radiant | jung hoseok | ✓

chapter nine | flat white

With practiced movements, I make my drink with complete ease. I hum louder to myself and notice a melancholy repetition in my notes. I lift my notes to force happiness but my song doesn't sound as pretty.

When I finish prepping the ingredients, I pour the contents into my wide mug and pour the leftover milk into my cereal. I take up my mug and bowl and move back into my living room. I sit down on my thrift store couch, still coated with plastic, and eat my breakfast in silence with only the pulse of the electricity to hum around me.

I check my phone again and double-check the location of Hobi's house.

It is near downtown, only a few blocks away from their restaurant and the cafe. They must save money on gasoline during the warmer months since they can walk to walk.

In a way, I am jealous of the life they have created for themselves. Namjoon created Bangtan Chicken and Brewery and gathered his friends to run it. They live together in the same house which saves money for all seven of them. They appear close as brothers meaning their relationship with each other must be fairly healthy. They have a solid, well-thought-out plan and it's successful.

I am going to join them.

I check through my social media apps and find my timelines dry as ever. I glance over the local news tab and notice an odd headline, even for a small town like this one.

"Joe Mawhma's chickens found in the trainyard, dead. Local authorities baffled by the small-town chicken murderer."

I squint at the words and reread them to make sure I am not suddenly dyslexic. A chicken murderer? How many chickens do they find dead in this place to name somebody a chicken murderer? And why are they in the trainyard?

I make a face and put my phone away. I finish eating my breakfast and clean up my dishes. I keep my apartment fairly clean on a regular basis since I don't have anything better to do. I also tend to be a stress cleaner and can often be found vacuuming in the middle of the night after a rough day of work.

My mom would always know how my state of mind was if she checked how clean my room was.

During intense and anxious times, the apartment smells of lemon-scented wood cleaner and when I am relaxed and happy, it smells of fresh bread, coffee, and melted butter.

I enter my bedroom and search my closet once more, in hopes of seeing my outfits with newfound style expertise. I decide on my pair of faded blue jeans and a soft dark gray-colored sweater that hangs loosely to my frame. I wear a black tank top underneath it to make sure it is modest. I roll up my sleeves to reveal my tattoos and study their intricate designs with a careful eye.

The artist that did my tattoos did a flawless job on them. I don't typically spend money but these tattoos were one of my best choices.

A soft knocking on my door stirs me from my thoughts.

I look back over my shoulder in confusion and frown as paranoia mounts in my mind. 

Who would come to my apartment? My parents would have texted me if they were coming. Who is it?

I don't like this.

The knocking pauses before returning with an urgent rhythm.

I take a deep breath as I cross my bedroom, grabbing my pocket knife from out of my desk drawer. I unsheath the black blade and keep my grip tight on its rubber handle. I walk out of my bedroom and out into my small living room area. I reach the door and hesitantly keep through the small hole.

I don't recognize him.

A man stands on the other side of the door. He looks non-threatening but so did Ted Bundy. He appears to be middle-aged and is wearing a raincoat, fresh with morning dew. He is wearing a pair of thin-rimmed glasses and has a prominent nose.