π¬ππππ ππππ π―πππππππ.
SETTING: upper extremities β ilsung's residence, private office. MENTIONS: ko siwoo's self para βglitterβ. dissenter attacks. TAGS: #ilsungselfpara #sentinel
written for my oc park il-sung in IVORY CITY. 2022.
CONTENT WARNINGοΉ mentions and subtle hints of child abuse, depression, serial killing, unhealthy coping mechanisms.
γ €γ € there always had been three options given at one moment at a time.
hiding, hunting, eating.
all with the common denominator for survival. an instinct ingrained in his natural biology; an appetite for life and its different flavors enhanced by how the world works with the natural order of things: to kill or be killed.
however, it has been ages since he chose seclusion willingly. his memories of confinement were not the best, often painted with the shadow of his father leaving him in a dark cell for days in the most underneath floors beneath the pristine marble tiles of chernoff estate. the lethargy is a familiar friend, clinging to his skin along with few stains of ashes from the packs of cigarettes he consumed every hour; and while he wastes away in the pretense of working from home, the metaphorical guillotine undeniably hangs above his head.
and as ilsung reclines to stretch his limbs, he looks up. the man exhales the last of the current stick trapped between his fingers, and the slow drumming of his other hand on the armrest of his office chair indicate his restlessness.
he knows that hiding has the connotations of cowardice. but for his kind, it is a necessity for survival.
γ told myself i wouldn't be as much as involved . . . γ the lamia speaks in a frustrated tone as he lifts his free hand to run through black hair, gripping the strands and releasing them after several seconds of taking a deep breath. slitted, narrowed eyes glared at the file on his desk, and he reaches to touch its surface, hoping it will tear itself upon contact.
a copy of blythe's last will. a copy of a property transferred under his name. a copy of disciplinary actions from the board.
one after another, from an explosive accident in one of his plants to consecutive deaths to dissenter attacks, ilsung's way of dealing with the mounting wrath is through quelling his hunger by partaking into the chase of the thrill, of a predator seeking and killing his prey. the weeks that he hasn't been couped in chernov's building, he's out in the nethers, releasing the annoyance from the inconveniences he's been receiving lately.
on one night, a black serpent roamed the streets at night, slithering, stalking, striking in for the kill. before the next day comes, unsuspecting animals that came across his path had their physical and digital footprints erased. as if they never existed. the day after the next, the game starts again.
ilsung flexes his hand, resting full palm on the folder. dark-hued scales flicker under the glamour, running from his wrist to his fingertips. he brings the cigarette to his mouth to take a deep inhale, before he pulls the stick, and his sigh ends with a loud growl.
the mask of the calm, indifferent spearhead of the chernov group finally falls; the usual smile reserved for civil diplomacy is replaced with a wide deranged grin, his sharp fangs extending from the roof of his mouth.
γ . . . heh, maybe i should burn this world away, after all? γ