Author's Note: Oh hai thar. This intends to be a little oneshot collection about everybody's favourite redhead, all whilst listening to one song. It will vary in size, content, pairing, character portrayal, writing style, etc; I don't quite know what I intend to focus on, but I will only write this when I'm emotionally charged. My other fics take priority. For now, enjoy.

ULTRA NUMB

i.

It's like ink being spilt onto paper.

It spreads forward and seeps into all of his veins, poisoning him and turning his mind from white to black. They curl around his blood cells, squeezing them, making them morph from red to black; and it just keeps feeding him and feeding him and feeding him the rage and the anger and the absolute hate until he becomes entirely numb within himself. Until he can barely recognise himself anymore.

He can look in a mirror and see his sienna eyes and his red hair and his smooth skin, but he can see underneath it too. He sees the hate. He sees the hate, and it makes him hate more. He hates that he hates, but what he hates most is he hates the feeling, even as he makes it grow. He hates feeling so paralysed and consumed by his hate that he feels so numb – and he hates that he fights so hard to maintain it.

He's dominated by all he's hated, and he lets it eat him from the inside out. He hates the feelings, but by God does it make him stronger. He hates that he grinds his teeth to keep from snapping at anyone and anything, but by God does it teach him the art of patience. He hates feeling like he's frozen all over and numb and just not there anymore, like a ghost going through a crowded street, but by God does it make him tougher.

The water that's crawling down his muscled arms and his cheeks and his slender fingers makes him itch, and it makes the hate tingle just that little bit more and push him that little bit harder to try and exercise his patience. Its just rain. Simple, simple rain – rain he hates because he doesn't like feeling bogged down by the watery weight, and the sound of it falling remind him of bullets pouring through isolated streets and war-torn hills and every battleground. But he still has it around him anyway, because the Korean uses it like a cloak to hide his true intentions, and –

Three.

The water's suddenly cold and faster, and they're stabbing like thousands of freezing knives – at least, that's what they feel like. He can't tell because his eyes are closed, but the feeling's boosting the hate. Every drop continues to solidify it. They're making it hurt and burn and grow, all at the same time. But he doesn't mind. He lets it happen, because he intends to use it as a weapon – a powerful and angry weapon. He can attack with his feet and his fists, but this feeling, this horrible feeling is the fuel to his fighting. And if he keeps letting all of this possess him, he wonders if he'll be any better than the son of the devil.

One parasite for another.

One bruise for another.

Two.

His breathing's becoming ragged now, and he wonders how long it'll take until his mind focuses only on the numbing hate, even though the time's ticking down. He only wants it to focus on that so he can better himself in what he does. So he gets that little extra drive to be the best he can be and to fucking slaughter anybody who stands in his fucking way; because dammit, that's how he fucking rolls. That's how he gets his shit done, either in the streets or here, in the blinding, chaotic limelight, all alone.

There's a deep inhalation, and the air is cold. It flows through his body like the hate he's nurtured.

He opens his eyes.

One.

The lights shine onto the outdoor arena, and Hwoarang's eyes lock with Jin's as he's entirely numbed over.