond the both of them, “i want to hear you say it. i want to know that i actually matter to someone like you and you won’t find a way to replace me one day.”
she huffs out another laugh.
“i, shim sowon, promise i will never love anyone the way i love lee hyungsik. in fact, i promise i will never love anyone after lee hyungsik. he will be my first and last love.”
he laughs this time, it’s a mirthless one.
“you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”
THE BURNING.
i.
sowon is father’s favorite child.
the one he dotes on.
the one he protects above all else.
even still, it doesn’t stop his rage.
( the slap echoes across the room, and sowon can see the shock in siwon’s eyes and the rage in mother’s face when she glances around the room. )
“a mudblood?”
the veins in his neck bulge and his face turns a ruddy color as he screams.
“do you like laying with filth? do you like shaming your family like this?”
( she doesn’t flinch when he pulls his hand back, nor does she flinch when his rough hand makes contact with the side of her face again.
it doesn’t earn her the respect it ought to.)
“why are you so angry with me?”
she’s not sure why her voice is shaky or why it cracks as she speaks.
“i finally found something i want. shouldn’t you just let me have it? aren’t i supposed to be able to have anything i want?”
( the third slap is the hardest of them all. sowon pretends there aren’t tears running down her face when she stands back up. )
ii.
punishment has two parts.
china is the first part.
mother tells everyone sowon goes because she likes runes, because she’s meant to mingle with those of backgrounds just as prestigious as hers.
in truth, sowon sits in exile. forgotten in the south where no one cares about the shim family or sowon’s pretty charms.
it’s lonely, foreign, and awful.
she writes letters begging father to let her come back to seoul.
“i won’t talk to him again.” she writes “i’ll be good and respectable, i’m sorry i’m selfish. please let me come home.”
eventually, her family relents.
iii.
the second part is the letter.
father tells her, if she ends it for good he won’t disown her.
( it comes down between her love of stablity versus her love for a man. the money wins in the end. )
she chooses to write the letter because she’s a coward who’s scared to lose what little resolve she has.
it reads simply.
“you were right, i shouldn’t make promises i can’t keep. i’m sure you understand why i’ve done what i’ve done. please don’t hate me too much, i don’t think i could bear it.”
his reply is even shorter.
“fuck you.”
THE ASH.
i.
she gets over him by getting under someone else.
and another person.
and someone after that.
and someone after that.
and after that.
she’ll build a harem, she tells herself, until the thoughts of a hateful boy who claimed to love her go away.
they never go away.
ii.
her reputation precedes her.
mother’s friends all whisper and say she’s a slut in hushed whispers behind her back. once in the tranquil atmosphere of a gala, she hears a pretty young girl tell her friends that shim sowon gave birth to a chinese bastard. the the father is a well known politician, and sowon was no more than a pretty affectation he tossed aside. someone else says it’s not that she doesn’t want to get married, but rather she can’t get married because no man would ever want to settle down with a girl who’s more like a harlot than a woman; never mind the series of well known proposals that she’s rejected.
none of it matters anyways.
shim sowon regretfully is a woman of her word, still clinging to a forgotten promise made in the dead of the night to a stranger.
she won’t love anyone else, she can’t.
iii.
“sowon, humor me.”
the healer says father won’t live much longer. his body is thin and frail, riddled with an illness sowon can’t even pronounce.
( cruel and heartless, part of her wonders if this is his karmic retribution for the pain he’s caused his favorite child. )
“promise me you’ll settle down and be happy, please? i don’t want to die thinking i’ve failed you too much.”
the laugh that escapes her is cold and joyless.
one day, when she’s fully succumb to her bitter disappointment, she thinks she’ll find this day hilarious. but for now the look in her father’s eye pains her more than anything.
“i don’t like making promises i can’t keep,” she says carefully.
her eyes move from the papery skin that clings tightly to his thin bones, to the floral wallpaper that lines the walls. guilt comes creeping in and she looks out the window, wonders what a hateful boy who’s no doubt forgotten her by now would think of this scenario.
“but i guess i can try at the very least.”
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2018, YI RYUN. )
( TRIGGER WARNING. DEATHS, GORE, TORTURE. )
1490, korea.
They say revolutionaries are nurtured by their environment and weaned off the inequities and outrage of their surroundings, not birthed, but you’ve never been one for rules written by other men. You were born noble.
You wish it was the most extraordinary thing about you, but it’s always the the painting as a whole that trumps the little details, the painstaking brushstrokes and stippling and whorls and linework - because deeds of nobility are fleeting, because people are fleeting, because permanence is as burdensome as it is great. You’re a permanent piece in the annals of time, fixed and still on a silk tapestry that ebbs and flows and shifts with time, and how beautiful it is to be neverending - how tragic.
You’re immortal. And so too is your father, and your father before him - koschei, you’re called, and the word sounds foreign and clumsy on your tongue, but you learn the meaning. Deathless. It’s not entirely accurate, because if your soul is destroyed, you’ll die along with it - it’s all very esoteric sounding, the ramblings of the occult and arcane, but then your father shows you your soul’ - a small onyx sphere, the size of a marble, that absorbs all light, cold and heavy to the touch, and you believe him. It’s almost poetic, almost divine and godly and blasphemous, holding your own death in your hands, but it’s dangerous to have it out for too long, and your father instructs you to stash it away where no one will find it. The next winter when your mother dies from pneumonia, you kiss her forehead and tuck your death into her clasped hands. She’s buried in an unmarked grave, in the dead of the night with only you and your father to mourn.
The next summer you’re gored in the heart by the family goat, panicked by the cry of a goose, and you taste blood. The pain subsides after three days, and not even a scar remains.
By 1508, you’ve grown into a prodigy, golden, bright and beautiful, and you think your immortality is a blessing - who better suited for it than someone who wanted to reform, to revolutionize? You’d become a student at the Seonggyungwan Royal Academy, a scholar in your own right, reknowned for your boldness and brilliance in equal measure, and your ideas of radical reformation reach beyond the Academy - ‘be careful’ your classmates whisper, ‘those up high hate to have their pedestal shown to be made of sand’. After a year as a junior official, after a year of witnessing how rampant corruption and bribery ran in the court, you approach the king with a detailed record, written in secret, of all the corruption and immorality you’d witnessed within the court, from bribery to spending tax money on personal luxuries, along with the names of the guilty. ‘Be rid of them and you’ll have a stronger court, a healthier kingdom,’ you declare, ‘Let them stay, and you’ll lose me.’
The next day, the officials are gone. But rebellion is never finished, and change is a neverending overture. Over time, the promotions come, propelling you into the limelight, especially as you begin to roll out radical policies and reforms - systems putting an emphasis on a government candidates’ moral character rather than social status, opening the candidacy up to slaves, as well as a land reform that sought to reduce the gap between the rich and the poor that would distribute land to farmers equally. You’re said to judge people by their morality, and refuse to greet superior officials if you considered them to be unworthy characters whilst being kind to your servants and butchers - the people’s magistrate, the common folk call you. The people’s lord.
In hindsight, you should have seen it coming sooner - the disgraced and prideful rarely take their losses gracefully, and for every good deed you do, there’s bound to be someone terrible to resent you for it. They’re waiting for you in your office one summer evening, when the cicadas are loudest and nearly drown out the sound of a knife driving into your torso seven times, and they take pleasure in twisting the blade. But they’re easily fooled as well - it’s easy to lie still and pretend to be dead, and as soon as they’ve left, you crawl out and towards the forest to rest, hidden. You heal quickly, but not without the pain, and especially not without the pain of knowing your hard work would be forgotten in time, in blood and dirt, once the elite took back their thrones he’d worked so hard to push out from beneath them. There’s always a bitterness in losing one’s innocence, but it’s especially sour when one has to move on when one isn’t ready; your work isn’t done, but you have no choice but to leave, to let the country and the people you love forget you. You leave for Japan, Siam, India, Portugal, Argentina, France, you take part in rebellions, revolutions, wizarding and human alike, you live dozens and dozens of lives and names and shed them all when the people you’ve come to know and love return to the earth beneath your feet. As faces begin to blur in your memory, the one thing that remains sharp is this: you were truly free during your years of roaming. You feared for nothing, not death, only for the day you would have to bury another lover, another friend.
True freedom ends with the rise of Voldemort. You’re in London during the burgeoning beginnings of the Death Eaters, and when it finally storms the world by force. More than that, you’ve heard what happens to the koschei he seeks, why they’re hunted and experimented on like animals once caught - he seeks what you never asked for, this blessing and curse, and perhaps it’s that which frightens you the most about him. Who would ask for this? You grow close to one koschei and the two of you seek refuge in the order of the phoenix - for a while, you’re safe, rallying around this bastion of hope and justice.
But then it falls too. Your fellow koschei is taken, tortured, his screams and sobs a distant, bloody beacon, its light reaching from what you imagined hell to be, and you agonize for days and nights before finding their soul and destroying it. It’s the most selfless thing you’ve done, you think.
With the world you once roamed freely now as good as a prison, you return to your homeland, newly bitter but not jaded. If there’s one thing centuries couldn’t kill, it’s your fire, even if it burns deep in the night when none can see. You hate hiding, you hate your heart leaping at every shadow and finding enemies in unfamiliar faces, but such is the way when one is prey. But you’ve never been one for laying down meekly - when you stumble upon a seer who foretells the uprising of an underground order, you’re quick to seek them out and join. And while you can’t perform magic, you still have your wit, your zeal, your charisma - you can still inspire.
ORDER WATCH is an opportunity to rally, to galvanize - every single person mentioned is given a codename and the location where he conducts the program changes frequently, and it is programmed by Order members so that one must have a password to tune in (by tapping their radio with their wand and saying the password as an incantation). He works to raise morale and spread the truth. Dead was ‘the people’s lord’ - here was ryun, deathless, and undefeated.
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2017, AHN SOMIN. )
( TRIGGER WARNING. DOMESTIC ABUSE. )
un.
conception brings forth familiarity in the worlds secret darkness.
home is a heavy word, her mother a resourceful but frightening veela, well versed in her magical ways of deception and fraud, while her ghoul of a father roamed the earth for centuries on end before succumbing to a charm he couldn’t fight against. there’s hardly any love, any passion, in their deeds, but it’s all to fulfill her mother’s desires— to bring life to another of her kind, to carry on their line with strength and pass on the knowledge given to her from those before.
she’s more than successful, bringing the daughter she was so determined to have into the world— ahn somin, hair as golden as the suns rays and features already ones to behold.
somin’s birth breaks the charm, her mother no longer in need of her father, but he stays against her protests for him to go ( not for the woman who tricked him, but the for the child he would not leave ). only an infant, somin is none the wiser in her parent’s arrangement— all she knows is that arguments become a home staple.
deux.
years come and go, and by the time somin reaches full maturity, the constant tension between her parents weighs heavy on her heart and shoulders. it wasn’t uncommon ( then in the mid-1800s ) for their fighting to quickly escalate from simply yelling at one another to physical touches. she’s there to witness it all— she hears her fathers voice boom in protest of anything her mother wants, convinced that under her guidance, somin would become just like her. her mother was a persistent woman, stubborn in her teachings and way of life, believing what prolonged her own life would, in turn, prolong her daughters.
she’s had more than enough, and the decision to run from home comes easily to her.
amidst the conflict, the years had been good to their hectic home in terms of money, her mother bringing them social status and praise for her looks, with her father’s trade of work ( being the owner of a small ‘creatures only’ bar ) keeping them relatively financially sound. it was difficult, sneaking money from a vault set under her name by her father for emergencies, but it was the only thing she could think to do before packing her bags and leaving on the first boat she could.
her long journey brings her to europe in an effort to find more of her kind ( who, hopefully, would show her what more life was to give ), letters for both her mother and father left behind.
trois.
more than 100 years pass, a now dark-haired somin traveling around europe at her leisure and enjoyment with a handful of veela companions she’d become very acquainted with before her heart skips a beat and she’s fallen in love with a man just as magical as herself. a scottish man from a family of well-known wizards, he was an astronomer staying in england to learn more from the local wizarding community there.
he’s brilliant, she comes to realize, and it doesn’t take much for his eyes to meet hers. there isn’t a need for charms or spells, not when the natural attraction is instant, and somin can practically hear her mothers nagging voice in the back of her head despite it being more than a century since the last met.
yet, her heart bleeds as the world changes before her very eyes.
she’d heard of him before, a man by the name of voldemort, but that was all— she’d only ever heard of his terror before he was defeated. it had never been a concern to her until his return, the final battleground being hogwarts, where her lover felt necessary to be in order to protect his younger brother, a student there at the time.
he never returns to their shared home, perishing, and she can’t bring herself to turn up at his funeral— the pain of her first love lost is too much for her to handle, and she can’t be there any longer. it no longer feels freeing, it feels overbearing and like she’ll lose her mind.
she returns to south korea with a colder shoulder and a hardened heart.
quatre.
time has since passed, the world having changed drastically with the rise of a new ruler, and while somin is by no means the same sweet and open girl she was once able to be, there’s still an air of mysticality and intrigue to her ( she’s still easy to grin, easy to approach, easy to converse ).
they say time heals all wounds, and while that seems to be true, somin still guards her heart— this new age seemed to bring out more suitors than she’d ever had before, having to choose from the pile to ensure her safety and security with the upper class. she was never a high maintenance veela, but there was no denying she enjoyed the finger things.
if siding with the enemy and joining one in holy matronomy was what she needed to do for now, then she would ( but she wouldn’t go silently ).
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2016, KANG JUNSEO. )
i.
he’s barely three when they corrupt his mind.
they tell him how he should act towards those who aren’t worthy to be like them. that those who did not “fit” in the new world were to be treated as if they were nothing but dirt on his shoes. making sure that it soaks into the toddlers mind.
junseo does not dare question his parents and accepts their ideals for his own.
ii.
he’s brought up with strict rules. parents pushing their values into his mind even more now that he’s older. but its not all bad. he looks up to his brother, with his bright eyes and even brighter smile. there wasn’t anything daehan would do that junseo wouldn’t try to at least copy.
for the young boy it was nice to have a role model he could look up to. someone who he could aspire to be (even if his parents had already mapped out his life) and despite the seven years between the two brothers are still close.
for junseo, his brother becomes a balance in his moral scales.
iii.
junseo unlike his brother seemed to thrive in the elite world his parents made sure to keep them in. and of course, it comes as no surprise that junseo attends basilica.
it served as a breeding ground for the pretentious and the elite. purebloods showing of their power and striking fear into the eyes of any who’s blood had been tainted, junseo showing the potential of his power as much as anyone else (much to his brothers disproval).
however things are not all fun and games.
its when he’s almost finished at basilica when things take a drastic change when the news of his brothers death reaches his ears.
iv.
his brothers death brought the perfect opportunity for his parents to exploit his emotions.
they tell him that it would bring great honour to their family or that he would be following in his parents footsteps from the war long ago. that this would help to ease the pain from his brothers passing all while helping their great lord in continuing his plan to help the wixfolk thrive.
it didnt take much for a devastated and heartbroken junseo to be convinced by the sickly sweet words his parents used to poison his mind. practically jumping at the opportunity to become a death eater.
v.
it takes a while for his eyes to adjust.
the black that now embellishes his left arm a mark of his unwavering loyalty to a man he’d only seen a handful of times. a mark that seemed to engrave power into his veins, into his bones. this new found power leaving him intoxicated and wanting more.
junseo was now on a dangerous path and without his brother to keep him grounded it was easy for him to fall victim of the elitist ways of not only his parents but society. made even more easy when that was the only thing he’d come to know since birth.
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2011, SONG JUNGMIN. )
Song Jungmin grew up in a world of open fields, large homes, and a certain freedom that just isn’t seen most anywhere else. His family grows into the world of magical creatures– years and years back they had their start and Jungmin is only the fifth, sixth (it’s all fuzzy to him honestly) generation of hands that have dealt with these beasts.
He’s six and his father is teaching him how to feed a mooncalf in the bright light of the full moon. Jungmin is utterly amazed and his father still laughs about it to this day.
When he’s ten, his father leaves for a trip to the cold of Russia to find a pogrebin. His mother shows him pictures of the beast that night. He cries himself to sleep with the belief he will never see his father again. He does, of course.
His father returns a week later looking a little worse for wear, but very much alive. He brings with him a nogtail which is soon released and chased off by their new pet– a pure white dog named Lucky.
Year pass and Jungmin grows up like any other boy with status and money to his name– unaffected. It isn’t until he’s traveling into the city, the face of his parent’s brand-new endeavor. A shop in Cathedral Alley. He’s only 19, fresh out of The Basilica and ready to get his hands dirty with the world.
Admittedly, he’d rather be on the family estate, holed up in the stables all day caring for the Hippogriffs and whatnot, but he’ll take what he can get. For now, what he’s got is too much power to a young face. He’s the owner in place and the head of a small staff who’ve followed him from their quarters at his home.
Jungmin wishes for the open skies of his home, the sounds of the night and the smells that come with magical creatures, but he’ll take this– this tiny little shop filled with Nifflers and Puffskeins and Salamanders.
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2010, LEE JIN. )
who are you? it’s not a simple question, not for you at least. even though it seems like it should be. you’ve answered to many names over the years: choi sungki, kim youngchul, oh jungwon, park geon. none of them are yours. you aren’t sure what your real name is and you truthfully don’t care. names don’t make you who are. for now you are lee jin, in the future you will be someone else.
who are you? a ghoul. it’s been that way for as long as you can remember. sometimes they will ask you why that is so. did you do something horrible and get denied a chance at the afterlife? did you just pop into existence? sometimes when you are feeling mischievous you will spin a story of how you murdered your entire family in their sleep and ate their flesh because you were simply bored. or sometimes you weave a sad tale about how it was a long and cold winter and you had no choice but to eat your family members and friends who died of starvation. the answer is always different for every time you are asked. the truth is you don’t know. your human memories (if you ever were human) are beyond your reach now. what you do remember is surviving. sometimes acting as a part of society and sometimes acting outside of it. but survival has always come first – when you were younger and it was easier to hide you killed for that end. if someone were to ask you if you regretted it the answer would be no. even now if it came down to it you would gladly repeat those atrocities – for now, though, it’s easier to simply pose a cemetary caretaker and get your fill that way.
who are you? you are a person who has seen kingdoms rise and fall. someone who has seen dynasties come and go. mortals are funny creatures – predictable creatures. you had some great fun in the 1800s pretending to be a fortune teller. you even had a few wix fooled into believing that you were a seer. some of them even now think that you’re a seer – it’s not true of course. you are simply intelligent, and you are good at seeing patterns. the future is not as fluid as people think – and people…people are not so unique as they think either.
who are you? you have contacts in many places. you do not consider yourself either for or against the current regime. neither are you for or against the order or the various other factions that have sprouted up and form a complicated web in the world around you. you are for whoever will give you the best offer. you are against whoever threatens your continued survival. the new regime doesn’t bother you much. it’s a curiosity more than anything, a fun new toy to poke and prod at.
so who are you? it’s not a simple question and you have no simple answers. for now you are lee jin. for now you are little more than an observer, watching the wizarding world throw itself into chaos. for now you will do whatever for whomever gives you the best deal. your morality died decades ago, may it rest in peace.
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OFFICIAL DATA FROM THE NEW REGIME… SEALED FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
( LOADING PROFILE OF N°. 2009, MOON JIA. )
( TRIGGER WARNING. HOSPITAL, GORE. )
i.
seoul, jia finds, is refreshing compared to jeju.
jeju, while far more picturesque and serene, just isn’t as exhilarating as the thriving, bustling capital is. she’s been around on the mortal plane for more than two hundred years, aware of the conflicts within the two worlds on the plane: human and the not-quite. that being said, she never found it in herself to care about such events.
all she truly cares about is herself.
hence why densely populated cities have always attracted her attention. there is no lack of fresh food here because there’s just so many to choose from, while in the countryside, she had to resort to eating dead human flesh, which hardly satisfied her palate.
however, it can only be for so long till she gets bored.
so when someone hands her a business card after she’s finished feeding, she can’t help but eye it with interest. he tells her it’s a private hospital, run by people like them for the sake of maintaining a stable diet.
“we have some open positions at the hospital. perhaps, you would care to join our team?”
the sly glint in the man’s eyes are mirrored in her own as she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing the blood rather than cleaning it. she takes the card and offers him a sweet smile before adjusting her navy blue sweater.
“i’ll think about it.”
pocketing the card, she makes her exit, leaving the remains of her lunch slumped against the alley wall.
ii.
“i’ve brought your medication for today, jiyoon-ssi.”
she sets down the tray on the bedside table, handing the small cup containing various pills to the patient with a gentle smile. “you know the drill, right?” she hands her a cup of water next once the woman nods, taking her medicine and opening her mouth so jia can see that it’s all been swallowed.
“i’ll be back tomorrow morning for your final round of antibiotics. good night, jiyoon-ssi!”
picking up the empty tray, she dims the lights of the room before leaving, softly shutting the door behind her.
it’s her second week as a nurse in the hospital — not that it proved to be difficult. she’s had a variety of jobs before, after all, she has so much time on her hands it’s practically impossible to be unemployed. though, the last time she found herself working at a hospital would be around ten years ago.
once she’s done making small talk with her colleagues and returns the tray back to where it belongs, she steps inside the elevator and presses the button leading her down to the basement.
“back again? i swear this has been your third time in the span of five hours.”
she smiles at the exasperated morgue assistant, sheepish and guilty, but makes her way to the refrigerator nonetheless.
“what can i say? i’ve got a big appetite.”
iii.
jia has never been a fan of human food. while it tastes fine to her, she simply didn’t see the point in consuming it when it does nothing to satisfy her hunger. so she refrains from eating too much human food, choosing to avoid it most of the time and instead settling for drinks.
and it seems that her date picked that up.
he pauses from his story, staring at her untouched plate in confusion. “are you not hungry?” he points at the chocolate cake with his fork, brows furrowed. she shakes her head, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear.
“i’ve always been told i eat too much.” she says, her tone shy and embarrassed. she picks at the dessert with a sad smile, which results in her date’s expression changing from one of confusion to sympathy. they always fall for this act.
then she looks up at him, the mischievous glint in her eyes goes unnoticed. she reaches over to grab his free hand on the table, her fingers intertwining with his and her lips forming a reassuring grin.
“it’s okay, though. i’d like to save my appetite for our dinner tonight.”
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