Description
"You ever play Russian roulette." Sehun asks, withholding the timbre of a question mark. Then he plants the muzzle of the firearm right in Luhan's damp forehead, just as expressionless. The freezing metal chills Luhan's blood, his heart tightens, his chest strains. Sehun spins the cylinder of the revolver, then cocks its hammer, knelling like the razor-edged tick of the clock striking midnight. The gun should scare Luhan, dying should scare him, but it doesn't. It is the billowing eyes of his captor that seem to spiral endlessly that devours him, the ensnaring smile that Luhan feels guilty to be lured with, and the peculiar look in them basked in depths of sin. It is as if Sehun had done this before. It is as if he had killed somebody before. s ᴛ ᴏ ʀ ʏ ʙ ʏ s ʜ ɪ ᴋ ᴀ ᴍ ɪ ɴ ᴄ ᴏ ᴠ ᴇ ʀ ʙ ʏ ᴅ ᴇ ᴇ ʀ ʟ ᴏ ɴ ᴇ ᴡ ᴏ ʟ ꜰ (ᴍᴇ)
p r o l o g u e
