GENRE: mystery/horror

MAIN: ateez ot8

WARNINGS: mentions of suicide and suicide scenes, murder, fire incidents, car crashes, blood and throwing up, self harm and abuse, and other explicit themes.

WORD COUNT: 10k

NOTE: this was my entry for the ateez storyline contest :] nothing much to say but I had looooads of fun writing it, with lots of help from lex <3 it would kind of help if you read into the images that prompted the writing for this, since a lot of its elements r spun into the story, but even if you don't that's fine. okay onto the story

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All events mentioned in this story are purely fictional, and only for entertainment purposes. The characters nor the storyline are affiliated with ATEEZ members whatsoever.

Read with precaution. Keep your eyes peeled. Connect the dots.

Good luck.

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ARC 01 — THE COMBUSTION

(1) 15.06.2010, KANG YEOSANG.

All things considered, a mud cake was better than no cake at all.

Yeosang thought the cake looked pretty good. The rain had stopped a few minutes earlier and the ground was still wet, allowing him to sculpt a cake from scratch — a little sprout for a candle, pebbles circling the outer rim much like frosting would. 'Happy 11th' had been carved onto the middle with a twig, though Yeosang was really questioning the intentions behind the 'Happy' on the cake now.

His watch beeped. 23:55. In five minutes his birthday would be over . . .

Without a wish from either of his parents.

Five minutes passed. His watch bleeped again. A raindrop landed on his head, the beginning of more impending.

Yeosang stopped twirling his finger on the top of his mud cake and let out a strangled sob.

It was bad enough that his birthday had to fall on a weekend, resulting in him spending the whole day without any contact to his friends whatsoever. His parents completely ignoring his existence (not for the first time) was just the cherry on top. No cake, no gifts, not even a simple, 'Happy birthday, Kang Yeosang'.

Nothing.

Yeosang was so, so sick of it all.

A tear dropped from his left eye, and he wiped it away, only to feel more coming after it. More and more tears.

He was crying. Yeosang was crying.

He never cried. He wasn't allowed to cry. He couldn't cry. He wouldn't —

("If you cry in front of me again, Kang Yeosang, you will face consequences. I didn't raise a weakling. You have to learn how to stand up for yourself.")

Another sob broke loose, and Yeosang didn't care to hold it back anymore.

With a frustrated yell, he kicked at his lousy mud cake, tears streaming down his cheeks and landing on his orange raincoat. He was about to stomp it level to the ground and release all his pent up anger when he felt a hand on his shoulder, making him pause and look around.

"Yeosang," the girl said, a bright smile gracing her lips as their gazes locked. "It's late, and it's raining."

"I don't care," Yeosang spat, frowning. He sat down on the kerb again, and the girl followed suit, without Yeosang having to ask her to.

"You were being loud. And you're crying," she noted. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

"You're a str —" He began to say, until he realized — she was his neighbour.

If anyone had heard the screaming and arguing from Yeosang's household, it would have been her.

"My birthday just ended and none of my parents wished me," Yeosang felt tears welling up in his eyes all over again.

"I'm tired of it, I just wish they could care about me a little more, acknowledge me, tell me I'm doing great even if I bring an occasional B . . ."

"You're doing great, Yeosang," the girl said soothingly, "and hey! Happy belated birthday! See, now you have someone who wished you."

Yeosang started crying all over again.

"Stop crying," she panicked, moving to comfort Yeosang to the best of her capacity (which just happened to be holding his hands in her lap as he raised them to hide his face).

"Look, everything will be okay, alright? See," she looked heavenward, and Yeosang did too, subconsciously.

"The stars are up." She looked at Yeosang again. "You see stars in the sky, Yeosang. There's hope for you. I promise. As long as you see them shining even in the most unlikely times, everything will get better."

Yeosang sniffled, too stunned to speak.

"What's your name?" He said at last, wiping at his eyes.

"Ah," she smiled. "I'm Mina. Song Mina."

"Nice name," Yeosang whispered, looking up at the stars again. Even through the grey rainclouds billowing in the sky, the starlight still penetrated through, managing to reach the world no matter how faint.

Mina was right. The stars were thriving; so would he.

"Thanks, Mina."

———

Yeosang woke up sweating.

Which was odd — it was already the end of spring and the air conditioning inside the library was always left on full blast around this time of the year.

He rubbed his eyes, looking down at the desk and seeing his Physics textbook sprawled open in front of him, with a wet drool stain on one side of the page. He peered closer — why were all the letters jumbled up? — and couldn't decipher anything, seeing nothing but a mess of letters and symbols tossed together on the page.

That's all physics had ever been to Yeosang, so he didn't really care.

"Oh, I must have fallen asleep studying for my finals —" Yeosang said out loud, until he heard what sounded like a loud roar and a groan from the back of the library, the creaking of wood becoming unbearably loud as one of the shelves collapsed, flames licking every visible surface of the befallen shelf.

The library was on fire.

"WHY'S THE LIBRARY BURNING —?" He exclaimed, voice becoming louder with each passing word. He scrambled to his feet, much to his surprise — knocking the chair over, and found himself running towards the fire.

"What —" he tried stopping himself, but it was as though he were possessed, another power urging him forward.

He felt like one of his own drones, with someone (mostly him) behind the remote controls.

Autopilot.

"What the —?" Yeosang felt sick to his stomach as he drew closer and closer to the glowering furnace, growing bigger and bigger, victimizing each row of shelves one by one.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" He screamed at no one whatsoever, his legs still driving him forward. He attempted braking himself, but it resulted in him falling flat on his face, being lifted up to his feet again and scooting forward once more.

What the hell was going on?

"Stop," Yeosang begged, tears pricking his eyes. "Stop. I don't want to die. STOP IT!"

Yeosang dodged past another burning shelf, and his eyes landed on a painting on the back wall of the library, facing the shelves containing the Reference books. It was already on fire — he could smell the rancidity of burning plastic mixed with paper and old paints — and he found himself reaching for it with his bare hands,

"STOP!" He screamed, a tear slipping past his eye. "STOP IT!"

Yeosang ripped the painting off the nail, dropping it onto the floor and removing his blazer to smother the flames. He stared, agape, tears streaming down his face from the thick smoke and the weight of the situation as he watched himself save what was left of the charred painting and make a run for it.

He was racing literal hellfire through a high school library.

The fire had already reached the desk he had been sitting at, and a part of himself felt really satisfied just by watching the pages of his Physics textbook wilt away with the extreme heat. The smile didn't last too long, though — he was now facing the window, the only way he could possibly exit the room and the only part of the place that was currently untouched by the wrath of the flames engulfing the library.

He needed to get out. He didn't want to sit around and let himself burn to death — no way in hell he'd let himself give up that early.

Not as long as the stars were still shining.

Who had set this place on fire? Why'd he gone all the way to remove a dumb painting off the wall? Who was controlling him? Yeosang felt like crying all over again, fear gripping his heart and crushing it to smithereens, feeding the remains of it to the raging fire around him.

He was too young to die. Too young. Way too young.

"Help," Yeosang choked out, as he reached for the window and slid it open. "Take — take me home. Please." A strangled sob escaped his lips.

He thought of his parents — the useless people they were, doing nothing but constantly bring him down and ignore every aspect of his existence — his best friends, who were probably at home, pulling all-nighters for their finals — and Mina, the girl next door, his closest friend and the person who'd been emotionally supporting Yeosang where his parents should've been.

He hoped Mina was safe. He needed her then — to give him one of her warm hugs, talk about the stars again and listen to her tell stories about Neverland over sandwiches she'd made.

He hoped everyone he loved was safe and well.

Yeosang's subconscious climbed the windowsill, his legs hanging out into the night air. He felt his hands go clammy as he realized the height of the building — he was on the fifth floor. He was going to jump off the fifth floor with a half-burnt painting in his hand.

God, he was so dead. He was so scared. A part of him wanted all the pain to stop, and the other part of him knew jumping and running away was the only way to do it.

If he didn't die first.

"God," Yeosang cried out, looking up at the sky. He needed hope. He needed the stars —

What?

"Huh?" He swore his heart stopped beating.

No. No, This wasn't it. Something was really wrong now.

"Where are — where are the stars?"

Yeosang felt panic creep up his spine, its cold fingers dancing across his sensitive skin and sending the hairs on the back of his neck standing upright. He was frozen. He couldn't move.

Was the world really ending?

Why was he staring up at nothing but a blank canvas of pure, eternal black, no stars, no clouds, nothing?

"Shoot," he rasped, tears spilling from his eyes again. "The — the stars, Mina, the stars."

Where was Hope when he really needed it?

As though he were pushed, Yeosang jumped, an involuntary scream leaving his throat. It was a cry of fear, pain, a cry for help — but Yeosang knew this was it.

He saw the ground rushing towards him and he made one last prayer for his loved ones to be safe.

He closed his eyes. He saw two bright headlights, looming in on him blindingly as they emerged through a tunnel. Somewhere, he heard the shrill blow of a train horn, right before the darkness swallowed him whole.

Behind him, the school burned.

(2) 31.05.2012, JUNG WOOYOUNG.

Even though there were multiple shelves between him and the duo, Wooyoung could hear the giggling and the teasing as clearly as he would've if they had been sitting next to him.

The library was supposed to be a silent place, but Yeosang and Mina made it anything but.

Wooyoung heaved a heavy sigh, looking back at his Chemistry textbook. He kind of regretted not listening in class, now that his exams were staring at him head-on, (not his fault that he didn't know how covalent bonding worked) — and the only person he knew who could help him was Yeosang.

. . . But he appeared kind of busy at that time.

Yeosang was the only one Wooyoung could possibly approach without the fear that he would laugh at him and decline his request for help — anyone else would flip Wooyoung off, blaming him for not listening in class and always talking to his seatmate.

Well. That was his fault, yes, but Chemistry being as boring as it is was something out of his control.

(Tell Wooyoung one time he'd have to tell someone why Carbon Dioxide had a lower melting pointing than Magnesium Oxide. That's right — never.)

Wooyoung stared unblinkingly at the dot-and-cross diagram in front of him, yawning loudly. As if on cue, he heard a loud squeal from Mina, followed by a panicked 'shush' from none other than Yeosang.

"Give it back," he heard Mina say, her voice exhilarated and breathless.

"No," Yeosang chirped back.

Wooyoung felt his insides go cold.

Damn, I feel so lonely.

If only my social skills didn't suck so much.

Before he could get second thoughts regarding the thought that popped into his head, he got up, walking past the rows of shelves to the table Yeosang and Mina sat at.

"Hey, Yeo — oh."

Wooyoung blinked. Mina returned back to her seat from where she was draped all over Yeosang, in an attempt to get her calculator (which Yeosang had been evidently holding above his head), a blush creeping onto her cheeks.

He cleared his throat, the awkward atmosphere making him want to melt into a puddle and never return again. "Right. Um. I was wondering if you could help me with Chem, Yeosang, I'm kinda clueless —"

"Uh, I'm kind of busy," Yeosang cut in, looking apologetic. "I promised Mina ice cream if she passed her English exam, so —"

"Yeah! Of course," Wooyoung exhaled, smiling tightly. Damn. "Maybe . . . maybe later then."

"Let's go, Mina," Yeosang got up, shoving all his books and pens into his bag. Had they even studied, or just fooled around? Probably the latter. Mina followed, and stood up as well, offering Wooyoung a bright smile.

"Bye," Yeosang said. "See you around."

Wooyoung's gaze dropped to their hands, fingers interlaced between each other's loosely — something that spelled love. He felt a part of his heart break off. A part of him wished he had someone like that.

Wooyoung wasn't the type to get jealous easily, but he felt like that was changing really quickly.

"Yeah," Wooyoung managed through gritted teeth. "See you around."

He didn't intend to.

———

Wooyoung loved his nighttime jogs, but that night everything felt off.

He got out of his house feeling like he was being watched — like someone was tracking his every move. The first sign of danger was the swing set in his neighbour's front yard; that had not been there earlier that day when he went to school.

And since when was the road leading uphill newly paved? And the Kims' house was completely repainted and looked like they'd just bought it?

Wooyoung took in a shaky breath. Tonight was just like any other night, right? Why should it be any different? Just him, his jogging playlist mainly consisting of BTS, and his beloved Skechers —

He'll be fine.

He was about to start his playlist just as his phone rang. He stared at the screen for a moment, processing the number that popped up — one that was saved as Seonghwa-hyung with a flower emoji next to it.

Wooyoung felt a shiver run down his spine. Shoot.

Who was Seonghwa?

Wooyoung stared at the screen in shock, not knowing what to make of the sudden unknown phone call, and decided to decline. After all, his mother had always told him to not accept calls from unknown numbers —

He was calling again.

Wooyoung felt his hands becoming sweaty. Who was this, and why was he repeatedly badgering him? Why was his number saved? Wooyoung didn't know a Seonghwa.

Beep. The call ended.

And not a minute later, his phone rang again.

Frustrated and scared out of his mind, Wooyoung swiped to answer — "Hello?"

"Wooyoung! Where the heck are you?"

"Who the hell are you?" Wooyoung asked, voice snappier than he intended. "Since when do you talk to me?"

"Damn, Wooyoung," Seonghwa drawled from the other end. "Sorry I didn't talk to you this whole week, but you ate the last of my doughnuts. You deserved it. Anyway, come over to school, we're burning it tonight."

"You're what?" He shrieked, steps coming to a halt. "Are you actually freaking insane? First you call me and talk to me like we're best friends or something and now you're telling me, as casually as you'd invite someone over on a Saturday night, that you're committing a crime?"

"Wooyoung —?" Seonghwa cut in.

"And you asked me to freaking join you —?" Wooyoung's eyes were wide in disbelief and horror.

"Wooyoung, we planned this ages ago —"

Beep beep beep

"Jesus Christ!" Wooyoung exclaimed, his mind reeling from the brief exchange. "They're out of their minds!"

He put on his playlist and set off at a light jog again, hoping to god it would clear his mind. He might get a yoghurt smoothie on the way back home — and maybe buy some snacks for Minkyung, too.

He was gonna jog past the dentist's and towards the beach — wait a second.

This wasn't his jogging route.

"What?" Wooyoung squeaked, as he found himself turning a right onto the main street. "What —" He tried stopping himself and turning around, but nearly tripped himself up in the process of doing so, almost knocking the air out of his lungs.

What the heck?

"Oh dear," he whimpered, his feet still carrying him forward to wherever they were going. Wooyoung's heartbeat was speeding up — and not because of the physical activity. He knew something had been off the minute he stepped foot out of his house.

This was the final straw.

His body worked like it was automated, and it was the moment he found himself running past the hotdog stand that he realized he recognized this route.

It was the way to school.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no," Wooyoung murmured, the panic rising up his throat in the form of bile.

This wasn't going to end well.

Wooyoung was trapped in his own body, and he didn't like it one bit.

It was at least a fifteen-minute jog to the school — it was located on the left end of the street, which alone was freaky enough. Nobody was on the roads and, almost ominously, the only streetlamp there was . . . flickering.

Wooyoung wanted to turn around and run home. He really did.

But his body wouldn't let him.

He jogged right past the main gates, down into the little alley that led to the back wall. Wooyoung had brief memories of coming here during lunch break, but that was about it. It was the dead of night and there was no light source there whatsoever, and Wooyoung was ready to cry or pee his pants, or maybe both.

He stopped jogging halfway and then faced the wall, jumping to grip the edge before he climbed (more like scrambled) up the structure. He let out several involuntary grunts — he didn't remember the last time he'd climbed something — and soon enough he was inside the school, facing the back doors of the hall.

Apparently he knew where to go from there, too, because he ran into the hall and right outside into the compound, now struggling to breathe evenly. The compound was orange-lit and he could smell the smoke, and with a sinking heart, Wooyoung realized he was already too late.

The first, second and fifth floors were entirely on fire, flames cracking and hissing at the world outside through the open windows. Wooyoung felt a mixture of emotions — horror, sadness, anger — horrified at what he was seeing and the fact that he himself had led him here subconsciously — sad because the building in which he had spent four years of his life was burning away in front of his very eyes — and angry because he knew exactly who was behind this and the fact that they'd actually gone and done it.

A crime. That easily.

Despite the heat surrounding him, Wooyoung shivered.

"I hope all of you rot in hell," he hissed, staring unblinkingly at the building before taking out his phone to dial the fire brigade.

"WOOYOUNG!"

Is that —

"Wooyoung, what the hell?"

. . . Yunho?

"We were waiting for you all this time, where the hell have you been?" Yunho laughed loudly, slapping Wooyoung's shoulder. "You were supposed to help, bro, the heck?"

From behind him, Wooyoung could see Jongho, Mingi, Hongjoong and probably Seonghwa — hell, he knew most of them.

Wooyoung backed off a little — what kind of freaking dream is this?

"Yunho, where on Earth is San?" Hongjoong called, voice sounding panicked. "Where was he?"

"He was —" Yunho hesitated visibly, and Wooyoung shuddered again, hearing yet another name he was inhumanely familiar with. "He was on the fifth floor, I'm sure he's on his way."

"Shouldn't we go back for him?"

"Nah, maybe Yeosang'll meet him on the way out."

Wooyoung's eyes blew wide, blood congealing in his veins. It was as though someone had doused a bucket of freezing water on him.

"Yeosang — Yeosang?" Wooyoung stuttered, his heart thudding hard against his chest.

"Yeah, he ran back in to get the painting from the library," Hongjoong shrugged. "He'll be fine. Anyway, we'll go now, I guess. Since you missed literally all the fun, how about you stay back for your best friends?"

Best friends? San and Yeosang? Funny.

"I — okay." WHY'D YOU SAY THAT, WOOYOUNG?

"Right." Hongjoong nodded, and the group walked off calmly, laughing and talking as casually as they would while leaving school on a normal day.

"Oh my god." Wooyoung felt sick. Tears pricked at his eyes and he was ready to hurl — he'd never felt so horrible in his life. Ever.

He was about to retch when he heard the obnoxious noise of an unoiled window rolling open. He listened on for more noises, until he positively couldn't take it anymore — he fell to his knees, all that was left in his stomach leaving his body through his mouth. He was crying, sobbing even, and he felt so, so damn helpless.

Gasping for breath and trying to swallow down the sour taste in his throat, he got up, taking out his phone —

And then Wooyoung saw him jump.

He didn't know what to do as he heard the scream of anguish that left his throat, the painting in his hand falling loose. Wooyoung felt like someone had hit him with a brick as his brain registered the voice, the figure that was falling from the fifth floor —

"Yeosang," Wooyoung gasped, tears springing to his eyes —

THUD.

"No," he cried, his knees buckling as he saw Yeosang's listless body a few feet away from him, blood already staining the sand near his head. "No, no, no, please — no."

This couldn't — no. He couldn't have — right? Right?

He —

"HELP ME!"

Wooyoung froze.

No. No. this wasn't happening.

"GOD, HELP ME!" A guttural cry of raw pain, that hurt Wooyoung to even keep listening. He swallowed the lump rising in his throat all over again.

San.

"HELP — SOMEONE — PLEASE —"

Biting down on his lips to keep himself from crying out loud, Wooyoung lowered himself to the ground.

He'd just witnessed one of his friends jump to his death from the fifth floor and now he was hearing yet another one of his friend's continuous cries for help from inside a building that was almost completely on fire.

"HELP ME OH MY GOD —"

No way he'd let San die while he was still inside the school.

He sprinted right for the stairs on the left without a second thought, head spinning and heart racing.

Either San burnt to death in the room, or Wooyoung got him out —

Or they burnt together, in the hell they'd created themselves.

(3) 09.10.2016, PARK SEONGHWA.

The place was eerily familiar.

The more Seonghwa looked at it, the more he realized he knew this place. The train station in front of the ice cream shop which he visited so often after school, often days ending with him staring out the window at the trains rumbling by, a chocolate chip ice cream cone in his hand.

Even the sky seemed familiar — the sky was never the same on two consecutive days, but Seonghwa knew he'd seen the same hues of pink and lilac already, hand in hand with the stratus clouds lining the atmosphere almost like a cherry on top. A crescent moon was up, illuminating the sky around it with a magical glow.

Something was off. He'd been here before. He had —

"WHAT IS SHE DOING?"

The sudden scream sent a jolt down his spine — he turned around immediately, his brain already forming a clear picture of what he was about to see.

His gaze landed on the short-haired girl, and his blood ran cold.

The same girl who Yeosang would trust with his whole life — the same girl who'd helped Yeosang find hope again.

She couldn't be giving up her own.

Not this. Not this again. I'm tired. I'm so damn tired —

Two years ago. He'd witnessed the girl take her own life on the train tracks — and he'd done nothing but stand there and watch, frozen in place, mouth hanging open as though to call the girl while the ice cream melted down the sides of his hand.

He'd let her die.

He hadn't done anything.

It was kind of your fault she died, Seonghwa —

"Ma'am." He thrust the ice cream cone back into the lady's hands, throwing the door of the shop open and sprinting out before the store lady could stop him.

Not today, not when I'm looking.

"Hey!" His voice came out shrill and desperate. Anything to catch her attention.

"Please don't do this —" he ran towards her, just as she stepped forward onto the tracks. From a distance, he heard the blare of a horn, and the ground vibrated ever so slightly.

"Please, listen to me —" No amount of pleading is going to change the past, Seonghwa.

The red engine of the train burst through the tunnel, bringing with it a tremor to the ground rather like a small earthquake. The girl turned around, shooting one look at Seonghwa.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, before jumping onto the tracks. Seonghwa's fingers curled around her bracelet in a last attempt to get her and it ripped off, silver chains clinking as it fell onto the ground next to his feet. He caught a small whiff of her perfume, the sweet tangy smell of roasted sugar — and then she was gone, away from his reach.

He was too late. Again.

The train drew closer. Someone cried out from behind them.

"NO —" He screamed.

This wasn't it. He wasn't going to let this end the same way it did two years ago.

Shooting one last look up at the sky, and ignoring the desperate yells from behind him and the smell of diesel exhaust as the train rumbled towards them —

He jumped after her.

———

He braced for impact, for the ghost of death to hover above his numb lips, for the weight of the train to send him into utter oblivion.

It never came.

Instead, he was jolted awake by the same girl, peering at him scrutinizingly as though he were some kind of foreign creature. He sat up, heart thudding against his chest — the girl merely huffed and stood up, walking out of the room.

He looked around. His eyes adjusted themselves to a dimly lit room illuminated only by what seemed like the stars and moon shining in through the window. A shelf stood against one wall of the room, stuffed with textbooks, and there were tables and chairs, and a whiteboard in the front —

"Wait." Seonghwa felt a chill run down his spine as the familiarity of his surroundings sunk into him.

"This is my school."

His voice echoed back to him, and Seonghwa had never hated hearing his own voice as much as he did at that moment.

He decided to leave the classroom and follow the girl into the next room. He could hear the sound of laughter, ecstatic shrieks and hushed whispers — the girl waited until he reached her, before twisting the knob and opening the classroom door.

The classroom fell silent. He looked in.

Wait. This was his classroom.

He looked around — he could see Hongjoong, holding a plastic bottle full of golden liquid, staring at the open door in dismal horror.

And there, standing near the window holding a box of matches, was . . . him.

Seonghwa's breath hitched in his throat.

"What —" he turned around to face the girl again, but she had vanished without a trace.

"What was that?" The silence was pierced by Hongjoong's trembling voice. The other Seonghwa shook his head, shrugging.

"Probably the wind?"

"The wind does not, open closed doors, nitwit," Hongjoong hissed. Seonghwa's clone let out a hearty laugh.

"Say that to the ghosts in horror movies."

Seonghwa's knees buckled. He lowered himself, his mind spinning, heart hammering against his ribcage so loudly he was afraid these . . . clones would hear it.

But they acted as though he wasn't even there.

"Yunho, San and Yeosang went to the library," Hongjoong said nonchalantly, uncapping the bottle and tossing the liquid aimlessly across the surfaces of the desks and floor. "Mingi and Jongho are on the second floor. Screw Wooyoung, he didn't show up."

The Seonghwa standing near the window calmly opened the box, taking out a single match and striking it against the side.

"RUN!" Seonghwa shrieked, and Hongjoong took off, not watching as he tossed the lit match as far as he could.

With a crackling roar, one desk caught fire.

My desk, Seonghwa realized with a jolt.

The other Seonghwa fled past him as well, their footsteps carrying down the hallway along with Hongjoong's desperate yells to follow him. The door slammed shut on its own accord as the flames began to grow — faster, bigger, hotter. Seonghwa sat, watching his surroundings burn — a big, angry, orange furnace of death lapping at the furniture and burning away merrily, forming clouds of grey smoke that refused to leave the classroom.

Hell, Seonghwa decided. I'm in hell.

The memories formulated in this classroom were burning away in front of his very eyes — the back of the class was completely on fire now, flames and smoke shielding the windows as the curtains burnt as well. The times when he used to skip class with Hongjoong, or sneak in snacks to Biology without their teacher knowing, or drawing on the wooden desks with permanent markers that angered the cleaning staff beyond words —

All of it. Burning. Not a warm, happy little fire, but a fire set off by students who had made their wrath and distaste towards the community inhumanely clear.

All of it, burning away from the match that he'd thrown.

With another groan, the desk in front of him burst into flames, thanks to the heat licking at its legs from the ground. Seonghwa was sweating. This wasn't it. He needed to leave. This wasn't his world — he couldn't stay here.

This wasn't his past. This wasn't the present.

He wasn't a criminal.

Seonghwa scrambled to his feet, terror and desperation clutching his heart in their cold claws, already tearing one rip through the middle.

He tried the knob, already warm against his skin.

"No." Seonghwa's hands were trembling, struggling to get it to twist.

"No. No, you can't. Get me out of here," he banged his fist against the door, "GET ME OUT!"

He tried again, his hand already hurting — but the door wouldn't budge. Tears welled up in his eyes as the smoke curled thicker, a sob bubbling out from raw fear.

"GET ME OUT!" He choked on his own words, spluttering, coughing, his lungs straining for a gust of fresh air.

"GET — GET — HELP ME," He screamed. "GET ME OUT —" Another coughing fit. "GET ME OUT, PLEASE!"

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he banged against the door, screaming, rasping, until he could feel the tang of blood in his throat as he swallowed. The whole room was burning — the fire didn't differentiate.

Seonghwa would burn, as well.

He closed his eyes, holding his breath as he willed to let death take him over for the second time that night.

He inhaled nothing but smoke, his lungs sputtering inside him, the searing pain as the flames hit his feet —

Gone.

All the pain, the suffocation, the claustrophobia.

He was breathing.

"Open your eyes," a female voice whispered.

And so he did.

ARC 02 — THE HELLFIRE

(1) 18.02.2012, CHOI JONGHO.

San was usually never this distracted. It was throwing Jongho off.

They'd met up after school for their routine basketball games against one another, He'd attempted at least three lay-ups and missed them all, when he would usually dunk at least twenty in one match.

This wasn't the San he knew at all.

"Hyung," he asked, finally, letting the ball go and grabbing San's hand.

"Are you okay?"

"What?" San shook his head, as though getting himself out of a daze. He grinned brightly, "Yeah, of course, why'd you ask?"

"You seemed kind of down."

"No, I just . . ." San sighed. "Need some sleep. Slept a little late last night."

"Oh, okay." Jongho smiled. "Please get some rest. You want some ice cream or something?"

"Sure, Jongho."

"Okay! My treat!"

———

That day, San showed up to the basketball court crying.

(Red eyes, tear-streaked cheeks and bandaged knees.)

"Hyung!" Jongho gasped, running over immediately. "Are you okay? What's going on? Have you been crying?"

"No, Jongho," San sniffled, laughing half-heartedly. "I — I fell down the stairs, and hurt my knees, and it's painful so —"

"Just say you cried," Jongho sighed, a smile tugging at his lips. "We can just sit here and relax if you want. I have some chips in my bag."

"That'd be nice," San admitted. "Thanks, Jongho."

"Anytime, Hyung!"

———

Bad went to worse, and Jongho felt like he was at fault.

San started ignoring almost all of his text messages and calls. Every day he'd show up to school with a new cut or bruise on his body, something Jongho could see even through the layers of foundation caked on his skin. He lost a horrifying amount of weight and Jongho was afraid that one day, San would just . . . break.

He knew San needed serious help when he stopped showing up to school altogether.

He should've done something when he'd first realized something was wrong. Why had he chosen to be so blissfully oblivious? He chose to stay happy when other people around him were struggling to do just that?

He could've helped. If he had reached out sooner San wouldn't be where he was.

Rumours began spreading around the school, each version so sickeningly dramatic and overexaggerated that Jongho felt like sucker-punching all of the people starting them. Teachers, upon receiving no response from San's household, asked Jongho if he knew anything about his whereabouts — only for him to reply the same bland words they'd grown more than used to hearing.

Jongho felt like (a very selfish) failure.

If anything, he wanted to apologize to San — for not realizing that he was breaking inside, and not helping him heal what was already broken.

(2) 10.04.2014, CHOI SAN.

San never thought he'd be taking a taxi to school, but times had changed and that was exactly where he was now.

His knees hurt way too badly from the repeated bashing for him to possibly walk himself to school. He wasn't even going to school — no way he was going to that hellhole again after nearly two months of not turning up.

He just needed his plan for today to work out, and then he'd never have to wake up ever again.

It was half past seven in the morning. San sat in the backseat, jittery, his hands shaking from what was most likely nerves. Everyone would hate him for what he was about to do.

Well, not like anyone didn't hate him anyway.

The driver made no attempt at small talk, and as much as San hated talking to people, he didn't appreciate the silence. It magnified the thoughts in his mind by millions, each one worse than the next. He tried focusing on the rumble of cars outside, the kaleidoscope of colours as they whizzed past shops and buildings — anything to get rid of the persisting itch to open the car door and get it over with.

San's snapped out of his thoughts by the trill of the driver's ringtone. He observed as the driver pressed a button on his earpiece, listening intently to whoever was speaking on the other end.

". . . Sleepover at Junghwan's tonight?" He listened a bit more, and San internally rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure thing! There's some money if you need anything, and you can ask Mina to pick out some snacks from the pantry. Take a jacket — call me if you need anything," he smiled.

San felt sick to his stomach.

"I love you too, Mingi."

Beep

A frustrated cry bubbled out from San's throat. No. He wasn't going to sit around and listen to this. He reached for the door handle, throwing it open — the tarmac below his feet flying past in a dizzying blur.

The driver gasped, San's sudden action throwing him off track and panic becoming evident in his eyes. "Kiddo — no —" a deafening screech as the driver hit the brakes —

Then, utilizing the split second in which the car had stopped — San jumped.

He hit the road with a loud grunt, a small crack making its way to his ears. What was it? His skull? Arm? Wrist? Shoulder? Leg? He didn't know. He couldn't think. His vision was fogging up, his brain barely registering the loud honks and screams from around him. He thought he heard the slow drag of sirens from afar . . . his head was aching, hard. Something was trickling down his face. Was he sweating? He always sweated. Why was it so warm?

Pain. He was in pain. He was seeing red.

His head felt like it was on fire. Throbbing, burning — San was so damn sure he was dead.

His eyes cleared a little and he caught sight of something else that was burning — a car, the smoke from burning metal and petrol making his nose burn. The flames from the wreckage were burning fast and bright, oranges, reds and pure chaos —

———

— "Earth to Choi San, officer Yunho radioing in."

What.

"You spaced out," Yunho waved a hand in front of his eyes, and San blinked — wait, I can blink?

"Oh — oh," San stammered. Since when was my voice this deep? What? "Yeah. Sorry about that."

The place wasn't one San was familiar with. There was little to no light, and they seemed to be walking deeper into the hallway, the atmosphere alone sending chills down San's spine. Why were they here, and why at this time? Who was this next to him?

Why was he alive?

They continued to walk in silence, the mood between them unbearably heavy. San felt really uneasy. Had he died? Was he in hell now? Was that it?

"Um, hey —" he finally said, unable to tolerate the silence any longer, only to get cut off by an angry, "Shut the hell up, Choi San."

"What — HEY!" He yelled out in surprise as Yunho pushed him by his shoulder, throwing him against the wall with his hand tight around his collar. Squeezing. Suffocating. San was seeing stars.

"What — the — heck —" he groaned, each word becoming more painful to utter with Yunho's steely grip tightening around his neck.

"You, Choi San," Yunho growled, "are a murderer, and a pathetic little ass." He reached for the door on San's right, twisting the knob open and hauling San in.

The room was on fire.

"WHAT THE —" San exclaimed, eyes wide from fear and disbelief. Yunho slammed the door shut, and as San struggled to get the knob to twist again, he heard the bolt being drawn from outside. Not even a second later the door shook in place roughly, from San banging on it or by Yunho doing something on the other side — he wouldn't know.

"ARE YOU HIGH?" San screamed, voice shrill from utter desperation. "WHO THE HELL DID I MURDER, HUH?"

No response. San kicked at the door, angered and horrified beyond words.

He observed his surroundings. The room was well and truly on fire, every last desk and chair in flames and burning away to ashes by the second. The heat was sweltering and San found himself struggling to breathe, tears welling up in his eyes involuntarily as he felt his body succumb to his evident fate of dying a second time by burning to death.

Was this his so-called punishment? Was he actually in hell for something he'd done — had he actually murdered someone?

He tried the knob again — it was already hot to the touch and made San pull his hand back on reflex, a small cry escaping his lips. It would only get hotter by the minute — and San had no other option but to break the door, or jump out the window (the latter was absolute insanity — he'd die from such a height).

San drove his shoulder into the door over and over until it ached, already struggling to breathe as smoke packed itself into the confines of the room. He tried his other shoulder, gasping, heaving — the door didn't budge and he was feeling fainter and fainter by the minute.

"HELP ME!" He screamed, banging against the door with his fist. Tears pricked at his eyes, the sting of smoke and absolute fear consuming him whole.

"GOD, HELP ME!" His throat was dry and it hurt to scream so loud. Tears and sweat streamed down his face, mingling with one another and leaving him at a complete loss for which was which. A guttural cry escaped his throat, pushed forward by unbearable pain and terror — he banged harder, desperate to let anyone know he was in there.

Harder. Harder. "HELP — SOMEONE — PLEASE —"

He was sobbing, screaming, fist hitting against the door with as much force as he could muster. He could already taste the metallic tang of blood as he swallowed — he was dying.

And for something he didn't even know if he'd done.

"HELP ME OH MY GOD —"

San fell against the door, body going completely limp. His vision was swimming, head throbbing and burning and his throat felt like it was filled with sand. For a split second, San was on the road again, his whole body aching, barely registering as the world around him fell into mayhem.

"SAN!"

Was someone calling him?

"CHOI SAN!" The door shook violently. "SAN LISTEN TO ME!"

San looked up towards the door, seeing a distraught Wooyoung peering into the room with tears in his eyes. He banged against the door harder and San got up, unsteady on his feet, facing Wooyoung with a defeated look.

"YOU CAN'T DIE!" Wooyoung screamed. "YOU CAN'T DIE, SAN, I — I NEED TO GET YOU OUT OF THERE!"

"Wooyoung . . ." San felt a lump rising in his throat, and he looked down at the knob, ready to break the thing into smithereens.

Wooyoung tried the knob again, pulling and tugging with such force that the door trembled in place. Behind San, the teacher's desk caught fire, bringing with it another wave of heat and smoke that made him feel like passing out.

"SAN —" Wooyoung must've noted the clouded look in San's eyes, moving closer to the glass panel and tapping it with his finger as though to get his attention. "SAN, LISTEN TO ME!"

San blinked. Why was Wooyoung still here? He couldn't breathe. His head was spinning. Every breath felt like coarse sandpaper against his lungs.

"SAN!" Wooyoung screamed again, banging against the door so hard San was surprised it didn't cave in. "NO, NO, SAN, YOU — YOU'VE GOT TO STAY CONSCIOUS, SAN —"

San's knees gave way and he crumpled to the floor, coughing and heaving, desperate for a gasp of fresh air.

"NO," Wooyoung was crying, shaking his head, still tugging at the knob with everything he'd had. "NO, NO, SAN —"

He took in a stuttering breath, "God, San, I — No." His eyes were wide, shining with tears and the reflection of flames curling and burning behind San.

"I — I can't bear to look at you like this. No." A sob escaped Wooyoung's throat, and San felt a tear roll down his cheek.

"I'm — I'm so sorry, San —" Wooyoung hovered near the door for a second, battling between his heart and his mind.

Then he turned around and ran.

He just —

Damn him, San thought, eyes screwing shut in pain.

Screw you, Jung Wooyoung, screw you, screw you, screw you, you son of a —

He coughed loudly, gasping for air, inhaling nothing but plumes of black smoke.

No. I can't breathe. Shoot. I — I —

"I hope you burn in hell, Wooyoung," San croaked, his fist curling so tightly he was sure his palms were bleeding.

"Join me."

His eyes opened and closed between inevitable death and the nearly nonexistent thread of hope. Mind reeling, lungs stuttering, San closed his eyes for the last time, his last breath being of burnt plastic and wood.

If I'm dying and ending up in hell, then so be it.

(3) 23.08.2019, SONG MINGI.

Maybe taking a stroll down the street that quite literally ruined his life, on a Friday night five years later, wasn't the best choice he'd made.

It was already bad enough that he'd had to walk down that same memory lane nearly every day for three years in his life — he didn't know why he was doing it now.

This was the street that had taken one life, and ruined two. This was the street behind his sister jumping in front of the train three years ago. This was the street that caused his inability to dream. This was the street behind his father's wheelchair . . . and memory loss.

Thinking back on it, his sister Mina had had it much, much harder than he had. He still remembered the look of utter shock and heartbrokenness when his father woke up from the coma and remembered him, his biological son, but not her . . . his adopted daughter.

She'd done all the chores around the house, helped their father and the boy next door (Kang Yeosang, a boy in their grade), and had even taken up part time jobs in an attempt to pay the bills — every day she looked more and more broken, slowly losing contact with the real world as her mental health deteriorated over time.

The one person who'd loved her like a parent didn't remember her anymore. Surely there had been no point in living anymore.

Mingi had just . . . watched. And eventually, she jumped onto the tracks.

(She'd been wearing the bracelet their dad had gotten her as an adoption present.)

He was the worst person on Earth for letting that happen to her. For not . . . doing anything.

Mingi rubbed at his eyes, feeling them tear up from the cold nighttime breeze. He slipped his hood over his head, wondering if he should go home —

Huh?

"Hey," Mingi stopped walking, reaching the exact intersection where the two cars had collided.

He was already standing there.

A perfect mirror reflection of himself, wearing the exact same clothes he was — a tattered pink hoodie, jeans and worn-out sneakers.

Without a word, his double began walking.

Mingi followed.

It was not much later that Mingi realized this was the way to school — he could hear a cacophony of sirens, one over the other, as he made it onto the jam-packed street.

The whole building was on fire.

All six floors — burning fast and steady against the velvety night sky. Firefighters were using foam on the upper floors where the labs were located, and spraying water on the lower floors. He watched, dazed, as two ambulances drew up to the school, followed by a police car — he saw a paramedic team disappear into the premises with stretchers, accompanied by firefighters.

The Mingi in front of him turned around. Even though they were facing each other now, Mingi still saw the reflection of the burning building etched into his double's eyes.

"You did this," he uttered slowly. "You . . . and your dumb little squad."

"H — huh?" Mingi stammered.

"You came here, set this place on fire," the double said, "you and Jongho handled the second floor. Yunho, Yeosang and San handled the fifth. Seonghwa and Hongjoong handled the first."

Mingi let that sink in. He had committed a crime.

And he'd heard some of the names he trusted the most alongside his.

"But," the double carried on, "not all of you . . . made it out alive."

What?

He turned around, back towards the school. "Look."

The paramedic team were coming back out, wheeling two stretchers. One of the bodies was completely covered in a white cloth, and the other had a bandage wrapped around his head.

"That's Choi San," he spoke, as the first of the stretchers disappeared into the ambulance.

God, how bad was it that he had to be completely covered up?

"And that's . . ." he cleared his throat, as the second stretcher drew closer to them.

"I think . . . you know who that is."

Mingi looked on. He saw the familiar locks of dark brown hair, his angelic features completely bloodstained and undecipherable. He noticed his bandaged arm as well, hands resting on his chest —

Mingi's breath hitched in his throat.

"That's . . ." he trailed off, a gaping hole burning itself into his heart as he finally placed his finger on who it was.

"Yeah," his double whispered.

They both watched as Kang Yeosang was wheeled into the ambulance, his sister Mina's bracelet shimmering on his wrist one last time before the doors closed to the havoc and hellfire outside.

(4) 10.04.2014, JEONG YUNHO.

The day was already bad enough when it began. He didn't count on it becoming worse.

He'd walked to class feeling shiverish and was half sure he had come down with some type of bug, confirmation coming in the form of having to throw up his whole breakfast in the class before he could run to the bathroom. The nurse at the Health room had been kind enough to let him off for the day, signing a leave slip and calling his brother to come and pick Yunho up.

He was standing, facing the intersection between the street his school was on, and the main street. The morning was busy and some kids were still arriving — he felt out of place standing near the traffic lights, looking more than ready to go home.

It didn't take Yunho long to recognize Yunseo's silver Ford. He pulled up to the front of the lane, waiting for the stoplight, and caught Yunho's gaze.

"Hi!" Yunseo mouthed, grinning widely. Yunho waved back at him, feeling a smile tugging at his lips despite feeling sick to his stomach.

The light for the main street turned red and Yunseo's car moved forward first.

Then it happened.

He was halfway to reaching Yunho when another car barrelled into his at full speed, sending both cars flying. His mouth fell open, his heart almost stopping — that was a red light. Why did the car move? Why —

"Yunseo," he choked out, dropping his bag onto the ground and running as fast as he could towards the wreckage. "Yunseo —"

"Kiddo, stay away!" Someone screamed. Yunho ignored him, plastering himself against the cracked window of Yunseo's car and peering in.

"Hyung," he sobbed, banging on the window. "Hyung, get up, you have to take me home!"

"Kid, please move away," the adult said sternly, beginning to pull Yunho away. He could see his brother, his head limp against the steering wheel, blood pouring down the side of his face. His body appeared horrifyingly squished under the weight of the car that had driven into his, one arm bent at an inhuman angle that made Yunho want to scream in pain just by looking.

Not his brother. He couldn't lose his brother. No —

"HYUNG!" He screamed, tears spilling from his eyes from pain and heartbreak, his heart feeling as though it had been crushed along with his brother. "PLEASE —"

"The car might explode any second, kiddo, please move." Someone grabbed him from behind, tugging him back towards the safety of the pavement. Yunho thrashed in his hold, crying and screaming, his mind struggling to grasp the possibility that he was on the verge of losing Yunseo.

He looked back on the main street, where the police were already drawing yellow tape across. There was a boy lying on the side of the street, bleeding from his head — Yunho looked back at the car and realized it had had one back door open.

Yunho let out another angry cry, more tears spilling from his eyes — hatred for that kid laying on the road, the kid that had undoubtedly caused the whole crash, his heart breaking as he looked at Yunseo —

It all became too much. He closed his eyes, letting loose a pained sob. The noise of cars beeping and people yelling drowned out his own doubts — and then the world dissolved.

———

The same kid was standing next to him.

Yunho stared, gaping, at the same kid that had caused his brother's death, the same kid he'd seen sprawled on the streets with blood dripping down his face.

"You," he hissed, hearing the blood roaring in his ears. He was livid. "You — you —"

"Yeah, did you forget my name? I'm San, what the heck?" The boy laughed. "Are you okay —"

"Shut the hell up!" Yunho screamed, and San obliged, a look of shock masking his face.

"You murdered Yunseo!" Tears spilled from his eyes as he pushed San against the wall, his hand tightening around his throat. "YOU KILLED MY BROTHER!"

"Let — go —" San croaked, his hand wrapping around Yunho's as gently as Yunseo's would have. "Let — go — what the heck —"

"I hope you rot in hell," Yunho sounded hysterical. He felt hysterical. He reached for the doorknob behind him and shoved San into the room, feeling satisfied as he saw the flames that had started at the back of the class.

"WHAT THE —" San exclaimed, banging against the door as Yunho hurriedly drew the bolt across. He grabbed his belt and looped the buckle around the chip on the bolt, pulling down harshly and breaking the chip off. The door shook in place harshly — now no one was getting in there without breaking the door down.

With that, he ran off, ignoring the screams for help from down the hallway.

———

He was perfectly fine with the fact that he'd just killed someone, knowing it was the same person who'd been behind his brother's death.

He was outside the school now, with Mingi, Jongho, Hongjoong and Seonghwa — Wooyoung had showed up late and they'd left him behind to get Yeosang and San, from wherever they were.

Yunho knew for a fact that San wouldn't make it out alive. But he still felt iffy. Itchy, as though the flames from the room he'd left San in were licking at him, as well.

Haunting him. Burning his crimes across his skin.

You just killed a person. You're no better than a murderer yourself, Yunho.

"No." Yunho whispered, eyes blowing wide. "Shut up."

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.

"Guys," Yunho gasped, clutching at his throbbing head. "I — we need to go back. Wooyoung's taking too long."

"Why?" Jongho pouted. "We could go have ice cream."

"No," he screamed. "We — we need to go back. NOW."

He turned around and sprinted back towards the school, his heart thudding against his chest so hard he felt concerned for the wellbeing of his ribs. When he turned the corner onto the street, the sight was to be predicted but it still slapped him across the face, the sight of the building on fire and smoke rising in plumes up into the sky.

"No," he whimpered. There was no way San or Yeosang were alive now. "No, please no —"

"What's going on, Yunho —"

"Go get Wooyoung," Yunho begged, turning to Hongjoong as they came running down the street. "Please. Please. And Yeosang, and San —"

"Yunho," Hongjoong asked, brows furrowing in concern at Yunho's state. He was breathing heavily, looking just about ready to break down. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Yes I am," Yunho pushed Hongjoong forward, the same way he'd done to San — the image flashed across his eyes again and he screamed, making the group look back at him.

San's screams for help. The door trembling as he broke the chip on the bolt. The flames curling at the back of the room, most likely suffocating San before it feasted away on him bit by bit.

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.

"GO!" He urged them forward, pulling at his hair frantically. "GO, I'LL HANDLE THIS!"

With shaking hands, he pulled his phone out from his pocket, dialing the emergency number with tears brimming his eyes.

"Hello, 119?" A sob broke loose from his throat, and he took in a stuttering breath, the fire blurring out in front of his eyes as tears fell down his cheeks.

"We have an emergency."

ARC 03 — THE ASHES

(⧖) 25.09.2014, KIM HONGJOONG.

It had been raining for hours, and Hongjoong had given up on sleep. He wasn't quite sure if the thunder was keeping him awake, or if it was his own thoughts. He had a lot of things to think about, and most of his thoughts scared him. He felt like he was losing his mind.

The idea had been there for weeks now. Growing, developing, spreading all over his brain and body, making his fingers itch. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone yet, but he wanted to. It almost felt like his mind wouldn't let him rest until he had shared his madness.

He looked at the box of matches on his desk. His mouth felt dry, his heart was beating too fast, but he felt a smile creep onto his face. Ruining his father would be so easy, so painfully simple, but it would destroy his humanity. He wasn't sure what was worse - watching his dad ruin his friends' lives, or taking the leap and descending into insanity.

He grabbed a match and twirled it in his hands. He thought about the extra expensive meals, the subtle threats and the tear stained cheeks. The man was a tyrant, a terrible father and a disgusting principal. But was fire really the answer?

A crack of thunder interrupted his thoughts, and he suddenly felt watched. He looked around the room, but he saw no shapes in the darkness. A flash of lighting, another crack, and suddenly he was face to face with a masked figure.

He felt his blood run cold, a shiver down his back, but he couldn't move. The man was staring at him, but Hongjoong couldn't see his eyes. Half of his face was covered by a black mask, the other by a strange hat.

The man stayed still for a minute, an hour, a day — Hongjoong couldn't tell. He didn't know how to react. For some strange reason he didn't feel scared, only uneasy. Like he was being analysed.

Then the man spoke.

"Stop this."

The words were perfectly simple, but Hongjoong didn't understand them. Stop this. Stop what? His father? The plans?

He wanted to reply, but the man was quicker. Before Hongjoong could open his mouth, he pulled out an hourglass. He stared at it, confused, and felt his stomach drop as he realised - the sand was going up.

As soon as he noticed this detail, the world went black. And then he felt the heat. Suffocating, angry, deadly. He had no time to breathe, no time to blink, because images were flashing before his eyes, one after the other, as the heat got worse and worse.

A burning desk. A painting on flames. A dry thud. Cries for help. Blood. He heard voices, sobs, mad laughter, and then he saw his face. His eyes reflected the flames, but aside from that they were completely empty. Then it was over.

When he could breathe again, the sun was starting to rise. The strange man was gone, and all that remained was the hourglass, perfectly still, almost frozen. His throat tightened. Everything he'd seen... had it just been a dream?

No, not a dream. Not a vision of the future. Not permanent. He could change it. He could fix it. He could stop it.

It wasn't set in stone. It was only a mirage, after all.