The city below was a clear map of electric lights, a large vibrant web of life that most people would people would call beathtaking. Jeon Jungkook was staring with too many sunsets in his eyes at everything he could see through the quiet portion of his penthouse.

He was standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows with a figure against the gleaming city. Seoul lights did not appear beautiful to him; they were argumentative and glamorous. There were the gentle, golden light of gas lamps in paving-stones, which were all the light had a hundred years ago that the city possessed. Then two centuries earlier all was dark on mere flicker of fire-light. It is this neon noise to-day. Patterns and colors are different, still, the general principle is the same: people race and fight but the clock is so loud that he cannot hear it.

He was a giant amid mortal beings.

A fallen angel. The heading was dangerous, and what actually took place was not the same. He didn’t start a big fiery war. His sin was more silent and profound. During the wrath of God, he spared a village of humans who were alleged to be unfit. He merely showed pity one time, and looked upon their poor yet brave desire to continue living, and that was sufficient to him being expelled. Not down into hell, but into the icy expanse of time. He received an everlasting that was an inappropriate gift or life but a trade-off.

He found himself in a place where he was reversed. He continued walking on with never being free of the past. Each new face was a shadowed mask of one of the faces he had laid to rest, each new and different song was a reworking of an old song that he had lost.

He extended a hand and put his palm on the cold glass. The buzzing of the metropolis, the hum of millions of souls, were mere wet rub-a-dub against his flesh. He felt nothing. He had not felt a lot in decades. He was neither alive nor dead. He was… a placeholder for a soul that had worn too thin.

His penthouse reflected his inner world: it was contemporary, plain and soulless. He did not have any photos of his own, any ancient knickknacks or art that was impassioned. Nothing but straight lines, silent colors and large empty space. It was his ideal jail where a man who had turned into a ghost in his own skin belonged.

His desire to commit suicide remained like the love of a spouse or friend. He attempted a multitude of insane methods to kill himself. His body had canonized itself once more, and he was in a procession of sacred spears, and his flesh scalded at the tip of them. And he leaped into a working volcano; the lava rock burned him days long, then it gave him a bashing and threw him out, and he still landed on a cooled slope of the rock without any bruises. He entered in plagues, contended armies, and let the frozen wastes of the Arctic claim him but he rose at all times since his heart refusing to grant him the peace of oblivion.

He always healed himself. It was as though a weird torture. His flesh had never been faithful and his heart had long ago been broken.

He heaved a sigh as renowned to the earth, and turned his back upon the window. One could see an old wooden chest, the single piece of furniture he retained of his old life. A lock of hair of a lover who had become old and died on while his face remained unchanged; a wooden toy of a son whose great-grand-grand-children had now been left only dust; a faded sketch of a city that no longer existed; these were treasures to be found there.

He was going to open it and hurt himself with the memories but another feeling was passing through his senses. The scent of old paper and ozone, some of these murky whisperings of paper, could never have belonged in his clean room.

A yellow scrap of parchment at all suddenly appeared on his black coffee table. His senses, which had been dulled by centuries, now came into focus. It was not a normal thing. It felt heavenly or hellish. He could not distinguish any more.

He crossed the room without saying a word and took the parchment. It was lovely and fluent, and in a language that had not been spoken in a millennium.

‘For the one who seeks the silence where the endless song plays,’ 

The band was composed to the soul who was weary of eternity.

‘There is a whisper of an end. A severance of the soul from its eternal bindings. Not through force, but through essence.’

A single heavy throb struck a chord with Jungkook, a silent muscle he did not often feel.

‘The key is not a weapon, but a creation. Forged from the heart of a fallen star, cooled in the tears of a mortal dream, and given form by a hand that knows both fire and fragility. It is called Stardust Silver. It does not destroy; it unbinds.’

His fingers were clenching the paper, the fine edges creaked and were would soon crumble. Hope, which is an elusive emotion, started to develop within him as a snake. Before this, he had fallen prey to rumors. They always ended in downs or horrible jokes or pitfalls posed by his former kin.

But this... this felt different. It was specific. “Stardust Silver.” There was a term he heard, a legend even among angels, a substance that was said to exist between states, much like he did.

The cryptic message became a actual place and his eyes ran down the bottom of the page.

‘Seek the maker, not the material. Find the hands that weave starlight into silver. In the city of neon and ambition, she is known as Natalie's Legacy.’

The parchment was saturated in his hand and melted away as small golden dust, which drifted away, leaving in the atmosphere no scent but a ozone, and the first actual sense of purpose he had had in a century.

Natalie’s Legacy.

Jungkook swung around to the window, and now he no longer saw the meaningless lights. He saw a destination. A high-end artisanal brand. A name. A last, hopeless lead in his journey that consumed centuries.

He would find this maker. This Stardust Silver would be found by him. And he would exhaust his last, last demand his release.