Seokjin walks over the street, having his hands buried in his pockets.
He doesn’t look up while walking around, he can hear the cars quite clearly. He walks into a side street, unsure of where to go.
The young man hears steps behind him and starts hurrying more, internally praying that it’s just someone coincidentally walking the same way as him.
His hands start shaking, his heart thumping violently, when he hears a click.
‚Whoever is there. He has a fucking gun.‘
He tears up, he doesn’t want to die again.
People find it cool, suggest that he can help others with that he can’t die, but people never think about if this might be more of a curse than a cool ability.
He tries not to cry, God knows what the person following him would do to him if his wounds would heal because of his tears.
Suddenly he finds himself slammed against a wall, his breath hitches and his skull makes a small cracking sound.
„Your pockets, Princess, empty then“, the man in front of him says, staring him down with cold blue eyes, his eyes are as cold as his voice.
„I don’t have anything, mister“, Seokjin weakly mumbles, trying to escape the older’s grasp.
„Don’t lie“, the man snaps, „Empty your pockets.“
„I can’t -„
BANG!
The tall man’s eyes widen and he looks down at the blood squirting out of his shot chest. „Why..?“, he asks weakly, collapsing.
The robber doesn’t answer and inspects his pockets. He pales when he sees, that the pockets of the man, who he just shot, are indeed empty.
„Fuck“, he stumbles away from the dying male, „Fuck fuck FUCK!“, he starts running away, not even thinking about calling an ambulance.
The pale man’s eyes close slowly, yet not as slow as his breath becomes.
He weakly groans and grasps around, his hand falling to the ground limply after a moment.
He is dead.
Silence.
The busy street doesn’t seem to make any nois, like a movie where someone turned off the tone.
A small rustling sound breaks through the seemingly silent area, then heat.
One calls the fire department when he looks out of the window and sees the man on fire.
First Seokjin’s limbs start burning, then his head and his torso.
The dead man curls together and the one watching winces hardly and gags.
The burning man is alive?
A big flame appears, orange, blinding, hot.
The man on the window stumbles back with a yelp, covers his eyes and tries to see again.
Little does he know, that he will never be able to see again, that the last thing he will have seen is big, red wings made of fire shooting out of the male’s back before he just becomes a small mountain of ash on the street.
The man that watched isn’t able to see, how a head pokes out of the ash, the pinkish hair now grey and tainted with ash, just as the clothes he’s wearing.
The huge wound on his chest has disappeared and the ashes he arose off now start vanishing.
He hears the siren of the fire truck.
„Shoot-„, he curses and stumbles up, running away as fast as he can.
(Credit to bialobo_art
Short stories&co 
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