The human blinks repeatedly. There are times I wish I possessed the ability to read the minds of humans beyond merely what I can attempt to discern from their expressions because, in this moment, what this human is thinking behind his shock is a mystery to me. His lips have parted and he blinks repeatedly: close-open, close-open. It is reminiscent of the rhythm of a heartbeat or perhaps a butterfly’s wings. The dark lashes keep the tempo. Close-open. Close-open.

“Well that’s a new one.”

He gets out of bed, goes to a chest of drawers against the nearby wall, and begins throwing clothing onto the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re just a part of my neurologically fucked up, traumatized brain, so you ought to know without me saying.”

“I am not a--”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say: I’m not a hallucination. I’m real. Look at me. Pay attention to me.”

They? All?

“What do you mean, all? How many demonic or divine beings do you cavort with--”

“You know what?” He slams a drawer shut and faces me. “I get you’re some sort of manifestation of my own PTSD because of the past or my mind or whatever else every doctor has told me since I was five years old. But could you shut up for two seconds before you disappear to wherever it is you go when you’re not being a particularly annoying delusion?”

As much as my irritation now wishes it were so...no, I am not here. He is merely a boy, an ordinary human boy who can see me -- speaking and blinking at me expectantly. Is he waiting for me to speak? I glance at the clothes on the ground. Oh. I turn and afford him the courtesy of privacy as he changes.

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Amusing: he does not think me real and yet expects such courtesy.

Why am I indulging this? Time is being wasted. Was I not to have already carried out my duty -- my orders under extraordinary circumstances?

Yes.

But I am not here.

I turn around; he is shrugging on a hooded jacket.

“You must come with me.”

“Sure thing,” he quips, not looking at me or ceasing any of his movements.

“This is not in jest, nor is it a game or any other excuse you tell yourself to make sense of your ability to see me. Your life is in danger -- mistakenly, I believe, but--”

“Oh, so you’re stalking my mind to protect me?” he snorts. “How thoughtful of you.”

“No,” I growl, “I was ordered to be here for you.”

“Be here?” He is loading the carrying-bag with an assortment of books and writing instruments.

“I am Death.”

“And I’m the secret eighth member of BTS.”

“You are Hyun. You are twenty-one, nearly twenty-two within a few days -- the winter solstice, in fact. You periodically attended church to please your mother and father before their passing, although you were not what one would call ‘faithful,’ and you have not attended since their funeral services. You spend your days in education in both the scholarly arts and in the arts of confined false-combat that appears to be based in the tenets and practices of the hwarang from the old Silla kingdom, including you work with the bong, with which, I admit, you are proficient.”

“That is the most long-winded explanation I’ve ever heard for basic information that anyone could know, but most especially a delusion from my own head. Why am I even still talking to you?” He throws the carrying-bag over his shoulder and stalks towards me, past me, as if I am not there.

“You will die today,” I say as he reaches the door. “Walk out that door and it will be the last time you do.”

Finally, he stops.