Seokjin finds a particularly sharp rock and he immediately picks it up, brings it closer to his face to inspect every side and facet of the rock before he clutches it close to his chest and runs excitedly back to his cave to-

No, no, no. This isn't right. Seokjin shakes himself awake.

After Yoongi had reluctantly and painfully taken Seokjin in, he'd gone and disappeared and for a long, long time, Seokjin was completely alone in the holding cell. He wasn't cuffed and there was no one else locked in there with him, but something just didn't feel quite right.

Where were all the police officers? Where did Yoongi go? Is Jeongguk alright? Namjoon?

He paces up and down, around and around, his feet greeting every inch of the cold, grey concrete floor of the holding cell. Sometimes he sits down, and other times he wraps his hands around the bars that keep him incarcerated.

Sometimes, he lets his mind slip.

Sweat trickles down his collarbones as the kiln continues to burn in the background and the smell of molten metal fills up the air, turning it thick. Sweat beads at Seokjin's brow and he wipes it away with the crook of his arm, his hands still gloved as he hammers away at the long piece of iron. He'd been experimenting with iron recently in making small daggers, but he'd just found enough iron that he can melt together and create something larger, bigger, deadlier.

He wants to make a sword. He hammers away at the metal, straightening it out on his workbench. He knows it won't be the best sword out there, but hopefully if he continues to perfect his craft one day he might be able to sell them, and he might be able to eat meat more than just a few times a year.

Hands slamming down on the table shakes Seokjin awake, and suddenly he's plunged back, back in the police station, in a small box of a room with dark grey walls and a large mirror on one of the walls. He knows that mirror. It's not a mirror at all. He stares at it for a few moments, imagining the number of people that are staring right back. He imagines being on the other side of it.

"Seokjin, please focus," Yoongi huffs, leaning back in his chair opposite Seokjin. Seokjin slowly tears his gaze away from the people who are undoubtedly observing him, scrutinising him, picking him apart. He finds Yoongi's eyes instead, the deep with dark circles under them, the frown pulling at his lips and making him look years beyond his age. "Tell me what happened on the night of the sixteenth."

"I already told you," Seokjin begins calmly, threading his fingers together. They hadn't cuffed him, not when Seokjin walked right into the station and gave himself up, not while he was being held, not during any of the interrogations. He continues to remain uncuffed, but that was more at the request of Yoongi rather than himself. Seokjin wonders if he'd feel better if he was cuffed. It's confusing. "I went back to the police station and found the body in the locker room."

"Why did you go to the police station?" Yoongi asks as he keeps his eyes down on some papers in his hand.

"I was going to take a short break from keeping watch. I went to get some snacks from Jeongguk's locker."

"And that's where you saw the body?"

"Yes."

"So why are all my officers saying they saw you go in, and then come running out all frantically?"

Seokjin shrugs nonchalantly. "Probably because I just saw a mutilated body."

Yoongi pulls in a sharp inhale. "Myung Minwoo was last seen alive and walking at around ten past eleven on the sixteenth. He was stationed outside of your little brother's apartment. His shift ended at eleven, like yours. He went back to the police station, went into the locker room, and never came back out alive."

"Right," Seokjin confirms, his eyes latched onto Yoongi's, but Yoongi is still looking down. He keeps looking down until he huffs, pinches the space between his brows, and slaps the papers he's holding back down on the table.

"Right, my ass. What the fuck, Seokjin? Did you really kill one of my officers? Did you really kill somebody?"

Seokjin flicks his eyes back down to the papers on the table. "May I?" he asks demurely, pointing to the papers. Yoongi nods like he couldn't care any less and so Seokjin reaches over, grabbing the papers and sliding them towards himself.

Thumbing through the pages, Seokjin ignores the written reports and plucks out the crime scene photo. He brings it to the front and stares at it.

"Myung Minwoo," Seokjin mutters as he stares at the photo. He pushes his lower lip out. "Do you have any more photos? Preferably one that has an aerial view of the body?"

"Yeah, they're at the back," Yoongi concedes. Seokjin calmly flicks to the back of the report and finds the photo in question. He brings it up and holds the photo between both hands.

"The body was arranged into the letter M," Seokjin points out, index finger on the photograph, eyes up at Yoongi. "Myung Minwoo. The killer chopped the arms and legs off and fashioned it into an M."

"Are you fucking serious, Kim Seokjin? You're not the attorney for this case, right now. You're not an attorney at all. You're a murder suspect, you hear me? A murder suspect."

The report in Seokjin's hand is plucked right back, and Yoongi tucks it under arm, well away from Seokjin's reach. It doesn't faze Seokjin, though, because he looks up and meets Yoongi's eyes. They're steeled, angry and livid, but Seokjin doesn't react. Doesn't flinch or shrink away. "I know," he says, "I'm the one who turned myself in."

"Why did you turn yourself in?"

"I knew I was being suspected. I decided to make your life a little easier."

"How did you know?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Seokjin. I can't help you if you aren't completely transparent with me, you know that. You're only making yourself look more suspicious."

"I don't care if that makes me seem suspicious. I'll let the evidence speak for itself," Seokjin dismisses as he shifts a little in his chair. His butt feels stiff and his back is starting to hurt and Seokjin isn't even sure if it's day or night, let alone what time it is, and quite frankly, he's over this. He's written a testimony, he's told his story, he's recounted everything once already and he doesn't want to sit here and tell it again. Especially not to Yoongi.

"The evidence is pointing towards you," Yoongi sighs. "Your fingerprints on the wall, the fact that you were caught on CCTV walking into the locker room after Officer Myung, and then leaving in a hurry. So tell me. Did you do it or not?"

"Would you even believe me if I told you?"

"Depends on what you tell me."

"I want to speak to Namjoon."

"Forget about it," Yoongi huffs. "I think I need another coffee."

Seokjin fixes his tunic as he walks, determined in the direction of his journey. The sun is beating down on him, bright and heavy, and if it weren't for his wide-brimmed hat he might've felt like the back of his neck was on fire. He's thirsty, there's not much water left in his pouch, and he's starting to grow tired.

His tunic is drenched in his own sweat but he fixes it all the same, adjusting the clasp at the front and the hem of the white material just as it ends above his knees. He really wants to strip himself of it and jump into an oasis, but there are greater matters at hand, right now.

The Temple of Zeus finally appears before him but in the sweltering heat and the bright, harsh light of the sun at zenith it almost looks like a mirage. Seokjin narrows his eyes, squinting, and soon the columns of the temple stop swimming and swaying in his vision.

It's hot, and Seokjin wants to give up, but he keeps on walking.

Wait, no, that isn't right. No, no, no. The bench under his ass is cool, the air is cold, and he's in a holding cell. He's in a holding cell. That's right, he's in a holding cell, the concrete is dark grey and there are metal bars holding him inside and there are footsteps, sturdy soles slapping against smooth linoleum floors, coming towards him, coming towards him-

"Kim Seokjin," an officer with a straight, impenetrable expression calls him, beckons him over. He produces a set of keys and uses one to free Seokjin, but instead of letting him go he grabs a hold of Seokjin's elbow and forces him to walk.

"Another interrogation?" Seokjin asks. "I'm starting to get bored of these."

"Unfortunately, I don't give a shit," the officer spits.

Ah, Seokjin thinks. He believes I killed Officer Myung.

He keeps his mouth shut and lets the officer take him to wherever it is he's needed now. He lets his mind wonder and slip but when he realises they aren't heading to the interrogation room he snaps back into focus and his eyes go wide and his mind starts to buzz.

The officer opens a door and leads Seokjin to a room with a table in the middle. It looks like any of the other interrogation rooms but with a lack of a two-way mirror and a glaring intrusion of one Jung Hoseok sitting at the table.

Seokjin slowly approaches the chair opposite him.

"Sit down," the officer barks at Seokjin, making him jump into action and park his ass into the chair. He then moves to stand in the corner of the room, watching them like a hawk. Seokjin looks back at Hoseok sitting opposite him, and for possibly the first time ever, Hoseok isn't smiling.

"Alright, just spit it out," Seokjin sighs, letting his head hang slightly.

Hoseok doesn't answer. Doesn't even shift in his chair. Seokjin looks back up, and he meets Hoseok's piercing gaze that feels heavy to hold but Seokjin doesn't dare to let it go. He keeps it, he holds onto it, and he doesn't look away. "Why are you here?" Hoseok finally asks, and still, he doesn't smile. The corners of his lips are pulled downwards in a fashion Seokjin isn't used to, has never seen before. It almost makes him uncomfortable to look at. But he doesn't let go of their gaze, keeps holding on.

"I should be asking you that," Seokjin replies.

"I'm a prosecutor visiting a murder suspect, why do you think I'm here?"

Seokjin's lips part and a soft exhale falls out of him. "Ah. I see."

"Yeah."

"Is there a point in us talking, right now? I told Yoongi everything. I plead innocent."

Hoseok's frown grows deeper. "I just have to know," he begins with a deep sigh. "How did it get to this point? I'm so conflicted."

"About what?" Seokjin asks, furrowing his brows. "Just do what you normally do. Try to prove me guilty in court."

There are deep and aching bags under Hoseok's eyes, and if Seokjin was any wiser he might've believed that Hoseok was losing sleep. Over him. But Seokjin casts that thought out quickly because there's no use in thinking that to himself, in trying to convince himself that it's true. Hoseok sighs. "I don't want to do this, Seokjin. I really don't. It makes me sick to the stomach knowing that I'll be in court, trying to convince the world that you murdered and mutilated that officer."

"Then why did you accept the case?"

"Better me than the next blood-thirsty prosecutor."

Seokjin fixes the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "Are you sure there won't be any conflict of interest?"

"No," Hoseok resounds. "I'm a professional. I won't go easy on you, and I won't go easy on your defence attorney, either."

"Okay," Seokjin breathes. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For believing in me."

Hoseok furrows his brow harshly. "Who said I believe in you?"

The lotuses are in full bloom. Seokjin adjusts the sleeves of his silk hanfu, carefully pushing them up to his elbows before he tucks the fabric under his knees when he squats down by the water. He stretches one hand out and lightly touches the tip of his index finger to the blessedly cool water, and when he lifts his finger, he watches as ripples grace the surface of the water.

A light, almost translucent pink lotus wafts closer to him. Seokjin shouldn't really be here, his teacher will be arriving soon and Seokjin needs to be in his room, ready and waiting, if he wants to make a good impression. He needs to be ready and eager to learn as the crown prince who'll take the throne when his father passes.

But the lotus comes nearer, it beckons him to stay. He reaches out for it, mesmerised and entranced, so he holds out his hand and he touches his finger to a petal.

The light and airily beautiful lotus suddenly warps and distorts, the petals rotting down until they turn a deep, disgusting red. Seokjin snaps his hand back to him, disturbing the water as he goes. The ripples that exude outwards on the surface of the water taint every lotus that it greets, and before Seokjin can even grasp his mistake, he's standing in front of a pool filled with red spider lilies.

"Seokjin-ssi," comes Namjoon's voice, pulling Seokjin's head out of the void. He snaps his head up and surely, sitting across the table from him is Namjoon. His hair is pushed back and unkempt, there are dark circles around his eyes. He looks haggard, like he'd been dragged through hell and back. "Seokjin-ssi, are you even listening to me?"

"Sorry, what were you saying?"

Namjoon sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping as he does. He shifts in the hard metal chair and arduously brings one hand up to rub against his face. "I know there's a shitstorm going on inside your head," he mumbles, his voice low and tired, "so please, drop the act."

"There's no act. I'm a murder suspect. I plead innocent. I'm not hiding anything."

He presses his lips together and watches as Namjoon flicks his eyes up, meets his gaze, and looks like he doesn't believe a word Seokjin says. "Can you please, please, just talk to me," he beseeches.

"We're talking now."

"Tell me what's going on. Tell me what you're feeling. Tell me what happened."

"I told you already," Seokjin sighs. "I walked into that locker room hoping to get some snacks from Jeongguk's locker, but instead I found the body."

"Then why were you the only person caught on CCTV entering the locker room after him?"

"How am I supposed to know that?"

"You're the best attorney I know. Come on, Seokjin. Get yourself out of this."

"I'm not an attorney, right now. I'm a murder suspect.

"Did you do it?" Namjoon whispers.

"No, I told you, like I told everybody. I didn't kill him. I didn't kill anyone."

"Then why did you turn yourself in?!" Namjoon suddenly shouts, slamming his fist down on the table, causing Seokjin to jump in his seat. The officer stationed in the corner of the room keeping watch on the both of them twitches and almost springs into action, but Namjoon's lack of action prompts him to relax once again. "I told you I'd figure something out!"

"Did you?" Seokjin asks quietly, biting down on his lip.

"What?"

"Did you figure something out? Something you could've done that night that would've saved me? Saved us both? Running would've made me look guilty, and hiding me would've made you look like an accomplice. You know that, Namjoon."

Namjoon grits his teeth and his fist atop the table shakes as he tries to contain himself. He seethes to himself for a few seconds before he forces himself to let it go, and his shoulders slumps once again.

"It just doesn't make any sense," he says, his voice quiet and trembling, like he's still trying to hold himself back. Seokjin curls his hands into fists and he squeezes until he feels his nails digging into his palms. "Why it has turned out like this. Why you're here, while the killer is still out there, taunting you. I can't imagine the kind of stress you're under, right now."

"I'm fine," Seokjin replies, reaching over the table to slip his hand over Namjoon's clenched fist. He pushes his fingers in and forces Namjoon to unclench, to ease the tension in his body. Namjoon doesn't let go, not immediately, but Seokjin doesn't give up. He pushes his hand into Namjoon's and holds it, tightly. "I'm fine," he says, quietly, and feels Namjoon release the tension he'd been holding so forcefully in his body. "I'm fine," he repeats while chaos swirls in his mind and threatens to break him.

The officer takes a step forward. "No touching," he growls, and Seokjin snaps his head towards him.

"I can do whatever I want. I'm Kim Motherfucking Seokjin."

Namjoon chokes a little, and Seokjin quickly turns his attention back to him, brows raised in concern, but his expression softens when he sees Namjoon try to suppress a laugh. He squeezes Seokjin's fingers. "I miss you," he says when he's composed himself. "I'll find the best attorney in the country to represent you in court, and you'll be out of here in no time. I promise."

Seokjin squeezes his hand back. "Yeah," he replies with a soft smile. When Namjoon gets up and has to leave, his smile drops and he lets the darkness in his mind clouds over him once again.

The flames crackle away at the logs of wood in the fireplace, roaring softly and gently in Seokjin's ears from where he sits in his armchair, angled towards the window. The sky is pitch black outside save for the few flakes of snow falling from the sky. He could count them if he so wished, but he knows that by tomorrow morning the dark grey concrete ground will be blanketed by a layer of pure white. Seokjin rubs his hands together and revels in the heat from the fireplace.

Light footsteps down the stairs catch his attention, so he turns his head slowly to watch his wife come down the stairs, her small hands holding her skirt up so that it doesn't get caught under her dainty feet as she descends.

Her pretty eyes meet Seokjin's, and he gives her a small smile. He'd been working long and hard hours at the coal mine and he hasn't seen Hanyu for what feels like a long, long time. He leaves their home before she wakes, and he returns long after she's already retired to bed. She isn't upset because of that, Seokjin knows. Hanyu is smart, too smart. She doesn't deserve to be cooped up at home while Seokjin goes out to work. But that's just the way it is, and Hanyu knows that if Seokjin doesn't work as hard as he does, they probably wouldn't be able to eat or survive the cold, harsh winter.

She isn't upset about that, Seokjin knows. She isn't upset about anything she'll fault Seokjin for. She arrives by his side and slides a soft hand onto his shoulder as he looks up at her. She's smiling, but there's so much sadness in that smile that it almost breaks Seokjin's heart.

"I'm not upset," Hanyu tells him like she could read his mind. "I love you, and I want you to be happy."

"I am happy," Seokjin tries to convince her. She just shakes her head.

"You could be happier."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Hanyu's hand squeezes on Seokjin's shoulder. "Our neighbour. Namjoon. I know you have feelings for him."

Tension builds between Seokjin's brow as he presses his lips together and tries not to frown or let his ribs constrict around his heart and suffocate him at the sound of that name. "I'm not going to leave you for him. We... we've been together fo-"

"Seokjin," she stops him, her voice still soft but firm enough to put a halt to Seokjin. "I know you love me. And I know it's not the same as the love you feel for Namjoon. So let's... let's just end our marriage."

Seokjin's eyes start to sting but he squeezes them to stop tears from forming. "Hanyu, I-"

"You belong with him. He's your soulmate. Not me."

"Hey, pretty boy," the officer that walks past his holding cell sneers at him. He approaches the bars that separate him from Seokjin and pulls out his baton, knocking it against the bars to intimidate Seokjin. it doesn't faze him. "You're going to pay for killing Minwoo."

Seokjin flickers his eyes up at the officer. He keeps his mouth shut.

"What? You want to kill me, too?"

Seokjin doesn't reply, and he doesn't want to acknowledge the officer, either. He looks away and returns his gaze to his hands that he's clasping together. That doesn't, however, deter the officer like he'd hoped. Instead, he slaps his baton against one of the bars, suddenly, making Seokjin jump.

"Look at me!" he bellows. "You killed my friend! Look me in the eye when I speak to you!"

Seokjin presses his lips together and continues to stare at his hands, hoping that the officer goes away. That something higher than him tells him what he needs to do. How he can diffuse this situation. If he was right or wrong in turning himself in. If Jeongguk was ever targeted to begin with, or whether this was all in his head. He wonders about how wrong he is and for how long he's been mistaken. It clouds his mind, seeping into every corner of his mind, darkening his senses until the rattle of metal shakes him out of his conscious, and he snaps his head up to find the officer with a set of keys that he rifles through, no doubt to find the one he needs to unlock Seokjin's cell.

He quickly jumps up to his feet and watches with alert, bewildered eyes as the officer struggles. He takes a step back but he knows at least this much: that when the officer finally lets himself in, Seokjin will have nowhere to go. That when the officer gets his hands on him, he won't be able to defend himself. He wants to call out for Jeongguk, but he reminds himself Jeongguk isn't here. He's working alongside Yoongi in investigating the murder to help Seokjin's case.

By some freak of nature, another officer arrives and grabs the first, pulling him away from the bars. "Jangmin! Calm the fuck down!" he shouts.

The first officer, Jangmin, tries to shrug him off. "No. This bastard deserves it."

"I know, man. I know, but you have to be patient. He'll get what's coming to him in court."

It takes roughly five minutes for Jangmin to calm down, and he is convinced to leave Seokjin alone, but not before he glares at him with a look filled with all the malice he could muster. When they leave and silence finally graces Seokjin's ears once again, he sinks back into his seat.

The storm grows bigger and stronger and it's closer than ever. The harsh winds and rain battering down on him almost blows him away. It's only a matter of time, Seokjin knows and has accepted, until he loses his footing and the currents take him away. He just hopes he sticks around long enough to ensure that both Jeongguk and Namjoon are safe.

Seokjin looks up at his mother's face, confused and wondering about what all of this means. He wasn't even aware that there are numbers bigger than one hundred – he'd kind of assumed one hundred was the biggest number in the world, but now he's old enough to know that those strange red things floating above everyone's heads are numbers, and he was so sure that one hundred is the biggest number in the world, but the weird floating things above everyone's heads has opened his eyes to a whole new world of big numbers.

"Mama," Seokjin looks up, curiously, at his mother's face. "What do the numbers mean?"

She smooths a hand over Seokjin's head, her fingers running through his hair as she goes. She offers Seokjin a light smile. "I'll tell you when you're older," she continues to smile. "Okay?"

Seokjin pouts. "I want to know now," he huffs.

"You're too little to understand now."

"Mama," Seokjin approaches the door to his parents' bedroom. The door is slightly ajar and Seokjin isn't sure if that means he's welcome to come in or if it was just a product of a moment of forgetfulness, but he approaches the bedroom anyway, his hands gripping onto the doorframe. "Mama," he calls out softly.

"Yes, dear?" she responds, her voice inviting him in. Seokjin lets go of the doorframe and he comes into the room.

"The numbers," he mutters, looking down at his socked feet, holding onto the bottom of his sweater. His mother shuffles slightly from where she's sat on the bed, a book in her hands. "What do they mean?"

"I told you, Seokjin," she persists, "you're too little to understand now."

But Seokjin is pretty sure he knows, now. Whether she refuses to tell him or not, he's pretty much figured it out, now. He's little, sure, but he's not stupid. He's not naïve, he's not sheltered, and he's not ignorant. He's seven years old, and seven years is a long time to be alive. Seven years is eighty-four months. Seven years is three hundred and sixty-five weeks. Seven years is two thousand, five hundred and fifty-five days. That's a long time. It's a very, very long time. And although Seokjin can't see any red floating numbers above his own head, he can surely see the numbers above everyone else's.

He's certain he knows what they mean, now. He realised it when his father died.

For some reason, he's the only one in his school that can see the numbers. He found that out the hard way when his mother was late on her way to pick Seokjin up from school and he was waiting, by the school gates, his hands tight around the straps of his backpack, wondering if he should just go home by himself because he knows the way, and he's responsible enough to be trusted to do so.

He remembers Daehyun's mother smiling down at him just before she goes to meet her son, bends over to kiss the top of his head before whisking him away. Seokjin watched their backs as they walked, his hand in hers, listening to them talk about what he'd done at school, what they learned. That conversation petered out, grew fainter and further away until Seokjin could hear no more. And then, they turned around a corner and Seokjin could no longer see them.

Or the numbers above Daehyun's mother's head that, like his own father's, was small. Impossibly small. He wasn't entirely confident about what they meant before his father died, but he's sure, now.

And the next day at school, he discovered that he's the only one who could see those numbers. Daehyun told Seokjin to shut his mouth, to stop lying, to go fuck himself and a couple of other things Seokjin didn't know seven-year-olds were allowed to say. He went home that day with his feelings hurt.

A few weeks later, when Daehyun returned to school following the inevitable death of his mother, he approached Seokjin and let him know exactly how much he believed Seokjin's words, now, in the form of fists and kicks. He went home that day with his entire body hurting. The blood on his lip and the bruise on his cheekbone; he couldn't hide from his mother. The bruises on his arms, legs, ribs; he kept a secret. The fact that he'd managed to confirm, in the worst way possible, what he believed the numbers meant; he sounded off like a burst pipe to his own mother, whose numbers were nowhere near as low as Daehyun's mothers was. His mother, the last time Seokjin saw her, showed that she would pass away in a few days. Seokjin's mother would remain alive for another twenty years.

Twenty years is a long time, Seokjin thinks. He's got enough time, he thinks.

It wasn't enough time, Seokjin realises as he sits in his holding cell, twenty-eight years old with only one remaining family member left and a handful of friends who can't believe he turned himself in for a murder he didn't commit.

Seokjin can't remember when he started to feel detached to the numbers, and he's not sure if it's because he can't see his own numbers or because he was told by his mother never to mention the numbers to anyone else, never to act upon the numbers, never to let them affect his judgement. He can't remember when he started to feel detached to them, when he started forcing himself to pretend they don't exist and ignore them.

That seemed to help him make more friends in middle school than he had in elementary. That seemed to help him escape that nickname he walked away with that day Daehyun beat the living shit out of him.

The Grim Reaper, they called him. The weird kid in school that never got close to anybody, never looked at anyone in the eye. The Grim Reaper, they called him. The kid who predicted that Daehyun's mother was going to die even though she was perfectly healthy. They didn't believe him when he said it was going to happen, and they didn't believe him when he said he wasn't a psychic, and they didn't believe him when he said he didn't cause her to die.

Sure, he'd made some friends in middle school, and he learned how to detach himself from the numbers he saw that nobody else saw, but that didn't make him blind to those numbers. He was still the Grim Reaper, and he learned that he will continue to be the Grim Reaper for as long as that nickname follows him around.

The sky is darkening, a pale blue where the sun is still making its descent melding together with the navy above it when Seokjin is returning home from cram school. It's starting to get colder and he wonders if, from tomorrow, he should start wearing his puffy coat that makes him look like a marshmallow.

He stops in front of the corner shop near his home and heads inside for just a moment and picks out a few snacks he could share with Jeongguk. A few snacks turns into an armful of snacks by the time he reaches the counter and he pays the cashier with his pocket money. He stuffs the sweets into his backpack, slings it back over his shoulders, and then heads out of the corner shop after saying goodbye to the cashier.

The pale blue has almost disappeared, and he stares up at the sky as he walks on, watching as it melts away, until he hears footsteps and realises there's someone on the streets with him. He brings his gaze back down to the pavements ahead of him and sees a girl, a few years younger than him, about to cross the road. Her little hands grasp the straps of her backpack tightly before she looks both ways. She crosses the road.

The numbers above her head look nothing like the kind of numbers he sees above the heads of every child he's ever set eyes upon. He's never met another kid with a lifespan less than twenty years at the very least. Maybe Seokjin was naïve, or maybe he just made himself believe that the world wouldn't be this cruel.

And yet, there's a girl up ahead, about to cross the road, and number above her head in this moment reads fifteen seconds. Seokjin feels his vision start to tunnel and constrict and he hears tyres on asphalt and he rips his backpack off him before he breaks into a sprint. The girl is already in the middle of the road by the time she realises Seokjin is running towards her, and her head flicks towards him, first, before it flicks towards the car that's speeding its way towards them.

She freezes in fear but her number keeps on dropping, and Seokjin hurls himself at her, grabbing her arm. Her falls forward with her and they tumble across the road, falling forward and onto the pavement on the other side. The car rushes on by and the girl is coughing underneath Seokjin, so he quickly scrambles up, looks down at her, and realises that he'd lunged for her without thinking, forgetting that no matter what he does, he could never, ever, change the numbers that he sees.

The girl chokes on something caught in her throat. Her hands scratch at her throat, desperately trying to release the piece of candy caught there, desperately trying to breathe, and Seokjin is shell-shocked, frozen in fear. He thought he could save her. He thought he'd saved her. He thought that if he was desperate enough, if he tried hard enough, if he wanted it enough, he could change the numbers.

But he couldn't. He can't. Three turns into two, two turns into one, one disappears and the girl dies in Seokjin's arms.

"Seokjin-ssi. How are you feeling?"

He flicks his eyes up to meet Namjoon's from across the table. He briefly looks over at the officer standing in the corner of the room, eyes trained on Seokjin like he thinks he'll suddenly lunge at Namjoon and slit his throat. He ignores the officer. "Just peachy," Seokjin replies mildly.

"Your trial is tomorrow," Namjoon tells him, licking his lips. His brows are drawn, furrowed deeply with creases forming between them. He looks even more haggard than he did the last time he visited, the bags under his eyes look deeper, the circles look darker. There's stubble on his chin and above his lip.

"Brilliant," Seokjin yawns. "It's gonna be my first trial as the defendant. Make sure Taehyung is there with his camera to take pictures. I'll make sure to flash a few winning smiles."

Namjoon drops his gaze to his hands intertwined atop the table and he sighs. "Seokjin-ssi. Please. I still haven't found you an attorney that's willing to defend you. I've spoken with a few, but they want you to plead guilty and get off on a reduced sentence. If I don't find someone by tonight, someone's going to be appointed to you. And I know that whoever it is won't give a shit about you."

"Hey, Namjoon," Seokjin dismisses him, "why do you think people call me the Grim Reaper?"

His eyes widen in astonishment. "Huh?"

"I asked you if you have secrets," he begins, keeping his gaze steady on Namjoon's confused look. "And you turned the question on me."

"Yeah...?"

"Does the date March the twenty-first mean anything to you?" he asks.

Namjoon doesn't respond. He just keeps staring back at Seokjin, lips pressed into a straight line, eyes confused but determined. He doesn't respond, not for a moment, for a few moments, but he continues to stare back at Seokjin unwaveringly. "Why do you ask?" he bats back quietly.

"It's a very important date," Seokjin answers, his own voice growing quieter. He doesn't look up at the numbers above Namjoon's head, the red floating numbers that tell him he's going to die in twenty-nine days. On March the twenty-first. "It means a lot to me," he tells Namjoon, because it's the day that Namjoon is going to die and there's probably nothing that he can do about it.

Namjoon furrows his brows, shadows forming under them, darkening over his eyes. The corners of his lips pull downwards and his jaw is set sternly. "Tell me," he begins, his voice low and dull, "your secrets."

Seokjin pulls in a long and deep breath. He holds it in his lungs for a few moments before he releases it. "I am the Grim Reaper."

Like a man called to the gallows, Seokjin walks sombrely through the courthouse dressed in a black suit that's not at all form-fitting or flattering at all. He looks like he's attending a funeral and there's a dark thought in the back of his mind that this'll be how he looks when Namjoon dies in twenty-eight days. There isn't long left, at all. There isn't enough time, Seokjin thinks as he walks through the same halls of the courthouse he's become accustomed to, the same courthouse where he's won many trials, where he made a name for himself. Whether that was a good thing or not, he guesses he'll find out. Until now, making a name for himself had mostly brought him fortune; it brought him recognition, reverence, and mostly importantly, money.

Now, he's not sure. Now, that name condemns him, now it convicts him.

This time, no matter how familiar the halls of this courthouse feels to him, he isn't walking as an attorney. This time he's the defendant.

He enters, flanked by two officers, and walks into the courtroom. All eyes are on him but his eyes are focused only on what's ahead of him. The officers take him to his seat and he complies easily. He looks out into the gallery and finds some of his colleagues there. He sees Hanyu. Her brows are pinched together in concern and when their eyes meet, she frowns. He sees Taehyung, Jimin and Jeongguk sitting together, looking just as concerned.

They're perhaps the only people in the gallery who seem like worried. Everyone else looks at Seokjin like he's a monster, like they think he's guilty. Like they know exactly who he is, what he is, and what he's done.

The large wooden double-doors swing open, and two men walk in. The first is Hoseok, the prosecutor in charge of attempting to prove Seokjin guilty by presenting every incriminating piece of evidence that paints him as a murderer. Behind him, Yoongi, there to provide that evidence.

Behind him comes Namjoon, and when their eyes meet, Seokjin feels like time stops altogether.

The numbers above his head that read twenty-eight days now look brighter, more vibrant. They almost seem to pulsate. Seokjin narrows his eyes, squinting at the numbers. They haven't changed, Seokjin can tell that much, but they look different. Bolder, larger, stronger. Pulsating, like it's alive. Pulsating like it's alive even though they promise Namjoon's death in less than a month.

Hoseok sits at the prosecution's desk, and Namjoon at the defence's desk. Seokjin continues to stare at him, eyes narrowed and questioning. Namjoon keeps his expression taut and unforgiving. He doesn't give anything away.

The judge enters the courtroom and everyone rises. "A Jung vs Kim trial, today," he notes, but there's a certain melancholy in his voice Seokjin doesn't think he's ever heard before. "I don't think I'll ever forget this case," he muses quietly before he smacks his gavel down. "Court is now in session for the trial of Kim Seokjin, convicted on the premeditated murder of Officer Myung Minwoo."

Even sits back down in their seats, Seokjin included. Hoseok remains standing. "The prosecution, Jung Hoseok, is ready, your Honour," he announces with a small nod of his head. He looks miserable and nothing like his usual cocky, arrogant self.

He sits back down and looks over at Namjoon at the defence's table. Seokjin looks over there, too, and finds that Namjoon is sitting alone. Didn't he find an attorney that would represent him? Didn't he say someone will be appointed to Seokjin if he didn't one? He furrows his brows in confusion and clenches his fists in anticipation.

Namjoon stands, smoothing his tie down against his abdomen. "The defence, Kim Namjoon, is ready, your Honour."