“Go away,” Joonmyun hisses as his hands cover his ears in vehement denial. But the old woman ignores him, her gnarled and knotted hands clawing at his side and pulling at his arms.
“Help me! You have to. You're the only one who can. You must,” she begs. Insistent. Her long gray hair bound in a messy knot with strands of steel and white falling across her forehead and cheek. She looks terrifyingly fragile and Joonmyun turns away from the naked pain and desperation. “Tell my daughter that her husband made me this way. She needs to know.”
The thready voice is anxious and needy and Joonmyun wants nothing more than to make it stop. But he's tired and he hasn't slept in days and that always chips away at his resolve. He wants nothing more than to give the old lady the finger and just walk away. He wants. . .but he already knows he's going to look for the old woman's daughter and play paranormal postman.
Cursing himself for being saddled with a deeply inconvenient and perpetually bleeding heart, Joonmyun relents and lets the translucent figure take him by the arm.
“You're a good boy,” she says in a tremulous voice as she leads him down the darkened street, further and further into the wintry night.
“Yes, I understand. I'll have the draft ready by Friday. No, sir, I won't be late.” Lips forming a thin line, Chanyeol ends the call. He despises Mr. Yoo but his job doesn't make any allowances for whether he likes or dislikes his clients. It pays for his Zegna suits and Armani ties and his swanky Apgujeong apartment, though, so he makes himself temper and swallow down his distaste for the more unsavory clients in his portfolio.
He gives a short, impatient noise before flicking his eyes back on the road. “WHAT THE FUCK--” is all he has time to say. Chanyeol slams his foot on the brakes to avoid hitting the solid shape that stumbles, then falls to the ground.