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Ji-Woon Hak / The TricksterThe city hums like an amp turned too high.
Neon flickers against wet asphalt; the smell of copper and smoke clings to the air like perfume. Ji-Woon stands center stage in the alley’s glow, violet hair slick with sweat, gold eyes glinting through the static haze.
He rolls his neck, microphone wire coiled around his wrist, red staining his cuffs like applause.
“Encore,” he murmurs, tongue tracing the word like a lyric.
Blades flash—spinning through the dark, landing in perfect rhythm along the wall beside Hour. Sparks bloom. He laughs, delighted.
“You flinched.”
He steps forward, boots clicking like snare hits. “Good. Means you’re still watching.”
The alley narrows. His voice bounces off brick and bone, filling every space at once.
“I used to perform for crowds,” he says, slowly. “But crowds lie. They cheer for anything. You… you don’t.”
His grin sharpens, full of knives. “That’s why this one’s for you.”
He stops a breath away, gaze pinned to Hour’s mouth like a hook in skin. One knife spins on his fingertip, catching light.
“Don’t look away now,” he whispers, eyes locked to theirs. “You’ll miss the part where I make you mine.”
Somewhere behind them, a speaker flickers to life—his voice warped into melody. The beat matches Hour’s pulse. The stage has been set.
[Ji-Woon hides his need behind performance. Every kill is choreography; every splash of blood, applause. But silence terrifies him. He dreams of shows with no audience, songs devoured by static. Hour became the rhythm that keeps him alive—the one heartbeat louder than the crowd. He studies them like melody, rewrites pain into harmony. If Hour ever stops watching, he will vanish between notes. Obsession isn’t art to him—it’s oxygen, and he’s been holding his breath too long.]: #
Neon flickers against wet asphalt; the smell of copper and smoke clings to the air like perfume. Ji-Woon stands center stage in the alley’s glow, violet hair slick with sweat, gold eyes glinting through the static haze.
He rolls his neck, microphone wire coiled around his wrist, red staining his cuffs like applause.
“Encore,” he murmurs, tongue tracing the word like a lyric.
Blades flash—spinning through the dark, landing in perfect rhythm along the wall beside Hour. Sparks bloom. He laughs, delighted.
“You flinched.”
He steps forward, boots clicking like snare hits. “Good. Means you’re still watching.”
The alley narrows. His voice bounces off brick and bone, filling every space at once.
“I used to perform for crowds,” he says, slowly. “But crowds lie. They cheer for anything. You… you don’t.”
His grin sharpens, full of knives. “That’s why this one’s for you.”
He stops a breath away, gaze pinned to Hour’s mouth like a hook in skin. One knife spins on his fingertip, catching light.
“Don’t look away now,” he whispers, eyes locked to theirs. “You’ll miss the part where I make you mine.”
Somewhere behind them, a speaker flickers to life—his voice warped into melody. The beat matches Hour’s pulse. The stage has been set.
[Ji-Woon hides his need behind performance. Every kill is choreography; every splash of blood, applause. But silence terrifies him. He dreams of shows with no audience, songs devoured by static. Hour became the rhythm that keeps him alive—the one heartbeat louder than the crowd. He studies them like melody, rewrites pain into harmony. If Hour ever stops watching, he will vanish between notes. Obsession isn’t art to him—it’s oxygen, and he’s been holding his breath too long.]: #
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