korean dogwood, c

He didn't like to hurt people, not all the time. Most of the time, it was about as emotionally affecting as pouring a glass of water. There were easier ways, perhaps, more charming ways, but Minzhe wasn't capable of them.

There was a tazer beneath his jacket, his eyes that were trained on the ground until a bit of movement in his peripherals stopped him mid-stride. A girl had fallen, scraped her knees, and Minzhe didn't care.

But his eyes widened, he stared down at the girl as if she were the predator and he the prey.

He met her eyes a fleeting moment. She didn't have the look of someone from around here, but he couldn't tell that apart. He didn't read people, he read everything else - the suitcase at her feet, that she wouldn't be missed, not right away.

His eyes flickered up to meet hers for another fraction of a second when she spoke. Blinking and averting his eyes. He tightened his grip, slipped the weapon from his pocket. It dangled from his fingers, swung at his side. It was a good, clean weapon - hold it down and leave no mess, do no damage. Not to the important parts.

As if for comfort, Minzhe glanced down. He didn't answer her.

Blood had welled up on her knees, but she laughed and it sounded careless. Or perhaps it was mocking, Minzhe wasn't particularly good at reading these things. Intent wasn't of his concern.

Her intent didn't matter, but it made him uneasy. Confidence, resignation - he couldn't tell. Neither could he be sure if she had something up her sleeve - or if she was just so willing to die.

Minzhe cleared his throat as if he might say something. His palms were sweating, and he gripped the taser tighter so it wouldn't slide from his hands. His feet were rooted to the ground and he had to make an effort to keep them that way, to press back the want for flight.

"W-what." He murmured. He wasn't talking to her, not to himself, not to anybody.

She opened her eyes and he looked away. She spoke so casually, but her words didn't really ring a bell. Minzhe had never been good with words as he was with numbers. He couldn't even place the language. Or the tune.

There was a lump in his throat, he was conflicted. He felt stupid, but he wasn't sure if he did threatened. Here she was, ready to be slaughtered.

"You don't care," his voice was soft, his tone was flat. She didn't seem to care she was about to die. Or if it would hurt - it would. There was perhaps more to this. Minzhe glanced up and down the street as if expecting someone to come barreling towards him. No one came.

She looked uneasy, but he seemed to be unravelling. He always seemed to be, and his gaze darted around. His eyes trailed her torso, his mind clicked through sums – how much profit was to be made fishing things from her corpse. The graffiti stained walls, cigarette butts pressed into the sidewalks, her scuffed suitcase and scraped knees, her fidgeting hands. Anywhere he could look without meeting her eyes.

The sibling bit may have surprised him. Not in the most obvious of ways – plenty of people had siblings, but more in the way it plunged into his mind and came up with particularly unpleasant memories. There was a lump in his throat. This wasn't right. He wasn't sure if he was unsettled or empathetic, but he was sure this was uncharacteristic. He didn't let go, he couldn't let go, whether she was someone's sister or not.

The taser he still held loose in his grip, and he ran a finger along the body, his nail pressing into the curves and cracks of the plastic. He hadn't met anyone ready to face death so readily. But it wasn't that she wanted to die, was it? She had that suitcase as if she had places to go.

"I am not a shark." He said slowly. The words came out in that soft way he had, as if they weren't meant for anyone's ears.

He stared down at the ground, at her feet. She stepped in and he stepped away, like clockwork. He wondered what would happen if he walked away - would she remember him, would she turn him in? Worse, would she follow? Minzhe didn't make this kind of small talk with anyone, and he felt tangled up the a snare of conversation. But it wasn't manners that kept him rooted to the spot.

"Doesn't matter," he said hoarsely. He had come at the sight of blood, yes, but sharks were predators, and Minzhe was all frayed nerves. He was something entirely out of water anyways.

He looks up to hold her gaze a moment, curiously. She's caught him off guard, as all people do, but she hasn't run. Maybe she thinks he's harmless, and he feels harmless somehow.

It's a dead end, it's a heavy silence that drapes around their shoulders like a shared scarf, and he's too flimsy to hold up his end, so he ducks out and lets it drop. She won't leave, but he will. He turns around and away from her.

Now what? His weapon is back in his pocket – bad form, while his back is to her, but he's far from his best today. And most days his best is shaky anyways.

"Go home." She doesn't have a home, that much he can understand, but thinking of the situation is only setting his nerves sharper on the edge. He needs to get home. He needs to confront something safe and assured and simple. He needs something quantitative, not the unpredictability of people.

He doesn't spare a glance back, he takes wide steps and he keeps his head down.