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idolizerp · 6 years

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[ LOADING INFORMATION ON POIZN’S LEAD RAP, LEAD DANCE ZEN…. ]

DETAILS

CURRENT AGE: 26 DEBUT AGE: 20 SKILL POINTS: 02 VOCAL | 13 DANCE | 15 RAP | 10 PERFORMANCE SECONDARY SKILLS: Lyric writing

INTERVIEW

ZEN is made of contractual obligations and tightened puppet strings stitched to every joint in his body, invisible ties piercing bones, making him move to the whims of those who hold all the power. all because he signed his youth away, thinking he’d get a shot at making it big. alone. solo. a one-man act.

what he gets is a group. baggage. expectations to be a team player drilled into his head since the announcement of poizn’s lineup so many years ago.

for someone so selfish, so determined not to let anyone in, it’s a wonder how 99 ent. managed to shatter his resolve and replace it with a ghost of a boy, who would do anything they say to keep his ugly past buried, kept under lock and key, and confidentiality.

do as you’re told and we will make sure no one knows who you were. disobey and you will never get a chance at that solo you desperately want.

so he drowns himself in silent threats, fashions himself a persona for protection. (after all, ZEN is more shield than sword.)

ZEN is a collection of almosts. caught in between white lies and bits and pieces of the truth. every word he says is borne out of a calculation—a subconscious scheme—to memorize people’s shortcomings, their desires; to dig out their secrets and exploit them when he’s finished.

variety shows like his go-getter attitude. appreciates the way he chuckles at lame stories, encourages and draws from him exaggerated (often fabricated) stories about his members and their lives as trainees and as full-fledged idols. they like his sharp wit and clever savagery, praise his comedic timing and his natural capacity to read the atmosphere and gauge reactions.

so he digs himself a niche in the handful of appearances he makes on network tv during promotion cycles. smiles like his life depends on it. smiles until his cheeks hurt. smiles until the cameras turn off and he bows his farewells. smiles until he’s enveloped in the darkness of his room in poizn’s dorms and he writes himself sick.

he makes a name for himself until, one day, he goes off-script. disobeys. he steps over the line and says something he shouldn’t have. makes a joke about someone whos off-limits and way out of his league (practically untouchable) that falls flat—is misconstrued and taken as full-on offensive. it doesn’t matter if it was intentional. a mistake. the backlash he gets comes on the heels of fans turned antis, people who used to tolerate his edgy attitude and borderline controversial remarks, excusing it as him being witty and sarcastic. it’s part of his charm is not enough of a blanket phrase to save his hide or his damaged reputation.

99 ent. releases a statement, forces him to write a letter of apology and self-reflect. behind closed doors, he’s told to lay low. not show his face. so he does what he does best—he goes into hiding for several months, haunts the practice rooms in an attempt to pull himself back up. all the while the public divides itself cleanly into two: those who forgive and forget and those who remember and are out for his blood.

five years have passed since his juvenile blunder and he wonders if he’s safe. wonders if he’s forgiven. wonders if he can keep pretending this monotonous life is something he still wants. if the stage and the lights and the screaming fans are worth the way exhaustion creeps underneath his skin, seeps into bone, poisons the nerves.

wonders if anyone is capable of seeing through him at all.

(to the lost, lonely boy he keeps locked in his rib cage, in the tiny sliver of a bleeding heart he houses in the confines of his chest.

a boy buried under a man named ryu sungki, who is all too consuming, too much, too dangerous—a predator.)

SUNGKI wears danger like a second skin. walks a fine line between pure nonchalance and vague belligerence. uses people like pawns. tosses aside has-been’s and groupies like yesterday’s trash after he’s done. drapes layers and layers of distorted versions of himself that people love (to hate, to fuck)—he is whatever you want him to be. until the sun rises and he’s gone, as if he’d never been there at all.

he’s neither here nor there. an perpetual in-between. always lingering on this precarious divide.

SUNGKI cares for no one—not even his members—but himself. the climb to the top has always been a one-man war and he’s long since abandoned his comrades (those trainees back in the day who thought they could ride on his coattails, use him, exploit him. fools.) in favor of surviving. self-preservation nothing more than pure instinct to remain the last one standing.

he has no sympathy for the weak. can’t fathom setting himself aflame to keep others warm. he’s got chaos in his bones. he’s a storm in human skin and all those who stand in his way will always get caught up in his mind games.

don’t try to shape him into something pure. don’t try to save him. don’t play with hellfire if you don’t want to get burned. and, most of all, don’t fall in love with him.

because he will love you raw, broken, and dirty.

because he will kiss an i love you into your skin and murder you when he leaves and never comes back.

(haven’t you heard?

he’s the bad boy mothers warn their daughters away from.

he’ll love you like you’re his first, touch you like you’re the only thing that matters. he’ll turn your body into an altar, your mouth a confessional, and he will worship you like a sinner trying to find something holy—redemption—inside your body.)

BIOGRAPHY

ONE.

he’s born on a blazing summer day to two barely adults out of wedlock.

his mother cries. his father curses. and the nurses slip away, turning a blind eye to the sudden makeshift family of three.

the second time he wakes, he is home. and home is a tiny apartment in dalseo-gu, dirty dishes piled high in the sink, and week-old leftover takeout growing mold in the refrigerator.

home is also the cradle of eomma’s arms and a soft, tremulous whisper calling, sungki. sungki-ya~

for two years, it’s just the three of them in their little corner of the world and they try to make it work. his father juggles two part-time jobs to make ends meet: when the sun rises, he’s got his hard hat on and all sungki remembers is the hunch of his shoulder and the bend of his back; when the sun sets, father leaves dinner half-finished at a quarter to six, commuting his way to a gs25 in the heart of daegu for his closing shift.

his mother stays at home, trapped inside a dingy apartment with a fussy baby boy who doesn’t understand that she’s human too.

they scrape by stretching won to won. eat enough to call themselves half-full. sleep enough to trudge through another monotonous day. love each other enough to stay together for a little while longer.

TWO.

happiness comes in fragments.

it’s the sound of eomma’s soft humming, singing about canola flowers and the riverbanks of nakdong, of a love that caresses and warms the soul, of bygones and fleeting youth. it reeks of nostalgia and lost time—of a life she no longer gets to live.

it’s father smiling, lulled half to sleep by her gentle voice and sungki’s offbeat clapping and nonsensical babbling. it’s endearing. all kinds of tender and soft.

it’s endearing, still, when he starts to crawl, starts to walk, little legs struggling to hold him up, his voice stronger and louder. his babbles now strings of sentences and fragmented lyrics. he sings eomma’s sad ode to her younger self once in a voice made of honey and ripe with emotion he doesn’t quite understand and she cries.

it’s the first time since birth that eomma cries like that: all brokenhearted and hurting. sungki-ya, sungki…my beautiful boy.

it’s the first time sungki cries too.

don’t cry, eomma. it’s okay. sungki is here. sungki loves eomma. don’t cry, please.

THREE.

he’s three when he learns the saddest words in the dictionary. it’s stay followed by please don’t go trailed after a whimpered, half-choked eomma is sorry.

three and still a boy (just a boy) when he learns to associate abandonment with the sound of the door clicking shut in the dead of the night, to dial tone, to come back come back come back’s left unanswered.

father tells him in drunken rages not to miss someone who won’t miss them. tells him with a fist to the face that he was not enough for someone like eomma to stick around for.

tells him, after, cradling his bruised body to his chest that he can’t deal with loneliness by waiting next to the phone, by the door, by making excuses, by praying. (because what’s god to a non-believer. what’s god to powerless people.) eomma is never coming back, boy. you chased her away.

sobriety comes in ripples; its effect turning every day into a perpetual hangover. a rinse-wash-repeat cycle that always ends with sungki taking the brunt of his father’s addiction to the bottle, watching him try to find solace in the bottom of a glass, grasping at redemption with cracked hands and blood in his mouth.

home becomes a cesspool of false hope regularly beat out of him. home becomes a dumpsite of bodies—all his; year round, for years to come. home becomes a space. just a space. void of happiness but full of struggles.

home is just home. until it’s not.

FOUR.

he leaves this hellhole inside four walls behind on a sunday.

abandons a man he no longer recognizes as his father. (hasn’t even called him that since the day he cracked his head open on the kitchen counter. the scar’s a nasty reminder; a permanent blemish for him to reminiscent about when insomnia and his father’s guttural sobs keep him awake at night.)

because the day the authorities come for him is the day he loses what’s left of a flimsy thing called family. child protection services come swooping in like belated grace and the courts deem his father unfit to care for him. mother is nowhere to be found—she hasn’t been in his life for the past decade, so he’s shuffled along an assembly line of cold and distant relatives who want nothing to do with a troublesome boy like him. who wash their hands clean of him by claiming too much responsibility, financial burdens of an extra mouth to feed. shuffled along until someone finally gives in. takes the plunge.

like this, he’s sent straight to the heart of the big city to live with his grandparents, people he’s never seen hair nor hide of; who were only mentioned in passing since his mother showed up on their doorstep pregnant and afraid.

seoul is a collection of bright lights, white noise, and too many people.

harabeoji is stern and righteous. nothing like his own father, who is wasting away, lost in the aftermath of failures and the monotonous routine that’s his life. sungki never saw him coming. never expects to be taken in with kind intentions and gentle hands. never knows what to do with his own hands but clasp them in his lap as he’s gestured to sit at the table by the stoic face of his grandfather and the kind eyes of his grandmother.

dinner is a simple affair: a heaping bowl of rice, a mountain of kimchi, a big pot of seaweed soup, and a whole thing of galbi. he must’ve made some sort of noise—animalistic and pitiful, perhaps—because suddenly, there are arms wrapped around him, warm and safe, and halmeoni’s voice saying, it’ll be okay. you’ll be okay, child.

it’s only then sungki realizes he’s crying.

brokenness is the scars the old couple notice littered and scratched along his back. a decade of untold horrors and bottled up pain.

loneliness is quivering hands slipping ‘round halmeoni’s waist, bunched around soft fabric and choking sobs of grief.

(eyes empty, face haunted. he’s just a boy who’s seen too much. felt too much. hurt too much. still a boy. broken, bleeding, and blue.)

FIVE.

harabeoji tells him to channel his anger—the innate violence—into something else. tells him to shape the tremor in his bones and the adrenaline in his veins into hypermotion. you must learn to control your temper. turn that negative energy into something positive—something that drives you, something that will help you in the future, harabeoji says the first time sungki tells him he’s a whole mess of pent up anger, a body full of hatred towards the world (towards fate and circumstance—for the life he’s been dealt. how unfair it all seems).

he’s thirteen and starving. wanting to put this twisting shard of despair and bleeding cruelty somewhere. anywhere. (he doesn’t want to be like his father. wants to learn to be good. better. stronger.)

so he finds himself a makeshift home in hard-hitting lyrics that speak of injustice and the world’s cruelty, that remind him that he’s one of many who don’t live in the lap of luxury, who don’t have the privileges that those who are more fortunate are born with. drowns himself in loud music and gravel-like voices who are just as angry as he is at the world.

soon, every day is a fight to build up his walls, his defenses, encasing his heart in maximum security. warning: danger ahead. no trespassing allowed.

halmeoni approaches things differently. handles him with care. his salvation comes in the wonky radio sitting on a dusty bookshelf; the only thing keeping him sane when he wakes up at the ass crack of dawn to deliver porridge to people’s doorsteps for what amounts to pocket change and comes home from the monotony of academia, shoulders heavy under the weight of meritocracy and sky-high expectations.

exhausted, sungki dreams of a language powerful enough to fracture jaws, punch through hearts to ignite the soul. dreams of stringing together words that can heal, that can hurt, that can make people feel.

he’s thirteen, still, when he uploads a faceless, free-styled cover of drunken tiger’s good life on youtube. it doesn’t garner much views—just a handful of comments noting the timbre of his voice, the swell of emotion, his potential. the views never go higher than four digits, but sungki makes do with the occasional passing encouragement for more. thrives on it.

one cover becomes two. then, three. five. eventually, he begins covering remixed western artists like jay z and kanye west. his english is mangled at best, his r’s still sound like l’s no matter how hard he tries and his accent still bleeds right through. gruff and rough around the edges. but he finds he likes it—sounding less polished, made of raw potential. a diamond in the rough.

SIX.

halmeoni passes on a spring day and harabeoji stops smiling. (he never stops caring, though. still present, still there. just merely existing now. drowning in his grief.)

sungki stops talking. stops. just stops.

he’s fifteen when he falls through the cracks of society. slips right through harabeoji’s fingers. sungki’s lost now, floating adrift in a sea made of sorrow and hatred for stupid things like fate and circumstances. bullshit. so sungki falls. lets himself plummet straight down. because when someone like him hits rock bottom, there’s nowhere else left to go but up.

at school, he turns himself into a loner; all sharp gazes with an intent to kill aimed at all those who dare to approach. defends himself against schoolyard bullies who picks fights with him, who don’t understand the meaning of do not disturb. defends himself against the harsh tongues of teachers who take one look at his face and his don’t give a shit attitude and declare him a lost cause, lecturing him in and outside of classrooms. like this, rumors start to whisper through the grapevine—ryu sungki’s a bully. he’s bad news. stay away from him. heard he’ll kill you if you even looked at him. heard he beat up someone for stepping on him. heard he talked back to kim seonsaengnim. heard he—all untrue. unfounded. missing context and his side of the story.

but when has anyone ever even bothered to ask him if all this was true. when has anyone ever tried to uncover the truth. when has anyone even cared enough to consider there is more than meets eyes with a boy like sungki?

never.

so sungki doesn’t try to change the narrative. because you can’t convince people to change their minds when they’re so set on believing what they choose to believe.

and a social pariah he becomes.

forever not belonging. forever feeling out of place. neither here nor there.

fitting nowhere.

SEVEN.

sixteen and sungki finds himself underground.

it’s where he finds a niche; a collective of misfits, outcasts, and the resentful strays. fits right in with his newfound allies in a world that spits upon them for not being book smart and upright.

creates himself a language, finally, that breaks the bones of his innocence. fractures souls, tearing hearts wide open.

he writes himself a storm. shaping feelings into words, into hard-hitting metaphors about fucking society and battling fate with a bottle of whiskey, numbing pain by chasing adrenaline, the heady kiss of skin-on-skin, and reckless teenaged rebellion.

his handful of faithful fans on youtube gobble up the once-in-a-blue-moon amateur cover made of a sultry voice crooning love, oozing sex, in the thrum of bass and a deep, raspy voice rapping about size zero and double standards, spitting fire about the disenfranchised and the little people constantly stepped on by the privileged. finds himself a small following seduced by his face cast in shadows and the mystery of a teenager who’s just a survivor, fighting fire with fire.

in the heartfelt, emotional-ridden lyrics he pens in the dead of the night, he digs himself a graveyard, fills it with the remnants of a lonely abandoned child of three and the ashes of a boy barely seventeen.

EIGHT.

he’s scouted leaving his part-time job bussing tables at a hwae restaurant one busy saturday evening. scoffs in the agent’s face when he’s handed a business card, crisp and clean. logo blazed all pristine and perfect across the front. scoffs at the thought of getting streetcasted for his visuals (puberty was a blessing in disguise; his body elongating, filling out nicely, his face losing the roundness of a child and becoming sharp cheekbones and a jawline that could cut. he’s all rough masculinity wrapped up in a leather jacket and ripped jeans, despite smelling like barbecue and raw marinated fish). wants nothing to do with the idol industry. doesn’t want to be a dancing monkey, molded and shaped into something beautiful and perfect in the eyes of the public, singing manufactured songs about bad girls playing hard to get and sex disguised as euphemisms made of clever wordplay and blanket phrases of love sung to generic beats.

he waves them away, shakes his head no, and wanders back home.

it’s only later that he finds the business card tucked innocuously into the back pocket of his jeans and another hiding inside his jacket pocket.

open invitations. temptations.

he sits on it for weeks. months. until harabeoji finds them tucked inside a dog-eared notebook filled with ballpoint ink and smudged lines of poetry and half-finished songs.

it comes as a surprise when sungki’s told to give it a shot. he’s doing nothing but cruise life, anyway. there’s no judgment. just plain fact. sungki has no intentions of going to university. of trying to climb his way up the corporate ladder or save lives with his bare hands. of working a good ‘ol nine-to-five day in and day out.

and with one year to go before he must decide which fork in the road to take, harabeoji asks him to give it a shot. go. do something. anything. you’re just wasting away, sungki. your halmeoni wouldn’t have wanted life to turn you into a ghost. not like this.

so he obeys. because harabeoji asked. because he thinks it’s what halmeoni would’ve wanted him to do—try, to live life, take chances.

he auditions at seventeen with halmeoni’s picture tucked inside his wallet, a microphone a centimeter from his lips, and a song with lyrics about building a home in someone, trying to find peace in the shape of their body, salvation in the press of their lips, redemption in the curve of their spine, love in the sound of their voice.

he makes it in. and it feels like victory.

congratuations, ryu sungki. welcome to 99 entertainment.

(he should’ve known it wouldn’t be this easy. should’ve known once inside, there would be no exit. not without leaving all damaged and bent out of shape.

should’ve known survival was never a one-time battle, but a lifetime of war.)

NINE.

trainee life is torturous. his friends from the outside more hauntings than they are people. the draw of fame and fortune turning them heinous and cruel. harabeoji is his only remaining pillar as sungki struggles year after year to weather the storms of evaluations, of the times he sings himself hoarse and dances himself broken.

he imagines it would be worth it when he finally debuts with the small handful who has bled alongside him. imagines somewhere down the line, the stage and the spotlights and the stadium of fans waving blinding lightsticks would be worth the fracturing of bones and the momentary losses of his voice and the blisters on his feet and the bruises on his skin.

one year into a life made of a revolving door of talent hopefuls and the diehard tryhards, he’s pushed into more intensive training and thrust further into the dog-eat-dog world of rap. it’s reminiscent of his wretched teenaged self—the empty threats, the penetrating i’m better than you, trash gazes of his peers. resentment is palpable and he feels it in the burn of their stares every time he makes gradual progress, makes splashes big enough to garner some praise and recognition from his trainers. he’s got an amateur foundation from youtube days, after all. his accounts now gathering dust, laid to rest in the aftermath of closed doors training and verging on three years of blood and sweat. (no tears. not yet. never.) they must have known about them—his potential, his meager repertoire.

he doesn’t shine so much as ignites under harsh criticism, his temper constantly held at bay (control, harabeoji’s stern voice whispers in his ears every time he catches a backhanded compliment or the passing insult over his improvement by those who’s been here longer, trained harder) by sheer willpower.

as much as he’s doing this because he sees no other possible future for him, he still has his pride. still wants to have something of his own. and he’d be damned if he fucked it all up because he couldn’t take the obvious goading, the taunts, the jeers, the not-so-subtle instances of sabotage.

no, sungki was much stronger than that. petty seniors in this closed world game of survival had nothing on the years he spent curled in on himself in the corner of a dirty apartment, wondering if he’d ever see the light of day. if he’d ever get to stand on top of the world. if he’d make it another day.

a decade and some years now and he’s made it. older, stronger, and meaner. selfishness and his greed to live—to be better than everyone—keeps him going, even as he raps himself hoarse. even as he pushes his body to its limits.

two years in and those who thought he wouldn’t make it past year one are long gone—cut because they couldn’t handle the pressure, couldn’t take the day-to-day scoldings to do better, to work harder, with their backs ramrod straight, their expressions schooled into something resembling obedience.

three years in and sungki’s still here. finds himself living in the practice rooms, his only companion are the booming loudspeakers playing the same song for hours on end, training his body to recognize the ebb and flow, the rocking rhythm of beats.

he’s not a born dancer. had no real foundation in the mechanism of dance. so day in and day out, he watches the choreographers’ movements like a hawk, trains his eyes to watch for every subtle movement, every roll of the body, every pop of his limbs. learns to mimic after weeks, months, of trials and errors—of forcing his body to twist, to pop and lock, to grind, to ride, the beat of the music.

it’s hard—he’s not going to lie. his body wasn’t made for endless days of practice and countless hours of repetition. he knows he lags behind, knows all he’s got is his anger and his notebooks filled with handwritten lyrics (half-finished songs he’s sure will never see the light of day. he’s a nobody, just a trainee. what power did he have to ask them to cultivate this skill left rotting in the wake of molding himself to a precise design, turning himself into something wicked and dangerous, yielding to every demand and command because he wants to make it. needs to make it.), so he works himself to the bone, trying to break his body’s resistance to moves that bend his spine too far, hurts his waist a little too much, makes the joints of his body ache.

he bites back every retort building at the tip of his tongue, pressing at the back of his throat, and grits his teeth.

even as sweat drips into his eyes, down his face, drenches his entire body. even when his voice is nearly gone. even if the exhaustion turns his eyes bloodshot and his temper near catastrophic, he holds himself back on tight reins.

because, perhaps, being a tenacious trainee with both bite and bark and raw potential is the only chance he has to ever making it in a cutthroat world like this.

and if sungki is anything since he’d been born, it is a survivor. do or die trying. and sungki had no intentions to die. so do is all he knows. all he is.

he trains and hones and breaks and climbs back up not knowing he’s being shaved to the wick, all his lingering bits of naivete whittled away to make him sharper, jagged and edgy. it makes him a target. an outlier. unpredictable and dangerous.

he trusts no one when he’s selected alongside a fellow trainee and thrown to the wolves in a rap survival show. expected to adapt and mold himself to the rules of the jungle. expected to take the heat and scrutiny with sharp wit and a charming smile.

their success comes with consequences. rumors that 99 ent. bought their near-winner positions sour their reputations, mars their impressions. but sungki doesn’t bat an eye. he’s no longer soft and vulnerable to the opinions of others.

his first taste of fame tastes like sin. like addiction. and he’s hooked.

when poizn debuts in 2011 with him in the lineup, sungki’s no longer the lonely boy of three who wasn’t enough for his mother, who wasn’t strong enough for his father. not the reckless youth who dabbled in the sins of sex and the burn of booze and cigarettes.

not an unmarred saint made to be put on a pedestal.

ryu sungki is more than that—he’s a guilty sinner pulling on the skin of a rogue with his face streaked in shadows, a wicked grin on his lips, and his voice crooning love.

TEN.

one year into poizn’s debut and he already hates it.

hates the flashing cameras. hates the delusional fans. hates being under 99 ent.’s thumb. hates pretending he’s got this nostalgic history with his members and a bright future where they’re all chummy and brothers and are in this together when sungki doesn’t feel an ounce of camaraderie. when all he cares about is how angry he is at being fooled by praises and encouragements. how he was tricked into believing he had the potential and the opportunity to debut solo, only to be shoved into a lineup with four other boys just as ravenous as he is.

hates everything about how he has to watch his mouth. watch his goddamn image. like he’s nothing more than a puppet moving on invisible strings. like he’s just a caricature made for pure entertainment, for the fans and the world to lap up.

rugged, roguish, and reckless. sungki seethes on the inside, even as he forces his body to bow at everyone and everything. the picture of obedience—a dog of this godforsaken industry.

this is what he sacrificed his youth for.

and he reaps what he sows.

two years in and he fucks up big time.

and 99 ent. retaliates by removing the possibility of a future solo debut they’d been dangling since the tail-end of his trainee years and threatens him to keep his mouth shut.

of all the things sungki thought he was incapable of, begging was one of them. and yet, in the aftermath of a stormy public waiting for him to show his face so they can pelt him with proverbial eggs and vitriol, sungki had found himself on his knees. head down, tail tucked between his legs, his dignity in shambles.

please, he remembers saying (remembers loathing) with a voice too small, too boyish. ragged. help me. please fix this.

and fix they did.

in return, they asked for absolute obedience. creates in him the very image of a faithful lapdog, a yes man, who doesn’t talk back. who answers at their beck and call. who does as he’s told, commands and directives followed to the letter.

sungki’s reputation is barely restored. he thanks them.

(inside, the hatred for his own weakness tears him apart.)

three years ghost by and he does nothing to attract negative press. lies as low as he can. makes the needed variety show appearances during promotion cycles. circumvents any subtle prompts about his juvenile mistake back in the day, apologizes over and over again with sheepish ducks of his head on camera, words twisted to form repentance to convey his reflection and his past immaturity. vows not to make the same mistakes again.

vows to shape himself into someone better.

vows revenge and comeuppance on a company who repeatedly baited him, using his ugly past, his past scandal, and his greed for a solo as ammunition.

he keeps his head down.

(all the while, he holds back a cruel smile. biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity to strike. to rise up.)

years four and five are formative.

he meets someone who levels the playing field. who sees through his facade and his chipped masks of tell-tale obedience. see the darkness wrapped around him like hapless shadows. sees the wicked curl of lips and calls him out on his bullshit.

it’s the first time someone does.

it’s the first time someone tries.

and somewhere deep down, sungki rejoices. just the tiniest bit.

because all these years of pretending and, finally, someone is smart enough to notice there lies a crack in his foundation.

smart enough to recognize a predator for what he is—cruel, cold, and callous.

you’re dangerous, she whispers brokenly into his neck as he cradles her close, skin-on-skin. full-on sin and dirty (not) love-making. but i’m not scared of you.

you should be.

so should everyone who dares to approach him, thinking he’ll love them all tender and sweet.

so should the world.

seven years in now and the masks are starting to fall one by one.

the lapdog business is getting old and he’s getting restless. jittery.

he’s tired of the years passing by relatively the same. monotonous. all routine. aches for change. aches for chaos. for a little bit of fun. drama. danger.

he tests the waters by goading his members. pushes boundaries, tests patience. drops the act little by little. on camera, he does his best to act as if years spent sweating it out in the practice rooms has forged a brotherhood no conflict can shake. behind closed doors, he ignores them. pretends they’re nothing more than colleagues (aren’t they?). scoffs at the label of family—he doesn’t have one. just harabeoji waiting in the wings, patient and waiting as he’s always been for sungki to soar, to make a name for himself.

that bit of bite begins making an appearance in magazine interviews and one or two variety show appearances where he’s asked the cliched question of where he sees himself in five years, of his goals and ambitions.

he drops hints about the desire to go solo, his intentions on becoming a household name. seven years being muzzled comes undone and, for the first time since the mistake that cost him his pride, sungki disobeys. deviates.

i want to be known as more than just zen, poizn’s charismatic lead rapper and lead dancer. i want something for myself. something to call my own. i want people to know me as ryu sungki.

(want the world to bow at my feet. want the world to chant my name. want them to see me.)

slowly but surely, he creates himself a storm and he the eye.

because his days of being obedient are coming to an end.

#id.bio #id.99 #id.poizn #id.seo kangjoon

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idolizerp · 6 years

Photo

[ LOADING INFORMATION ON POIZN’S MAIN VOCAL HYUK…. ]

DETAILS

CURRENT AGE: 25 DEBUT AGE: 18 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 18 SKILL POINTS: 10 PERFORMANCE | 20 VOCAL | 10 DANCE | 00 RAP SECONDARY SKILLS: Acting

INTERVIEW

at first, he’s the bad boy with the heart of gold.

it’s an easy enough image to portray, because it’s the one closest to the truth. hyuk has the right type of face, the right type of snarl, the right way of working the camera. a well placed smirk, a scoff. years of growing rich with an asshole in the place of a father taught him enough of how to properly look like a jackass in a convincing way. but he also knows how to smile warmly, how to make whoever is looking at him at that very moment feel special, unique. the image works because the dichotomy is him, the way he feels inside. the disparity between his anger and his kindness, between his cynicism and his honest heart.

until the illusion is broken and the articles about him being a “delinquent” at school come out. his heart of gold breaks, and he’s just the bad boy. an asshole. that’s it. no nuance, nothing worth of being saved, or being fantasized about.

and it’s a punch to his gut because that’s exactly how hyuk feels. like a lie, like everything good about him it’s nothing but a façade. so he’s thrown to the curb, forgotten, just like his own group is.and it’s easy to forget him because hyuk almost forgets about himself too. now he’s just one more of the rotten members of poizn, a burden, an issue.

his father would agree.

and it stays like this until years later. his management allows him to act after years of an empty solo schedule, landing him a role that is exactly the same one he was given when he debuted. and it works. hyuk doesn’t even know how, but it does. the bad boy with a sad heart, the fallen angel. his appearance save him and he’s suddenly on the news again, not so much for his acting skills but mostly because of how he looks. there are articles about his honey-dripping eyes, about the way he looked in certain scenes. and suddenly people are calling him again, requesting him. and 99 entertainment is quick to capitalize on that.

they instruct him to be pleasant in variety shows, to be fun. they instruct him to flirt with the female guests but never go too far, respectfully. they want to cast him in more romantic dramas, to bring to poizn the kind of money and power only a strong fandom of girls can bring. and hyuk does it. does it because he’s desperate. does it because he’s good at it.

does it because he doesn’t have another choice.

BIOGRAPHY

chapter one, beginnings

he tries.

hyuk tries, hard. he tries hard to be the best son he can to a father who doesn’t deserve it. few father do, he learns later on. because most of them are too busy being fucking assholes than actual parents. but hyuk tries, anyway. his mother has died and his father raises him alone. that must count for something, right? it must.

so he tries. even if he goes home every day after school to eat dinner by himself, even when his father barely speaks to him. holidays are spent alone until he is old enough to go to his friends house, their parents kind and nice. hyuk wonders what’s it’s like. he wonders what he did wrong.

chapter two, origins

hyuk gets used to it.

he gets used to never seeing his father. he gets used to their huge house being always empty, he gets used to always having dinner all by himself. he gets used to his ways of coping - to the destructive rage that builds inside him like wildfire, to bloody knuckles that he hides so he won’t see them. hyuk gets used to living teenage years that will never amount to anything: girlfriends that come and go, friends that come and go. he gets used to spending idle time after school, getting into shit just because he doesn’t want to go home. hyuk gets used to everything.

he even gets used to the fact of knowing for a fact that he will never amount to anything. and it hurts at first, and then it doesn’t anymore. he laughs it off. what a cliché he has become. the sad rich boy. the motherless boy who turns to music to survive, who turns to violence to be able to feel anything at all. it’d be funny if this wasn’t his life.

chapter three, yearnings

hyuk craves for validation the way only a rejected kid does.

at the beginning of his high school life he ends up around the wrong sort of crowd. and it’s not that hyuk agrees with the shit his friends do, he simply goes along with it because he needs somewhere to belong. if he’s honest, he doesn’t like it. it’s not like him, not like his overall outside image that he so carefully builds. hyuk is a good boy, bright, beautiful. the golden boy with a golden voice, shining in school festivals, boosting with popularity. but he needs to be accepted. craves it. he already has an empty house, he doesn’t need another place to be ignored. so he goes along with it. he goes along when they bully the other kids, the weaker ones when they smoke behind the school building, when they smuggle drinks to their parties. he goes along when they find a target, press on, bully him for money, food. he goes along when they corner him in an alley street, easy laughter and jestering. he never does anything, he just watches.

until one day. until this one day when the boy spits back, swears at him. all of his friends look at him, waiting for hyuk to do something. he’s not supposed to take shit like this. he feels his throat going dry with fear, he feels his hands turning into fists with rage.

won’t you do anything, his friend says. so he does.

red is all he sees. red on the boy’s face, red on his knuckles. his friends run and then his face is red with shame as he faces his father, red when the parents of the kid come after them. red on his eyes as he cries, red, red as he apologize.

and his father pays them off as he ways does. his father had bought his love for years and now he buys the kid’s silence. they won’t take him to the police, he leaves the situation unscarred. or something like that.

his father also buys the tickets for seoul. but he doesn’t take him to the airport.

chapter four, a monster under his bed

he arrives at his grandmother’s home with a lowered head and a mouth filled with apologies. his father thought it’d be best, to send him somewhere else, far away. his grandmother’s house in was the best option, of course it was. his grandmother is a strict woman, pious, made him go to church every sunday morning.

one must pray, she’d say. for your sins. and hyuk has many.

hyuk wonders though what good can praying do. if it can make the dreams go away. he dreams of the boy, every night. in some nights he kills him, some nights he’s the one who kills hyuk. some nights it’s the very same thing as it were in real life, a morbid repetition. and it follows him for years to come, night after night, week after week. the years pass him by and even when the dreams start to fade they never truly leave. he’s always there like a ghost, a haunting of the monster he was. is. because the ire never leave him, never. he feels it and it aches, burns. like acid it gnaws his insides. but he keeps it, locks it. pretends he’s someone else in his new school, goes to church. he goes to fucking church.

he even starts singing again. he sings the hymns sunday after sunday, loses himself in the one thing he knows he does well. this one thing, his voice.

he wonders if he can be saved.

chapter five, absolution

he tries again.

at first, when the 99 entertainment scout approached him after a mass he doesn’t know what to say.

hyuk had never thought of what he’d do in the future. guilt is an all time consuming job and the future seemed like this blighted thing, hopeless. something he doesn’t deserve to aspire for. so at first he decides not to go to the audition, even throws the number of the woman who approached him in the trash. it’s his grandmother who tells him he should go.

if god gives you a gift you should use it.

so he does. and he passes the audition, hears that this is about his voice and his face. joins this company and starts from scratch on this thing everyone seems to do so well. hyuk’s dancing is barely passable, his singing and his face the only thing that keep the company interested. so hyuk dives in, tries his hardest. he doesn’t have any interest for school anymore, he goes only because he has to. he works so hard he doesn’t even have time to do anything else, arrives home only to throw himself on his bed, passes out from exhaustion. at least that works in keeping the dreams away.

chapter six, father

when he makes it, nine months after he started training, hyuk sends a message to his father. he just tells him good luck.

they barely speak after that.

chapter seven, ambers

debuting in poizn is crazy at first,, busy. their music style is not usually what he’d go for but he fits the image so well it almost feels like he chose it himself. and hyuk finds out he’s good at it. the way he looks gather attention, give him a spotlight he wasn’t expecting at first. so 99 pushes him. they shove him into variety shows, shove him in drama cameos, singing competitions. and of course hyuk starts to enjoy it, to like the stardom, the spotlight. he likes it because he’s good at it, likes it because he has forgotten what it’s like to not feel ashamed. to have people looking up to him and not down. he almost forgets he can be good at something.

he almost forgot he could be good.

chapter eight, ashes

when articles start spreading from old school mates about how he was a bully at school his company is quick at hiding everything, quick at pointing out the lack of proof. quick at bringing up old friends, old posts about how he was a nice kid. all lies and that’s the worst part. hyuk knows the truth. he knows and that is the worst part.

but even so the article takes its toll on his popularity. people are angry, many completely ignore his company’s words. he’s pulled from shows, pulled from the drama he was about to start shooting. and people notice it, the way even though 99 entertainment denied it they still pulled him out of things and it just made everything worse.

and that’s when the dreams come back.

chapter nine, burning.

there’s something wrong about him, everything he touches burns.

what is the opposite of the midas’ touch? whatever it is he feels like he’s been cursed with it. in the golden years of his debut he had almost felt like the complete reverse, like if he tried hard enough he could turn things to gold. illusions, hyuk now knows. he does.

and all the things he thought were over come back. the rage. destructive, all encompassing. he feels angry all the time. angry at his boredom, angry at the world. angry at being in a group that spends more time in the training room than actually performing. angry at his company, at his choices. angry at his father who only talks to him to remember him of who he used to be.

hyuk never believed in second chances anyway. why would he have one? him of all people? him and all his sins? he had his chance and he blew it, ruined it.

it’s done.

chapter ten, alive

when they allow him to act again hyuk almost doesn’t believe it. it’s been years since his scandal and they decide he should try again. his image is not as bad as it used to be, even though every time any article about him come out there are still people throwing the iljin word. he’s still called trash, rotten. still asked why he’s still in poizn. but that’s not surprising. it’s been years, but the public is not that forgiving.

but he accepts the offer, puts himself in public eye again. and it works. he almost doesn’t know but it does.

it feels almost weird. being cast again, receiving calls. a song that finally, finally reaches the number one spot. hyuk never believed in second chances, but it almost feels like he’s finally getting his.

the thing is: he doesn’t feel like he deserve it.

#id.bio #id.99 #id.poizn #id.seo kangjoon

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idolizerp · 5 years

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LOADING INFORMATION ON INDIGO’S MAIN DANCE, LEAD VOCAL NAM JAEHWAN...

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: N/A CURRENT AGE: 25 DEBUT AGE: 20 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 17 COMPANY: MSG SECONDARY SKILL: Acting

IDOL PROFILE

NICKNAME(S): prince, honey eyes INSPIRATION: After singing in church, Jaehwan found out his passion for making people smile with his voice. He became an idol so his voice could reach more people and move their hearts. SPECIAL TALENTS:

Can cry on spot if requested (no sad song needed).

Impersonates the legendary main vocal of gemini.

Knows how to play the piano.

NOTABLE FACTS:

Got a lot of attention in his appearance in the re:group show.

Used to sing in his church’s choir.

Has a dog named Truffles.

Is a really good cook.

IDOL GOALS

SHORT-TERM GOALS:

as of now, jaehwan is in a bit of an odd situation. his acting career is flourishing, and he’s being taken seriously more and more. he’s not unknown anymore and the push re:group gave him really worked in his favor. he can choose between roles, has offers here and there when before he had nothing. the thing is, he wanted to focus in the group. he wanted to help build them an image while he’s being pushed somewhere else completely by msg while being told this is the best for indigo. jaehwan tries to believe that, and his main goal for now is to keep getting traction for indigo, to help getting the group to even higher levels. even if on his own.

LONG-TERM GOALS:

as his acting career goes, jaehwan wants to push it to the next level. he wants to start acting on cinema, to get even more serious roles. msg seems to be willing to help him on his rise, so he wants to push even further. but he wants to keep a tight link to indigo, his career if so be it. he wants to rise not alone but with them, for indigo to go even higher too; he wants to be known not only for acting nam jaehwan, for that re:group guy nam jaehwan but for indigo’s nam jaehwan.

IDOL IMAGE

at first, he felt like he didn’t have an image.

he felt lost among all of them. jaehwan had learned to sing, he had learned to dance but he never learned how to create an image for himself. so the first year was full of awkward moments, of not knowing exactly where to go. he knew he had things he had to hide. he knew that when the cameras were around he needed to be pristine perfect but that sort of pressure only made him quiet. so he faded to the background, almost unseen. he had fans, sure, but he lacked impact. he lacked something that was his. he sang all right, he did things all right but for a while he wasn’t anyone worth mentioning. he was knwon among fans for being more quiet, more serious. for being careful with members. for being protective with fans. that was it.

until re:group happened.

whatever happened in that show it was a miracle for jaehwan. first, because he was seen. the producers liked something about him (or maybe msg had payed them, who would know?). he was shown even during times he didn’t even think people would notice what he was doing. helping fellow flop idols, stepping back and allowing someone in a lower ranking to have more lines than him. that wasn’t from the goodness of his heart, truth be told jaehwan just didn’t want to bother. but when it gave him traction he kept it up because it was a good image to play with.

and it stuck. re:group is over (thank god) and he has gone from the nobody lead vocal from indigo to somebody with a name and a fame that catapulted them to something greater. acting came shortly after, an offering that msg didn’t want to let pass. he wasn’t consulted, which pissed him off but they said it was for his and indigo’s good so he did it. it’s been years and he’s still doing it. and even after years the image he has to sustain is still the same: reliable. a leader-like boy who is selfless, much more worried with others than with himself. is an image jaehwan knows how to play quite well because it’s easy, comfortable. he smiles warmly at fans in fanmeetings. he writes encouraging words. he speaks well in events. he shows off this bright, warm image, of someone approachable, someone who looks at things and see the best out of them.

well.

good thing he’s a good actor.

IDOL HISTORY

i. forgive me father, for i have sinned.

jaehwan pauses, listens to the priest speaking with diligent attention. or at least something that looks like it. truth be told deep in his mind jaehwan is thinking of things far more interesting than whatever he’s talking about. something about piety or whatever. he’s thinking about the book he was reading, about the test he has next week. he’s thinking about the girl he took to the back of the school yesterday, about how things get boring quickly. he’s thinking about his phone on his pocket, how it rings and he wants to pick it up and see who’s talking to him. he’s thinking of her, always her.

he bows, prays. he remembers his grandmother used to tell him that if he didn’t pray he’d grow a tail. as a young kid, jaehwan used to kneel and pray for hours and hours, terrified, completely terrified. he has to muffle laughter. his older brother elbows him, a smile on his face, the two of them being shut down by his mother’s gaze.

jaehwan looks back to the priest.

“amen.”

ii. beauty & terror

the younger of two, jaehwan grows up in a wholesome family. his father is the owner of a constructing company, his mother stays home throughout his whole childhood. jaehwan spends christmas with his grandmother, and by the age of eighteen has traveled through more countries than his whole classroom combined. he does well in school (not well enough to be better than some), well in sports (well enough to be better than most) and he does well with people. they like him, for whatever reason. maybe it’s because of the way he smiles. maybe it’s because of the way he looks. the one thing he’s sure is that it’s because they don’t know what he’s thinking.

it’s not about being two-faced, it’s about knowing what he has to conceal. jaehwan wasn’t that young, but also not that old when his temper started to show. an easiness in getting out of hand, a feeling of hot rage that boiled up inside of him at the slight inconvenience.it felt - and it still does - like a paradox. who’d think that such a bright, beautiful boy could go berserk like that, who’d think of such a terrible thing? it made sense, though. it still does. one who keeps so much inside has to let it out somehow. for jaehwan, it always comes out in red, terrible rage.

there’s only two people that jaehwan believes that know him properly. his best friend, sure. but most of all his older brother, junsu. if jaehwan seems like he was made for great things, for glory and gold, junsu is made of it. he’s bright, the smartest in class. the brightness of his days. his brother teaches him how to control himself. he takes him to therapy. he’s the one who takes him to singling classes, the one who tells him he should go to auditions. he’s the one who takes him to msg. he’s the one who helps him to tell his parents that’s what he should do.

junsu is the first person he tells about getting into the company. and the way he smiles. jaehwan will remember that forever. he’s his impulse control, mostly. whenever jaehwan feels too much, whenever he loses control, it’s him he calls. always, always him.

until junsu is gone.

iii. terror

and he goes in the stupidest way possible. a cold that goes south. a stupid doctor that gives him a medicine that he’s allergic to. he can’t believe it. he can’t believe it in the wake, can’t believe it. he spends weeks in a daze, eyes lost, not eating anything. he misses classes, his high school principal calling his mother time after time and jaehwan only listens as she apologizes. at some point he goes back to school. at some point he goes back to training

but there’s something inside that burns and boils and jaehwan meddles with things he shouldn’t. his grades drop, his mood swings get worse. he drops therapy even though his father asks him to continue. whatever monster he had inside that junsu kept leashed was out now, and there’s nothing that worked better for jaehwan than self-destruction.

and guilt.

guilt because there’s this burden that lifts. guilt because part of him, this hideous, awful part of him feels like now he can’t be seen. he has lived up until now under this shadow, this greater than life shadow, and now that the sun has set such a dim star like himself could shine. does jaehwan know that? of course not. that’s not a thought that comes to his head, proper and full. it’s a feeling. it’s a shadow on the wall, when he turns to look at it it’s gone. but it fuels him. it ruins him. it destroys him.

junsu used to keep him sane. he picks up his phone, calls him. once. twice. he calls him and listens to the voicemail. he never picks up.

he had no one to keep him sane.

iv. grief

jaehwan dives into training after a while. he pretends like life goes on, and life actually does. he graduates from high school, the help from friends and so making him get his grades back to passable. so he focuses on training. he sings until his voice gets hoarse, dances and dances until his limbs collapse. he only goes back home late at night, which is good, truly. it’s better to go back that late because then his mother is already asleep, the sleeping pills by her side. his father would be asleep too, though never on his bed. months ago jaehwan would go after him, tell him to go to bed he didn’t need to work so much. now he knows that working sometimes is just a way to ignore life. or death.

so jaehwan keeps training, he keeps practicing. even when he feels like he doesn’t even want that so much he marches on. this was their thing, his and junsu’s. he’s not about to let it die. not with him. no. he’ll keep it alive. keep him alive. he can do it.

when he debuts no one is surprised. it just seems like the sort of thing nam jaehwan does.

v. expectations & reality

he’s not used to this.

because this is not the sort of thing nam jaehwan does. failing. it’s not his thing. so when song after song is met with cold from the public, with disregard, jaehwan doesn’t know what to do. he gathers modest attention, basically nothing. he’s good at singing, okay at it, maybe. he’s good at looking good, at smiling at the camera, of getting some attention for that at least. but it’s never enough. they go on, elaborate choreographies, songs that as soon as he listens to he knows they won’t go anywhere.

there’s a feeling here: that maybe junsu was wrong. he wasn’t made for this. he wasn’t good at this. maybe he should just abandon this sinking ship, go to law school. he’s a bit old, sure, but well. but here’s the thing, that’s also not the sort of thing nam jaehwan does: giving up. that’s not his thing.

but he’s getting desperate.

and desperation was never his best friend. desperation makes him reckless. desperation makes him angry. desperation makes him lash out on his members. desperation makes him lose control when he can’t, not here, not in this place where image is everything. and jaehwan image is crafted, perfect. he’s not the mood maker of the group, he’s not the comic relief. he’s built to look reliable, to look responsible. serious, even. his bluntness and his sense of humor making him look dense in front of cameras - a grandpa, they call him. jaehwan smiles, laughs.

when they tell him about the re:group show he is firm against it. when they tell him that he is one of the guys going he almost flips out. and he does, sort of. but goes anyway. what’s one more humiliation in the huge ass book he already has filled with all the minor varieties, with all the ridiculous shit and concepts. he’ll go to the damn show. make a fool out of himself, what about it. at least it’s not giving up. at least.

vi. beauty

it’s a shock that it works, but jaehwan rides the wave as if he knew it all along.

the attention they get is insane, even more so out of the sudden. but the attention he gets is what surprises him the most. it’s like being seen for the first time. the show cast some light over him, gave him much more screentime than he ever hoped for. something about his looks. something about this one episode where he helped someone out, a favorable edit that showed him as this selfless boy, someone responsible, someone who could be trusted. that he didn’t make it to the final lineup only made him look even better, god knows why.

there’s something good about seeing his group start to rise. finally. fucking finally. but it’s even better knowing he had a role in it.

jaehwan is ready, then. to ride this wave, to work even harder. he practices his vocals more, he tries his hardest to not only be the guy from re:group who was nice and looked nice. he wants to be seen for his talent too.

and that’s when msg casts him in his first drama.

he doesn’t care much for it, but they tell him it’s for the groups’ sake. he does it then. we have to milk that popularity, put your face out there. jaehwan nods. at least it’s better than those stupid variety shows. it’s respectable, in a way, less humiliating. he didn’t expect it to become a side job but it does. shocking enough he’s actually good at it, it’s something he knows how to do. it’s not what he wants to do, sure, but jaehwan guesses this is his curse. he’s doomed to only have the things he doesn’t want, an eternal longing that has its claws in every aspect of his life.

still, he marches on. junsu had told him the meaning of duty. you gotta do what you gotta do. and if you can’t fix it, then you gotta stand it.

jaehwan stands it. he goes on and on and on and the more he keeps in, the more he feels like exploding, a vulcano that’s been asleep for far too long.

you gotta stand it, he remembers, closes his eyes, nails craved in the palm of his hand. he breathes in. he wishes junsu was here, he really does. because he just doesn’t know what to do anymore. because how can he stand it, when the one who he can’t fix is himself?

#id.bio #id.msg #id.indigo #id.seo kangjoon #id.guild

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idolizerp · 6 years

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LOADING INFORMATION ON POIZN’S MAIN VOCAL LEE HYUK

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: n/a CURRENT AGE: 25 DEBUT AGE: 19 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 18 COMPANY: 99 SECONDARY SKILL: Acting

IDOL PROFILE

NICKNAMES: honey dripping eyes prince SPECIAL TALENT:

Can cry on spot if requested.

Impersonates the legendary main vocal of gemini.

INSPIRATION: After singing in church, Hyuk found out his passion for making people smile with his voice. He became an idol so his voice could reach more people and move their hearts the way POWer did. NOTABLE FACTS:

Started acting after staring in Heaven’s mv

Used to sing in his church’s choir

Has a dog named Trufles

IDOL GOALS

SHORT-TERM GOALS:

be the male lead in a successful drama

LONG-TERM GOALS:

as he gets farther and farther from his first passion, singing, hyuk wants to move completely into acting once his contract is over.

IDOL IMAGE

at first, he’s the bad boy with the heart of gold.

his father would agree.

does it because he doesn’t have another choice.

IDOL HISTORY

chapter one, beginnings

he tries.

chapter two, origins

hyuk gets used to it.

chapter three, yearnings

hyuk craves for validation the way only a rejected kid does.

won’t you do anything, his friend says. so he does.

his father also buys the tickets for seoul. but he doesn’t take him to the airport.

chapter four, a monster under his bed

one must pray, she’d say. for your sins. and hyuk has many.

he even starts singing again. he sings the hymns sunday after sunday, loses himself in the one thing he knows he does well. this one thing, his voice.

he wonders if he can be saved.

chapter five, absolution

he tries again.

at first, when the 99 entertainment scout approached him after a mass he doesn’t know what to say.

if god gives you a gift you should use it.

chapter six, father

when he makes it, nine months after he started training, hyuk sends a message to his father. he just tells him good luck.

they barely speak after that.

chapter seven, ambers

he almost forgot he could be good.

chapter eight, ashes

and that’s when the dreams come back.

chapter nine, burning.

there’s something wrong about him, everything he touches burns.

hyuk never believed in second chances anyway. why would he have one? him of all people? him and all his sins? he had his chance and he blew it, ruined it.

it’s done.

chapter ten, alive

but he accepts the offer, puts himself in public eye again. and it works. he almost doesn’t know but it does.

the thing is: he doesn’t feel like he deserve it.

#id.bio #id.99 #id.poizn #id.guild #id.seo kangjoon

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