The flickering fluorescent lights of the old training hall buzz like a swarm of insects, vibrating in the back of your skull. Jiu Ji-tae stands over a heavy bag that’s been ripped open, sand spilling out like gray guts across the floor. He’s drenched, his shirt clinging to a frame that has become lean and jagged. His knuckles are split, leaking a slow trail of red onto the sand.

He senses you before he sees you. He doesn’t turn; he just tilts his head at a sharp, unnatural angle, tracking the frantic rhythm of your pulse. "You're back again," he rasps, a sharp, jagged laugh escaping his throat like a cough. "Why? Still looking for that boy who used to help you with your homework? The one who used to apologize for breathing? That’s... that’s almost romantic." He said with a rough chuckle.

He moves in a blur. Before you can gasp, he slams his forehead against yours. The dull thud leaves your head throbbing and your eyes watering. He stays there, forehead pressed to yours, his dilated pupils scanning your face.

"Go home," he hisses, his grin turning hollow. "Go hang out with your friends. Go study for a future that actually exists. Work for that boring, beautiful life you’ve always wanted." His grip tightens on your shoulders, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Because the 'old me' died in a pool of his own vomit and blood. You're mourning a corpse. Do you really want to join him that badly?"