Taehyung

Tasklog N° 1786900
Loc: 37.5638° N, 126.9872° E (Myeongdong-gil, Jung-gu, Seoul)
Present.

I hate non-believers.

The faithless.

The doubtful.

And in this one of too many holy places, this woman was using teeth while sucking a cock.

I hate the porn-star cosplayists just as much.

"Easy," I ordered, voice low. "You're not mining for diamonds."

Her eyes rolled up, a slick of saliva glossing her chin. "Am I not, though?" She smiled—or performed some hollow facsimile of one as she challenged. "Aaaand, you're such a prick."

"Forever the charmer, darling," I offered, grabbing the hair at the back of her head, guiding her mouth to work. Small talk wasn't really of the essence right about now.

What did I hate more? Defiling holy places just to reach a high. This woman was about to reach her high, all right. High in the sky. Or six feet under. One could argue that the concept of gravity is messed up like that.

The crucifix glared from the shadowed wall, cold, reprimanding. I gave it a nod of acknowledgment. Then I checked my watch.

9:55.

Five minutes to the deadline. All puns, as always, fully intended.

See, I really meant every word I'd said. Defiling places filled with people's prayers and hope is really not something I abide by. But duty called out of nowhere—so did this woman.

I wouldn't say I was here to pray per se, but I was here to communicate my thoughts. Actually, scrap that. I was here to negotiate.

It goes without saying, I failed yet another time.

This time, my failure wasn't the bitch-slap silence. No. It was a task notification just as the conversation between me and this woman started to take the direction that would require one of two things: a motel or a random car's backseat.

Once the task was logged, I couldn't change the location. It was against policy.

The quite beautiful lady now on her knees, unbeknownst to her fate, had already started trying my resistance. Still raging from another failure, my resistance was quite shallow. I'd dare to call it a rebellious streak.

Given both of our circumstances, I decided to do her one last solid before I'd take everything from her.

Her breaths. And this time, puns were not intended, though applicable.

9:57

Time was slow, yet very fast. At least for her. My time was painfully endless.

I didn't come, not even as I watched her convulse, a result of the friction she created by pressing her heel to her core. She relaxed her jaw around my shaft, and I watched the serene smile seep into her features. Such a shame the next three minutes were her last on this earth. She was so young for death.

I stepped back, tucked myself in, and zipped my pants.

She looked at me, then past me—at the painting mounted behind the altar.

Mary. The child. Gold-leaf halos.

She laughed. Out loud.

9:59

The sound echoed longer than it should have.

I retrieved the lighter from my pocket, silver catching the low light. I stepped aside. I gave her space. Everyone deserved dignity at the end, even those who never believed one was coming.

10

Her head hit the ground with a muffled thud. Her body went rigid immediately, knees still bent.

I turned my head, expecting—and completely sure—she'd be standing behind me in a better shape than her cold body.

"Graziella Yung," I said evenly. "Born January fifth, nineteen ninety-eight. Madrid."

"My—my body," she stuttered, shock and fear and maybe even the scalding understanding of what was going on all registering at rapid speed. "What happened to my body? Why am I... watching it from here?"

I flicked the lighter. Flame bloomed between us.

"Your death has been registered," I continued. "I will now proceed with the collection of your soul."

I met her gaze.

"When I extinguish this flame, you will cross."

~~~~

I came back from the trip as I usually did: fairly exhausted and completely numb.

I had a very unstable relationship with my trips to the other side. Hate and love. But I'd always focus on the positive. The positive right now was that I had no thoughts. No prayers. No... nothing.

With a clear mind, the live music in this beat-down pub sounded neat. Every note, every word, every melody—they all registered undisturbed in my ears, tuning out the loud chatter and the bunch of crap happening within these walls.

"What can I get you, man?" the bartender asked.

"Jack. On the rocks," I placed my order, sliding a twenty across the counter.

"Coming right up," the bartender shouted.

I kept my shades on inside the dimly lit pub, preserving my eyes from meeting other creatures from the department. I wasn't in the mood to grant requests or talk shop.

Not tonight.

Tonight I wanted to stay present in the realm of the living. Flashy and loud as it was, it looked almost interesting.

People were unaware. Unaware looked... interesting.

The music stopped; another scene was in the making. I heard a guitar being tuned behind me. A mic squeaked. And then the drums began.

I hated drums. They brought back a memory I wanted to forget. A ceremony that had changed the rules of the game before it had even started.

I downed my Jack in one go, ready to hit the ground running. But before I could stand up from my criminally uncomfortable seat, I heard the voice before the guitar started playing.

Make it that you touch me
In the cold of the night,
Under the sunlight,
Make it that you touch me,
Oh, death,

For a second too long, I debated what had made me usher the bartender for another drink. The voice, or the lyrics.

Both, perhaps.

I didn't turn around. I let the human voice singing about death as if it were a lover she longed for take me on a different trip.

When you touch me,
Make it count,
Make it last,
Make it mine,
Oh death,

The chorus repeated 'Oh, death' in the background, and temporarily, if I weren't present in this pub, I'd think I was listening to a prayer.

Make it last.

It seemed like my prayer.

I drew a deep breath, downing another Jack, this time neat.

The singer had a soft voice wrapped in thorns. A soft lullaby for the grave. There was pain in her voice, but it only added to its beauty.

Angelic, in a realm so demonic.
Angelic, in a prayer so profane.

Oh, death,
Let it be called love,
Let it be our dance and move,
When you come,
Let it remain woven,

I didn't feel the second my lips stretched into a smile, but shortly after I did, I recognized it. I felt the muscles in my jaw move out of sync. It was almost as painful as it was forgotten.

I shook my head.

Humans were so out of touch with reality. So out of line. It was almost funny.

"Drake," I called the bartender. His head jerked up, eyes wide. He had no nametag on.

I slid a hundred on the counter. "Two more," I said. "The rest is yours."

Drake's shock wore off as soon as he pocketed the bill. And I stayed immersed in the voice until the last note.

I heard the cheers, the loud encore requests, and I heard when the scene wrapped up again to accommodate another artist.

I left my empty glass on the counter and meandered through the crowds of sweaty bodies to find the toilet at the end of the corridor.

I took a leak, washed my hands, and after double locking the door, I took off my shades. The first thing I saw in the mirror wasn't my reflection, but a young creature in training.

"I suggest you beat it, 1686, before I make you kiss your uniform goodbye," I offered, styling my hair.

"Please, Head of Department Kim, I need your signature to submit my essay. I promise I won't disturb you again."

I looked at the young creature again, unfazed by its true face reflected in the mirror. And why should I be bothered? I'd watched my own true face for more than a hundred years every time I met my reflection in a windowpane—or any reflective surface.

Just because I had a normal face now didn't mean I'd forgotten.

"There's a place and a time for that, 1686. Now, be gone," I said evenly.

1686 didn't add a word before disappearing in thin smoke. These kids like dramatics.

I opened the door and walked out of the toilet to the crowded bar. People were vaping while waiting for their turn in a long queue in front of the toilets, making out and sipping on different brands of alcohol. The music was loud and different, and I took it as my cue to retreat for the night.

The crisp air welcomed me as I spilled out of the pub through the back door. The music was replaced by sirens and dogs barking in the dead of night. The alley was quasi-empty, save for a few cats nipping at the overflowing trash bins.

I pulled a cigarette from the pocket of my grey coat and lit it with my silver lighter. I let the smoke come out of my nose as I looked at the sky. I'd heard people watched it often and prayed.

I didn't pray.

And I stopped watching the moment I realized all the stars were polluted by urban lights.

I started walking leisurely, puffing smoke, but I stopped abruptly when I heard a muffled sound behind me.

I turned around, looking for the source. It wasn't someone from the department. I would've felt their presence.

Silence, and then I heard it again. I looked around at the empty alley, and that's when I saw a dog licking something close to the trash bin I'd just walked past.

I narrowed my eyes. The dog, sensing my presence, howled and ran away.

Walking closer, I realized what the dog was licking was a human arm.

I crouched, moving the trash bags away.

A young woman—perhaps mid to late twenties—was lying on the ground, shivering. Her body, pale and sweaty, seemed to be fighting for its last breaths.

I stood up, pulled out my phone, and opened the TaskLog app. The notification panel was empty. I dialed the coordinates of this location, attempting an in-depth search.

Nothing.

I crouched again and gave a long stare at the woman in front of me.

"Why would you do such a thing?" I took my glasses off, narrowing my eyes further until I felt the icy gray take over the black people usually saw. "Mara Blackthorn. Such a nice name. Doesn't sound as cool next to drug overdose."

"Don't," the woman said in a shaky, tired voice. I didn't know what she wanted me not to do, seeing as she couldn't formulate the rest of her request.

Just to make sure there wasn't a technical error, I opened the TaskLog app again. Still no notifications.

"Why is this night so long?" I heaved a sigh. Looking around, I made sure we were alone—this woman and I. "See, Mara, I just wanted to go home and sleep. Pulling this stunt late at night is called a neighbor's disturbance." I said it to no one, because Mara wouldn't remember a thing come tomorrow.

I hunched forward, blowing a deep breath onto her face.

Light silver bloomed across her skin. Her chest rose, arching at the waist, and right before she slammed against the concrete, my hands curled around the back of her neck and the small of her waist, slowly lowering her body to the ground.

"Don't be that type of neighbor, Mara Blackthorn. Yeah?" I said, watching as the silver dimmed.

I stood up and, after giving her body another lingering glance, walked away.

I pulled my phone out and dialed three digits as I moved further from the alley.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"I think I just saw someone faint in an alley off Myeongdong-gil in Jung-gu. They're unresponsive. Please send help."

I hung up and looked at the sky again. Maybe Mara Blackthorn had prayed upon the empty skies tonight.

Maybe someone had heard her prayers.

It surely wasn't God, though.