Chapter Text
The world was quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that made the city feel abandoned. Neon signs flickered halfheartedly above shuttered shops, casting sickly colors on the wet pavement. The glow of streetlights turned the puddles on the cracked pavement into little pools of gold, like tarnished halos. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and then cut abruptly, leaving only the rhythmic hum of streetlights and the shuffle of Mingi’s boots.
The shift at the store had been long, as they always were. Eight hours under buzzing fluorescent lights, stocking shelves, ringing up cigarettes and stale bread for customers who barely looked at him. The pay was barely enough to cover rent on his rundown apartment, but it was the only job he could get. His body was exhausted, but his mind buzzed restlessly the way it always did after work, full of a low, restless hum he couldn’t quiet.
The walk home helped. The dark streets, the empty sidewalks. It gave him room to breathe - room to be himself, whatever that meant. Mingi didn’t mind being alone. At least, that’s what he told himself.
He didn’t remember much about himself, not really. Not much beyond the last 3 years. Not before he woke up in a hospital bed in a town he didn’t recognize.
He knew that he was 26 years old and that he worked nights at the grocery store that was way too many blocks away from his apartment. He knew he loved ramen and fried chicken and that, if left to his own devices, he could sleep for 14 hours straight. But, before a certain point, his memories were a blank stretch of nothing. A wall he couldn’t climb. His childhood, his adolescence? Any family he ever had? Nothing. And no one had come looking, so he figured he must be alone.
Plenty of doctors had poked and prodded and scanned his head until he felt like a lab rat, but in the end, all they could tell him was maybe trauma, maybe injury. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
None of it mattered. The blank space stayed blank.
Sometimes, if he concentrated hard enough, there were flashes: a rush of sound, light so bright it hurt, voices speaking words he didn’t know but somehow understood. Sometimes, the flashes came with a strange, overwhelming emotion - a sense of purpose so vast it was almost unknowable, of belonging so absolute it felt suffocating. It scared him as much as it comforted him. But they vanished before he could grab hold of them, leaving only a pounding headache behind.
He reached up and rubbed absently at the faint scar along his temple, one piece of proof that something had happened to him. That and the scars on his back were tangible reminders of a trauma he couldn’t recall.
When he lowered his hand, his gaze snagged on the dark lines snaking down his forearms, peeking from under his rolled-up sleeves. These too were remnants of some past he couldn’t quite remember.
The tattoos were… beautiful, in their own way.
Swirls and arcs, abstract shapes that sometimes looked like wings, sometimes like flames, sometimes like both at once. They crawl up his arms, licking at his collarbone and neck, peaking out over the collar of his work shirt. They’d been there when he woke up in the hospital. The doctors assumed he’d chosen them.
But Mingi had no memory of sitting in a chair while a needle etched them into his skin. Not that that meant anything for a mind like his.
Some nights, when the moonlight hit them just right, they almost seemed to glow, a soft, pulsing light beneath the surface, like stained glass illuminated from within.
Tonight, they gleamed faintly as he passed beneath a flickering streetlamp. Mingi tugged his sleeves down, hiding them. Even if he found them beautiful, most people didn’t see past the ink. They saw a tall man with strange tattoos and went straight to fear.
It wasn’t like he was that intimidating.
He was tall, yes, six feet and change, and broad enough through the shoulders to make cheap jackets fit awkwardly. But he wasn’t hulking, wasn’t some giant meant to terrify people. Still, there was… something.
An aura, maybe. Sometimes, when people’s eyes landed on him, he saw a flash of naked panic, like prey recognizing a predator it didn’t understand. Maybe they knew something about him that he himself didn’t. It wouldn’t be that difficult, after all.
People crossed the street when he approached without realizing they were doing it. Children hid behind their mothers’ legs. Coworkers flinched when he spoke too suddenly.
Like they sensed something wrong with him before he even opened his mouth.
He was pulled out of his saturnine musings when a sharp crack split the night air up ahead of him. Mingi’s head lifted automatically, scanning the dim street. A few yards away, near the mouth of an alley, an older woman knelt beside a burst grocery bag. Cans and produce rolled across the dirty sidewalk, scattering like marbles.
Mingi’s steps quickened. He crouched beside her without thinking, scooping up the runaway items.
“Here,” he said quietly, his voice low and deep but as gentle as he could make it, “You dropped these.”
The woman startled so violently, she nearly toppled over. When her gaze landed on him, her entire body went rigid.
“I-I’ve got it,” she stammered, yanking the bag from his hands before he could set anything inside. Her knuckles were white around the plastic handles. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Mingi froze, then slowly lifted his hands in a universal gesture of surrender, “I wasn’t trying to...” he began.
She backed away a step, eyes darting over his tattoos, his height, his shadow cast long and crooked by the streetlight. “People like you,” she muttered, half under her breath, “always trouble.”
The words landed like a stone sinking in his chest. He didn’t argue. He never did. “Take care,” he said instead, shoving his hands into his pockets, voice quiet. He stepped aside to let her pass. She scurried off without a single thank you, muttering under her breath.
A pair of bystanders gave Mingi a wide berth as they passed, whispering as they went:
“Did you see that guy? Thought he was gonna rob her.”
“Gave me chills. Wouldn’t want to run into him at night.”
Mingi exhaled slowly through his nose, shoulders tight. It wasn’t new. It never was. No matter what he did, no matter how carefully he kept to himself, people always seemed to see a monster where he stood.
Still, he’d stopped. He’d helped. That mattered to him, even if no one noticed.
By the time he was a few blocks away from his house, the clouds had smothered the moon. Mingi could smell the rain that threatened, sharp and metallic on the wind.
The convenience store signs and old church banners along the street cast a muted glow on the wet pavement. The one billboard that read HE IS WATCHING in peeling red paint, the cross above it crooked and rusted always marked ‘almost home’ in Mingi’s mind. He hated it for some reason though he couldn’t pinpoint why.
As he passed, he caught his reflection in the glass door of a shuttered shop.
For just a moment, the tattoos on his arms lit up, glowing softly beneath his skin like embers hidden in ash. It was faint, so faint he almost thought he imagined it, but enough to make him jerk back, heart skipping.
He stared. The glow faded, leaving only dark lines against pale skin. Like nothing had ever happened.
His hand rose to his temple, massaging the sudden ache there. “You’re tired,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re seeing things.”
“You really shouldn’t walk home alone at night.”
The voice was warm and smooth, curling through the quiet like a hymn sung just for him. Across from him a figure stood in the shadows of the open mouth of an alley.
Mingi’s pulse jumped, breath fogging the cold night air. “I’m fine,” he said, shifting his weight as if ready to move past, hoping this wasn’t about to devolve into the second negative encounter of the evening.
The boy, no, young man, really, up close he seemed not much older than Mingi himself, stepped out into the light of a nearby street lamp and lifted both hands in a playful show of surrender. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you,” he said lightly.
His voice was warm, smooth, the kind of voice that curled around a room and made it feel softer. “It’s late. I just figured… it’s nice not to walk alone.”
Mingi hesitated. People didn’t usually offer to walk with him. They usually got as far away as possible.
“I don’t mind being alone,” Mingi said carefully.
The man tilted his head, studying him like he was some interesting puzzle. Under the streetlight, his hair caught a soft glow, chestnut strands haloed in gold. His brown eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled gently.
“Yeah, but…” he said, drawing the words out teasingly, “you look like you could use company.”
Mingi blinked. “…Do I?”
“Mm.” The man’s grin deepened, not mocking, just warm. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I saw the little moment you had back there. You’re kind of…intimidating. Tall, tattoos, the whole…” He gestured vaguely, as if trying to encompass Mingi’s entire vibe. “But your eyes?”
He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice. “They’re not scary at all.”
Mingi froze, caught off guard. No one had ever said anything like that to him.
“They’re…” the man hesitated, then grinned almost sheepishly, like he couldn’t help himself, “…cute, actually.”
The word hit Mingi like a physical blow. Heat rose in his face, so sudden it almost hurt. “Cute?” he echoed, disbelieving.
The man’s laughter was low and warm, curling around Mingi’s chest like a blanket. “Yeah. You’ve got this whole… ‘big scary guy who’s secretly soft’ thing going on. It’s sweet.”
Mingi had no idea what to do with that. Was this some sort of come on? Was it a trap? A joke?
He should’ve brushed it off, or denied it, or walked away. Instead, he stood there, heartbeat thrumming in his ears, feeling like the ground had tilted beneath him.
“People usually…” he began, then trailed off, unsure if he wanted to admit it.
“Usually what?” the man prompted, tilting his head. There was no judgment in his voice. Just curiosity.
“Usually they cross the street when they see me coming,” Mingi said quietly. “They don’t… they don’t say things like that.”
For a moment, something flickered across the man’s face. Not pity, exactly, but something sharper, something satisfied. It was gone before Mingi could name it.
“Well,” the boy said softly, “then they’re idiots.” He offered a hand, palm up, like a promise. “Yunho.”
Mingi stared at the hand for a beat too long before finally taking it. His own hand was rough, calloused. Yunho’s was warm.
“Mingi,” he said, voice low.
Yunho’s smile widened like a sunrise. “Mingi,” he repeated, savoring it. “That suits you.”
It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have made Mingi’s chest ache the way it did. And maybe he was lonely, but he kept his body language open and set a slow pace until Yunho saddled up next to him with a warm smile.
They walked side by side, Yunho filling the quiet effortlessly. He talked about little things; the weather, how terrible the city buses were, a funny thing he’d seen at work earlier that day.
Mingi mostly listened, giving short replies when prompted. It wasn’t awkward, though. Yunho’s easy chatter smoothed out all the edges between them, like sunlight softening stone, painting everything ordinary with a hint of grace. In moments it felt like they’d always walked together like this.
By the time they reached Mingi’s building, his stomach ached with a strange, fluttering lightness.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled like this. Or the last time someone had looked at him and seen more than his sharp angles and inked skin.
“Here we are,” Yunho said, stopping at the bottom step of Mingi’s building. He didn’t glance at the peeling paint or the cracked steps like other people always did. He just looked at Mingi, eyes warm and steady.
“Thanks,” Mingi said awkwardly. “For… walking with me.”
Yunho smiled like Mingi had given him a gift. “Anytime,” he said. “I mean that.” Then, softer, “I’m glad I ran into you tonight, Mingi.”
Something in Mingi’s chest tightened painfully.
Yunho turned to leave, lifting a hand in a casual wave. “See you around.”
Mingi stood there, watching him disappear into the shadows, until the night seemed colder again. But for the first time in his admittedly short memory, he didn’t feel completely alone.
The apartment was dark when Mingi pushed open the door, the thin wood groaning like it resented being disturbed.
Inside, the familiar stale scent of old paint and rusted pipes greeted him. The single room held little more than a sagging couch, a narrow bed shoved into the corner, and a table with two mismatched chairs. It wasn’t much, but it was his, and most nights, that was more than enough.
Tonight, though, the space felt different. Smaller. Closer.
Mingi stood just inside the doorway for a moment, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the distant wail of sirens. Normally those sounds grounded him. Tonight, they seemed far away, muted under the echo of Yunho’s voice in his ears.
Cute, Yunho had called him. Sweet.
The words replayed in Mingi’s head like a song he couldn’t stop humming. Ridiculous, really.
But no one had ever said anything like that to him before, certainly not with that soft, open smile, like they actually meant it.
He set his keys down and crossed to the bed, sitting heavily on the edge. He felt light in a way he couldn’t remember ever feeling. As if someone had reached inside his chest and untangled a knot he hadn’t known was there.
But beneath that lightness, something restless coiled low in his gut.
He rubbed at his temple, then at the dark swirls of tattoo visible where his sleeve had ridden up.
His skin tingled faintly, almost like static under the ink. The sensation wasn’t painful, exactly. Just… strange.
Mingi shook his arms out and pushed up to his feet. He was imagining things. Too tired, that was all. He needed sleep.
Still, as he moved through the motions of his nighttime routine, washing up, pulling on a worn t-shirt, crawling beneath the thin blanket, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him.
He’d locked the door. Checked the windows. The shadows in the corners of the room were just shadows. And yet, lying there in the dark, he swore he could still feel Yunho’s gaze on him, warm and steady, lingering even after Yunho had vanished into the night.
The days began to slip into each other once again. Mingi worked, came home, made himself dinner, worked out when he could, slept. But now, there was Yunho.
At first, Mingi told himself it was a coincidence, even though that was a foolish thought. Yunho just happened to appear when Mingi’s shift ended, leaning casually against the lamppost outside the store like he’d been waiting all his life for that exact moment.
He just happened to be walking the same route home. He just happened to have nothing better to do than talk and laugh and make the silence between them feel easy. But after the third, fourth, fifth night… Mingi stopped pretending it was a coincidence. It should have been unsettling, and in the back of his mind, he labeled the encounters as ‘dangerous’, but Mingi was, if he let himself admit it, flattered by the attention.
Yunho was…God, he was good.
The kind of good Mingi had never really believed existed outside of stories people told themselves to feel better about the world. Even in the smallest interactions he was good. He smiled at everyone they passed. He opened doors and offered his seat on the bus without hesitation. He slipped a few bills into the trembling hands of an unhoused man outside the bodega one night, not even pausing to see if anyone had noticed.
“Doesn’t everyone deserve a little grace?” Yunho had said, smiling that soft, bright smile as they walked away. The kind of smile that made Mingi’s chest ache. He couldn’t agree with the sentiment more.
Yunho was also ridiculous, in the best way. He made faces at pigeons, hummed the wrong lyrics loudly to songs on his phone, and would, in moments of whimsy, pretend the lampposts were judges passing sentence on them when they walked by. “You, Song Mingi, have been accused of living on only caffeine and beef jerky for three nights running. How do you plead?”
He had a way of asking silly little questions that made Mingi talk, really talk, about what he liked, what he hated, what made him roll his eyes or laugh. Yunho listened like it mattered, soft eyes alight with genuine curiosity, and even when he was being completely silly, Mingi found himself leaning closer, wanting to share more, wanting to see what he’d do next.
Sometimes, as they strolled through the quiet streets, Yunho would get uncharacteristically serious and talk about faith. Not in a pushy way, not like the fire-and-brimstone preachers on street corners. Just… gentle. Like he was sharing a secret.
“I grew up in the church,” Yunho said one night, voice soft over the distant toll of bells. “Showed up every Sunday morning, sang in the choir, alter boy, all of it. I won’t say I was devout per say, but it was about… belonging. I think faith is all about believing there’s light in the world, even when you can’t see it.”
Mingi had stayed quiet, not sure how to respond. Belief wasn’t something he’d ever felt comfortable exploring in himself. His memories were too fractured, his life too uncertain.
Yunho didn’t seem to mind his silence. He just looked at Mingi with those warm brown eyes, full and steady. “It’s okay if you don’t believe,” he’d said gently. “Faith is such a personal thing. Sometimes it’s just… belief that someone out there loves and accepts you. No matter what,”
Mingi hadn’t known what to say to that, either. So he’d just nodded, his throat tight.
And on it went. For weeks, months. And every day, Mingi’s attraction grew sharper. He knew now that it wasn’t just admiration, or even friendship. It was visceral, physical. An ache that lived under his skin. A fire burning him from the inside out.
The curve of Yunho’s smile, the brush of his hand when he gestured, the low rumble of his laugh. All of it lodged itself in Mingi’s body like splinters. Sometimes he’d catch himself staring at Yunho’s mouth and have to jerk his gaze away, pulse pounding.
When Yunho leaned in close to whisper a joke, Mingi would go stock-still, terrified the other man would feel the heat rolling off him like it was a physical blow. Every time Yunho’s shoulder bumped his, it felt like being struck by lightning.
It was ridiculous.
Pathetic.
But he couldn’t stop it.
One night on the walk home, they stopped outside Mingi’s building. It was later than usual, almost morning now. The streets hushed and empty, the sky bruised with clouds.
Yunho lingered at the bottom step, his hands shoved casually into his jacket pockets. “You seem tired today,” he said, voice low and almost intimate.
“I’m fine,” Mingi replied automatically. It was what he always said, no matter how frayed he felt inside. And he was tired. Tired in a way that made him wonder what his body had been through in the years he couldn’t remember.
Yunho didn’t look convinced. He tilted his head, studying Mingi with quiet intensity. “You work too hard,” he murmured. “You deserve… more than this.”
The words landed heavy in Mingi’s chest. No one had ever said anything like that to him. Before Mingi could respond, Yunho reached out, slow enough for Mingi to see it coming, gentle enough that it felt like a question rather than a demand.
His fingers brushed the inside of Mingi’s wrist, brushing gently over the ink that swirled there, warm against the cool night air.
Mingi’s breath caught. It was such a small touch, but it felt enormous. Like the world had narrowed down to that single point of contact, to Yunho’s fingers wrapping around his.
Yunho’s thumb moved in a slow, soothing arc over the line of Mingi’s tattoo. Mingi shuddered, a small ‘oh’ escaping his throat. "See? Not big and scary at all,” Yunho said softly. “Just… beautiful.”
Mingi’s heart slammed against his ribs. His body felt too big, too clumsy, every nerve ending on fire. “Yunho...” he breathed, voice rough.
Yunho only smiled, soft and sure. “Go inside, Mingi. Get some rest.”
And then he was gone, melting into the shadows like he’d never been there at all.
Yunho lingered in the shadows long after Mingi had retreated to the safety of his apartment, eyes fixed on the faint golden glow spilling from the open window. From here, framed by cheap curtains and the soft light of a bedside lamp, Mingi looked almost… untouchable. Ethereal, even. A creature of light who didn’t belong to this cracked and dirty city street.
Yunho smiled at the sight, a small, tender curve of his lips that might have been mistaken for fondness.
But then the streetlight shifted, and so did he.
The warmth in his features bled away in a heartbeat. His chestnut hair darkened, strands catching the glow like strands of molten shadow. His eyes, so often soft and brown, flared deep and red, like coals banked in the dark. What lingered was no longer gentle. No longer human. It was sharp and hungry, a predator slipping free of its mask.
Mingi, oblivious, paced about his apartment, a silhouette against the pale light. Beneath his skin, the faint lines of his tattoos seemed to pulse like banked embers, a whisper of holy light trying to burn through mortal flesh. Yunho could feel it even from here, the thrum of power, the echo of wings that no longer existed. Angel. Whether Mingi remembered it or not.
Yunho let out a low hum, savoring the sight, his voice curling through the night like incense smoke and sin. “Sweet angel,” he murmured, velvet and dangerous, each word a promise and a threat. “I can’t wait to make you fall again.”
The hunger inside him was more than want. It was need. He didn’t just desire Mingi, he ached to devour him. To claim every shining piece until there was nothing left but breathless, desperate surrender and then, nothing at all.
From the very first moment, Yunho had been caught by this one: the light beneath his skin, the strength wrapped in oblivious fragility, the purity he didn’t even know he carried. Each unknowing glance, each unsuspecting smile had pulled Yunho closer, stoking a craving older than memory.
The lamp went dark. The window dimmed.
Yunho’s smirk lingered a beat longer before fading, his features smoothing back into the perfect illusion of a harmless passerby. But beneath the borrowed warmth, his hunger remained, coiled and waiting.
Mingi didn’t know it yet, but he had already begun to fall.