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Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

“Wooyoung–”

A familiar voice approaches, laden with faux-urgency, yet hinted with a careful, mischievous smile. Wooyoung turns to glance at the person, raising a brow, putting down the paperwork he had been trying to avoid for days on end.

“Yes, hyung?” Wooyoung leans back in his chair, watching as Jeonghan bites his lower lip, tapping the folder that had been within his grasp.

“I have details of our next project,” Jeonghan says enthusiastically, setting the folder down with a subtle smack. “It’s undercover, and I think I’m going to get picked for it.”

“You?” Wooyoung asks, smiling widely. “Getting picked for a covert op?”

“Hey, I have skills,” Jeonghan defends with a small pout, pointing to the folder. “Look at the details! This is all up my alley, not yours, mister hacker-man.”

“Oh? Hacker-man, huh? Since when do I spend more time on a computer than you?”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes, folding his arms against his chest. “Just open the file, would you?”

“Alright,” Wooyoung says with a smile, reaching for the folder, placing it softly between his hands. Slowly, he opens the folder, his eyes greeting the sight of several different papers, all highlighted and mapped with different details that discuss the severity of a new mission.

From just a quick glance, Wooyoung caught word of exactly what Jeonghan had explained; an undercover mission, but as for what remained oddly vague. He reads through a few more details, running his fingers through the pages, finding a few polaroids taken of a nearby casino and slightly blurred faces, all detailed with guard routes and bank receipts, uncovering transaction history with specific dates and bank accounts being filed.

“What’s with all of the routing numbers?” Wooyoung asks, looking up at Jeonghan.

“Not sure,” Jeonghan moves to stand behind Wooyoung’s chair, looking down and over his shoulder as he reads through the folder once more. “Mingyu won’t say anything about this job we’re supposed to be preparing for, yet he has everyone doing some sort of detailed work on it.”

“I haven’t had anything to do with it,” Wooyoung mutters, glancing back down at the folder. “He hasn’t asked for me to do a single thing. I’ve been stuck doing this political shit for Scoups since he’s on sick leave this week.”

“Look at you, being all nice to him,” Jeonghan teases, softly pressing his finger into Wooyoung’s cheek. “Your boyfriend would be proud of you.”

“Be proud of what? The fact that I’m being nice?” Wooyoung raises a brow, turning in his chair slightly to properly face Jeonghan. “You act as if I’ve been a douche since I started with the agency. Maybe I was a little. . . temperamental, but I wasn’t cold and heartless like the boss man.”

“I’m so telling him that you said that,” Jeonghan teases with a wide smile. Wooyoung rolls his eyes, reaching his hand over to smack the male on his chest, a faux-grimace becoming of his expression.

“Play nice, Jeonghannie–” Wooyoung warns. “What’s Mingyu gonna do, huh? Fire me?”

“He might send you on some shit mission next time, don’t tempt him.” Jeonghan sticks his tongue out, leaning away when Wooyoung goes to smack him again.

“Hey, you two, knock it off.” Another voice interrupts the atmosphere held within Wooyoung’s small office, earning a dramatic sigh in turn.

“Yeonjun, please!” Wooyoung whines. “Take him away from my office. He’s causing me to procrastinate.”

“Oh, lord. Here comes the dutiful boyfriend to protect you,” Jeonghan jests, placing his hands on Wooyoung’s shoulders before he squeezes them, leaning down to whisper in his ear. “You can’t always use your boyfriend to get you out of my incessant teasing.”

“I beg to differ,” Wooyoung says with a smirk, biting his lip.

“Hey, I meant it,” Yeonjun says, faux-stern. “Mingyu is calling a meeting about that file that Jeonghan stole from his desk. Be in the room in five.”

“Does that mean we’re working late?” Wooyoung asks with a frown, to which Yeonjun simply shrugs.

“You act as if you’re the one driving home,” Yeonjun replies, smiling small. “We’ll be fine, Young’ah. Just come to the meeting.”

Wooyoung smiles back, nodding as he turns his chair back towards his desk, closing the once-open folder, listening as Jeonghan begins talking again, either to himself or to Yeonjun, Wooyoung just wasn’t sure as to which.

“All I’m saying is that I don’t want to be sent out of the country again,” Jeonghan begins, walking a few steps towards the doorway of Wooyoung’s office, lingering there, leaning against the frame. “It would be nice to remain here in Seoul, especially in this agency and not one from the states.”

“Why would they ever transfer you over there?” Wooyoung suddenly asks. “We’ve been working, well, most of us at least, have been working beneath the Korean government for years now–”

“I don’t make the rules, Young’ah,” Jeonghan says, holding his hands up, shrugging slightly. “It’s not my call. I’d rather not get sent anywhere, but we never know what we’re going to get pulled for. We were all just in Taiwan on business last month, so who knows where we’re being sent off to now.”

Wooyoung nods, taking the folder into his hands before he turns, handing it back off to Jeonghan, pausing before he speaks.

“They won’t send us anywhere. I just have a feeling–” Wooyoung looks up, smiling when Jeonghan meets his gaze. “This mission is going to be big here in Seoul.”

“Big, huh?” Jeonghan hums, nodding his head. “Alright, Young’ah. Let’s see where we’re off to now.”

Jeonghan takes the folder before he finally saunters off, a sudden levity in his steps as he strolls through their office space. Wooyoung shakes his head, taking in a breath, leaning back in his chair as he sinks into knowing that another mission was about to be completely uncovered.

For the last two years, Wooyoung has worked beneath the Korean government, acting as an agent that would undergo a variety of missions to better their world in secretive means. Though, Wooyoung could hardly find such levity within the job he performed, knowing that lives were lost and constantly put at risk, yet there's nothing he’d change about it.

While working at this agency, Wooyoung met some of his closer friends, but they weren’t his best friends by any means. Jeonghan was nice, always adding a certain humor to their day-to-day, but he was sometimes a bit too jovial. Jeonghan tried to see the best in everything, yet his temper got in the way of certain tasks when things seemingly fell through, but his ability to be overly observant is what made him a formidable agent. Jeonghan was close with Seung-cheol, or Scoups, as they’d often call him around the office.

Scoups was the quiet one of the office, keeping to himself, remaining calm, embarking on more political tasks, taking out foreign leaders in the moment the government asked him to. He was never scared of anything, seeing things with a straightened attitude that never went awry. Personally, Wooyoung thought that Scoups was the most dangerous in the office, because he really showed little emotion. You could never tell what he was thinking, nor as to what he had planned, meaning that if he wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t know until you were bleeding out.

Beyond his two favorite co-workers, was Yeonjun, his romantic partner. Wooyoung hated the term boyfriend, as it felt too childish to be using at his age, but in layman's terms, that’s what they were. Boyfriends. They had been together for the past year, living together for nearly a few months, embarking on missions together since the moment Wooyoung started at this agency. Yeonjun was sweet, overly curious, charming his way out of trouble in any instance he could manage with his overwhelming charisma. Wooyoung loved him, truly he did, and having him around in times as trivial as this made everything simply easier to digest.

Then there was Mingyu, his boss. He was. . . difficult, to say the least, as his expectations wove themselves high, but he tried his best to be as understanding as he could. Their missions were always high-priority, strung with dangerous details that involves secrecy and assassination attempts as of late, leading to the unraveling of several different notorious networks not just here in Seoul, but across the entirety of Asia as a whole.

Wooyoung respected Mingyu enough, but there was something hidden in the folds of Mingyu’s office that Wooyoung was desperate to uncover; something that would likely corrupt everything they had worked for. He wasn’t entirely sold on this idea that they were serving for the greater good, and rather a gray area, lost between the seas of black and the shores of white. They were stuck in the throes of everything that felt too blurry to see past, opaque and vaguely recognizable amongst the other things that occurred here within such an office. There was more to this agency, Wooyoung believed, and he wanted to know more.

Being an agent wasn’t his first choice, but after serving in his mandatory military service for two years, he found it hard to leave after that. He had no family to go home to, as his mother died of cancer while he was deployed years back, and his father was nowhere to be found. He had no siblings, no one to protect, leaving him as a lone wolf to fend for himself. He was okay with it, partially, recognizing that he’d need to adapt to the world’s ever-changing tides, or he should simply see life as forfeit. He refused to drown in all of this, staking claim to a chance of survival in a world that sought to end the weak.

With a breath, Wooyoung pushes himself out of his chair, strolling through the emptiness of their communal office space, moving past humming computer towers and empty cubicles, leading his steps towards the main meeting room, laden with a large round table and an internal computer module.

“Take a seat,” Mingyu says, standing at the head of the room, holding a small remote in his hand. Everyone follows suit, sitting down in their usual chairs, surrounding the table with attentive gazes. Wooyoung smooths out his button-up, folding one leg over the other, tapping his fingers against the arms of his rolling chair. Curiously, he watches Mingyu, taking in the sight of him as he began to move around the outskirts of the room with a specific grandeur, almost as if his entire aura demanded respect. He was dignified, that Wooyoung knew, but Mingyu always held his head high, acting indifferent to matters that seemed life-altering. He was egotistical, maybe a bit hard-headed and easy to temper, but he knew that there were reasons as to why Mingyu was chosen to be the head of this office.

“Now, as Jeonghan has so graciously spoiled to all of you, we have a new assignment, something that our government leaders deem as not only incredibly important, but utterly dangerous, marked as a red code-five.”

Mingyu continues to move about the space, his voice composed and loud, captivating the attention of those settled within the room.

“I’m sure we’ve all heard the tale of mafias back in the states, and while they are rare here in Seoul, there has been one in operation for many years, running beneath our government’s nose, and as of late, they are proving to be a problem that demands to be dealt with.”

Mingyu presses a button on the remote, causing the computer in the table to spark to life, bringing up a blue hologram that slowly begins to rotate in its own small orbit. It was the 3D image of a large casino, the one taken in the Polaroids, one Wooyoung has seen on several occasions in the heart of Seoul, looming near the business district. It was popular and very controversial, running all hours of the day, yet remaining closed during the depth of night. It was taboo to be closed when business was more likely to embark on an upward trend during the evening, and yet the casino refused to change their ways for the last several years.

“The Crimson Cartel,” Mingyu states, pressing another button on the remote. “They operate beneath the facade of the Velvet Mirage, and their leader is the notorious Choi San.”

Wooyoung watches as an image of San appears above the table as a hologram, looking over his shoulder, wearing layers and layers of gold against his chest. His hair was short and slicked back, his eyes telling a tale of loathing distaste for whoever had taken the photo of him in the rare moment he must’ve been seen outdoors.

“He’s dangerous, smart, and incredibly wealthy. He has control over the entirety of Seoul, and no one has ever dared to try and unfurl his crimson web of deceit, murder, and lies. He runs a very strict operation, and from what little knowledge we’ve gathered, we’ve come to know that he is on the hunt for a data chip that is in the government’s possession. He has the means to obtain anything and everything that he wants, but we’ll be stopping him before he even has the chance to see the chip with his own eyes.”

“How are we to do that?” Jeonghan asks, stirring Mingyu’s steps to pause at the head of the table, turning off the hologram as the lights begin to dim back on.

“Simple,” Mingyu explains, walking closer to the table, setting the remote down as he gestures to the folders sitting ahead of everyone, indicating to take a further look. “We will have someone go undercover, to act as our eyes so we can anticipate San’s every move. This has to be performed with utmost caution, and this job cannot be taken lightly.”

Wooyoung looks down at his folder, reading the red label stamped across the top curiously. Classified, as it read, even though most of the files within this office remained that way, this stamp felt different, but he couldn’t quite place as to how.

“I need someone composed and smart on their feet, someone who will be able to trick San and his men to see into the folds of such an operation,” Mingyu states, leaning back, clasping his hands behind his back. He looked overly dignified, and beyond that, his tone was incredibly stern, but he paused, looking as if he was about to make the grandest of statements.

“Jung Wooyoung will take the lead in this operation,” Mingyu continues, gesturing towards the folders again. “There is a time table, along with names and faces of people we’ve had scanned through the government’s system. Their known history, as well as their contribution to the underground is noted within these files. Study them until you can recite them by heart. Tomorrow night, I’m sending you in to live amongst them, and you are not to come out until your mission is done.”

Wooyoung nods, feeling every single pair of eyes on him as he reaches for the folder, hesitantly hovering his hand over the top of it, letting his palm eventually flatten against it. “What’s the final mission of all of this? I understand I am to infiltrate their ranks, act as if I am one of them, but what am I truly there for?”

“To kill him,” Mingyu states, his gaze slightly beginning to narrow. “Your goal is to climb their ranks, to get as close as you can to Choi San, and when the time is right. . . I need you to kill him.”

The weight of Mingyu’s words settled over Wooyoung’s skin, acting as an uncomfortable blanket that he knew he’d have to harbor. Killing wasn’t anything new or taboo to Wooyoung, as this line of work always involved some sort of violence. It wasn’t the idea of having to kill someone that clung like an overcast cloud, but rather the idea of living amongst such a group, someone who held overly ill intentions and murdered innocent victims without an ounce of remorse, someone who would turn a blind eye to any act of violence simply because it was all he knew.

Wooyoung knew of the Choi family, as they held notorious weight of words in all of Seoul. Yet, their lack of empathy remained the biggest thing that Wooyoung knew of. From an outsider’s perspective, the Choi family ruled with an iron fist, running their companies and gaining financial power without batting an eye. They handled business alone, doing their things their own way, not wishing to lean on anyone else for the fear that they’d be indebted.

Choi San, their enigmatic son, remained a figure of grizzly stature. He was mysterious, and no one really knew too much about what he embarked on in the depths of Choi mansion. Now, having heard everything about the casino and the underground that came with it, partially, it all began to make sense. Wooyoung wasn’t dumb in knowing the cost that would come with such an operation, but based upon Mingyu’s intense stare and the glimmer of uncertainty that came from the others around him, Wooyoung knew that this mission, and this one alone, could cost him everything.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

“Ready to leave?”

Wooyoung takes a deep breath inwards before slowly releasing it, adjusting his glasses that had been perched on his nose.

“I don’t know,” Wooyoung mutters back, leaning away from his desk, watching as his computer document blinks back at him, an annoying reminder of the task that remained unfinished. “How late is it now?”

“Nearly eleven,” Yeonjun replies, leaning against Wooyoung’s door frame. “You do this every time, Young’ah. It’s time to go home. Aren’t you hungry?”

“I ate, Jun, don’t worry about me,” Wooyoung replies, smiling as he turns to glance at his partner. “This paperwork from Taiwan. . . Mingyu needs it by the end of the day tomorrow, but I just. . . can’t do it.”

“What about it is so hard?” Yeonjun asks, stepping closer, stopping behind Wooyoung’s chair to peer over his shoulder.

“The details of it all, you know?” Wooyoung leans back, feeling as Yeonjun’s hands curl around his shoulders, softly pressing inwards, soothing his fingers into his skin and muscles. “It’s having to reassess the actions we took to keep one another safe. I realize that we were dealing with a drug lord, but we. . . we–”

“We did what we had to,” Yeonjun murmurs, leaning his head down, his breath warm against Wooyoung’s ear. “He threatened to kill Jeonghan, and you and I did what was necessary to make sure that all of us were safe and came home. Our mission was done. We did what we had to do.”

“I’m not immune to realizing that we have a difficult job. We see things and we do things that not every normal person commits,” Wooyoung explains, wetting his lips. “Even still– Scoups killed his wife and his family just to protect Jeonghan. Was it worth it?”

“It was worth it,” Yeonjun admits, but Wooyoung leans away, turning around in his chair.

“I’ve done a lot of shitty things in my life, but never that,” Wooyoung states adamantly, furrowing his brow. “I don’t want to sit here and recount the steps we took to even get there. It makes us appear sloppy, as if we have no communication or coordination. We look like fools.”

“We look like people,” Yeonjun reassesses, searching Wooyoung’s gaze. “We are just trying to survive and follow our orders as they are given to us.”

“I know, Jun, I know all of that–” Wooyoung sighs, chewing on the interior of his cheek. “But when do we cross the line? This new mission I’m on, trying to intercept Choi San’s plans before he can get too close, what lines will I cross then? How many people am I going to have to kill to make sure our mission doesn’t end up compromised?”

Yeonjun is silent, but he nods, somehow understanding the weight kept on Wooyoung’s shoulders.

“I’m not. . . I’m not trying to be sensitive and overly dramatic,” Wooyoung says quietly, glancing back at his computer, his eyes locked with the cursor that blinks back at him, tantalizing and obnoxious. “Our actions have consequences, some being karmedic, other times being graced by whatever figure watches over us. We’ve all done bad shit, but I can’t sit here and condone the killing of his entire family. It isn’t who we are. It’s not the code we abide by.”

“Okay, okay,” Yeonjun soothes, reaching to plant his hands back against Wooyoung’s shoulders. “Relax, jagiya. I wasn’t saying any of that, I was just trying to make you feel better about it all. The paperwork can wait one more day; let’s just go home.”

“Can you give me ten more minutes?” Wooyoung asks, leaning his head back against his chair. “That’s all I ask. Ten minutes.”

Yeonjun takes in a breath, studying his partner’s expression before relenting, nodding softly with a gentle smile. “Sure, love. Ten minutes. Then we’re going home and getting take out, okay?”

“Okay,” Wooyoung says with a breath, allowing a smile to subtly curl at the edges of his lips as Yeonjun leans closer, capturing his lips in a chaste kiss. Wooyoung parts away with a playful huff, smirking at Yeonjun as he talks. “Flirting in the office, are we? Isn’t that against the code of conduct?”

“I’d like to think it’s good for the workplace,” Yeonjun muses aloud, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Adds a little bit of light to a field filled with so much darkness.”

“Fine, fine, you sweet talker–” Wooyoung raises a hand, gently shoving Yeonjun away by pressing his palm against his chest. “Give me ten minutes, and then I’m all yours. Okay?”

“Yes, I’m going, I’m going–!” Yeonjun laughs quietly, following the slight shove that Wooyoung continues to give. “I’m setting a timer. Ten minutes, on the dot. Okay?”

“On the dot, yes sir,” Wooyoung says, saluting playfully, smiling through his teasing tone. Yeonjun rolls his eyes as he leaves, closing Wooyoung’s office door gently before his steps begin to recede. With a breath, Wooyoung turns in his chair again, spinning gently before facing his monitors, inspecting the empty boxes where his recounts should lay typed.

Truthfully, he wished to just stray away from this work, but Mingyu had given him time again and again as an extension, but there were no more chances in ignoring all of this. As the leader of that mission, Wooyoung couldn’t help but feel as if he had failed. He was overly critical of himself, a practiced perfectionist when it comes to the field of his work. He had an internal checklist, a variety of tasks to meet and live up to in that of his own mind, struggling to comprehend how he could allow such a tragedy to become of their work.

The job was simple; grab intel on the drug lord’s trade routes, to track his movements and find safehouses to pass over to the government so they could properly handle the situation itself. Yet, their undercover strategy was soon found out, leading the drug lord himself to catch them off-guard and threaten to execute Jeonghan, who had been disguised within his ranks, acting as a driver for their deliveries.

Instead of just extracting Jeonghan, Yeonjun and Scoups decided that the best course of action was to eliminate the threat, but. . . things quickly got out of hand.

With a breath, Wooyoung begins typing, trying to ignore the urge to break his keyboard in half, followed by smashing his monitors. It was wrong to be recounting such a mission, one that was seen as a failure in his own eyes. Mingyu didn’t seem all that bothered by it; in fact, he congratulated the success of the mission itself, buying a round of drinks at the local bar once everyone had gathered back home from Taiwan.

Wooyoung wasn’t ever truly sure about the intentions Mingyu held, especially with his powerful role in such a career, but considering who he was married to, and the things he had done in the past, he supposes that Mingyu was likely just misunderstood, even despite his own gut feeling.

Mingyu was married to Jeon Wonwoo, a known police officer that operated in the narcotics division and gang unit, both of which advanced his career far beyond anything Wooyoung has ever seen. Both Mingyu and Wonwoo climbed the ranks relatively fast, and at an unusual rate, but he never bothered to question anything, knowing that it was far from his business.

He hadn’t personally met Wonwoo, but he’s heard of him, as Jeonghan practically can never shut up about how nice the guy apparently is. Wooyoung never really hung out with Jeonghan or Scoups more than he already had to at work, as he really couldn’t find it within himself to trust anything the two had said. They were members of the same agency, and he would of course protect them with everything he had while in the field, but here, at home and without the danger of people coming after them, Wooyoung could care less about what they discussed and did after they left the office.

So, he continues on, typing vaguely about the steps taken, the times being input, trying to get past this hurdle as fast as he is able. Ten minutes wasn’t really a lot of time to fully finish this paperwork, but it’d be enough to get through the hardest part of it all; co-signing his name and admitting fault to a casualty.

His jaw tightens as he types, his fingers moving automatically against the keys as they appeared before him in a rapture of letters, disappearing when he hits the backspace, appearing more permanent when he hits enter. It was only then that Wooyoung truly realized that though his job of choice required a certain steely gaze to do more. . . drastic parts of his job, he couldn’t help but feel his humanity slipping away, begging for anything more than a simple shrug to the more violent recounts of things he witnessed. Mingyu seemed truly blind to it all, or maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, Wooyoung hated that about him, and even more so, found it more difficult to trust him because of such leniency.

But he continues regardless, typing and typing away as the clock ticks closer and closer to his time limit. Six minutes had passed, and though he felt like he had done practically nothing, it was the most progress he had accumulated in several days. The words, once having failed him, now came out in a flood. It was as if everything he was holding back ached to be released, glued behind a dam and now surging forth with newly forged fervor. He was always harboring feelings like this, and even if he longed to feel nothing, to try and portray that he was tougher than all of this, but that was just it; he wasn’t.

Beyond the exterior he longed to withhold, laid the insurmountable doubt of self-worth. He wanted to prove that he was something, not only to himself, but of that to his father, who claimed he was worth nothing before he fell off the face of the earth. He longed to make the people around him proud, fearing the disappointment that came with failure. Maybe that was why he was overly critical, or maybe it had deeper roots than just a surface level fear of never being enough. He didn’t know; nor was he ever sure if he’d ever find out the answers he so desperately sought in the solitude of night.

His insomnia was a frequent hurdle, one that Yeonjun tried to soothe with a variety of teas and medications, but had been unsuccessful. But, Wooyoung didn’t mind not sleeping most nights. It offered more retrospect, a time to think and process the events of the day, to see more than just the light that the sun offered and rather finding appreciation in the light that the moon tirelessly showered down upon them, even amongst the night it brought along with it. Insomnia wasn’t that horrible to Wooyoung, at least, now now, anyway. He had gotten used to it, taking whatever hours he could grab throughout the week to power through mountains of paperwork and training, using his time wisely so he could truly savor tender moments with Yeonjun when he was awake.

Yet, even in admitting to all of this, finalizing his statement with a definitive period, it all felt too. . . final. A means to an end, left with no separation and no more words to take away the sting of what his fellow members had done. Lives were mercilessly taken, and at no consequence from the government. The drug lord, now deceased with that of his family, was a solved case, and somehow that was just enough.

Wooyoung leans back in his chair, his finger hovering above the enter key, staring back at the words he had typed, wondering if he should state the entire truth, or just leave it as a vague means of miscommunication. There was more to it, as there usually was to a circumstance such as this, and even still, he couldn’t find it within himself to type more than he already had. Afterall, he would be gone for an unknown amount of time, lingering within the depths of a group that he knew nothing of. He’d have to steel himself over once more, diving into the throes of a mafia and its apparent underground that was hidden beneath the floor of a casino.

He would miss Yeonjun, and maybe his office and his coworkers, but he wouldn’t miss what would follow.

The finality of it all. A dead body, blood on his hands, a merciless title becoming of the badges he earned all those years ago. He knew his hands were stained and caked in blood and sand, and even as he desperately tried to wipe them off, it remained. He was stuck in this life, stuck doing other people’s dirty work for the sake of the “greater good”. It felt anything but that in Wooyoung’s eyes. This entire field, as reputable as it may be, was anything but good.

But it was all he knew.

Violence, murder, guns and weapons, fast cars, assignments; a rush of adrenaline that would entice most to bypass the feelings of finality and intoxicating guilt. But just as his father swore and repeated time after time, Wooyoung would follow such orders, do his job, commit such a crime and do so without batting an eye. That’s how he was raised. That’s what he was trained to do. He knew of nothing else.

Act before the universe acts for you, he would state, clenching his fist while hovering over a young, vulnerable Wooyoung. Kill the beast before the beast kills you.

He was talking about hunting back then, in terms of a wolf, or maybe even a deer, but. . . Wooyoung felt the weight of his words then, and even more so now.

Choi San was a beast.

And he’d have to kill him before San could even try to kill him first.

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

The night came with a dense coating of fog, settled across the ground in a thickening array of opaque mystery. The weather was oddly warm as night fell, indicating the humidity for the following morning would be the perfect concoction to unfurl a hazardous storm.

Wooyoung stayed awake that night, facing the windows, listening to the wind curl and wrap around his home, falling flat against his window and shaking its panes. The trees that were nearby cast shadows inwards, dancing along the carpet and hardwood, painting weary figures against the edge of his shared bed and delicate shelves, displaying photos of times that were far simpler, spent in the arms of his mother. Everything about this evening was oddly uncomforting, and for the first time in a long time, he longed to feel the cusp of sleep to ignore the sense of dread that was climbing against his spine like a ladder to the throes of hell.

He was uneasy, tossing and turning until he eventually just stopped, staring out of his window, counting each of Yeonjun’s weary breaths until they became a soundtrack to his nightly despair. With the howling of the wind, the subtle shake of his windows, the silent exhales escaping Yeonjun’s parted lips, Wooyoung found himself grappling for peace, unsure if he could ever maintain such a stature within his own nightly rapture.

Not even the light from the moon seemed to draw away his unsteady departure into such darkness, allowing the barren wills of anxiety to torture and hold his mind momentary hostage, stuck into a thought of wondering too many ifs, and not enough if nots.

His eyes were glued to the frames of his windows, trying to count the stars through the thickening haze of fog, holding on to their slight shine, almost as if they’d lead him away from the shadows of his own internal, self-guilt. He was second guessing everything, questioning if this entire facade and journey had been worth whatever price were to come in playing along with Mingyu’s game. Killing someone, let alone a notorious man with high-priority parents and family members, wouldn’t come without the sting of consequence.

Wooyoung wasn’t scared of San. He was hardly scared of anything. But the fear of messing up, of costing someone else their life unnecessarily; the guilt clung to him in the way the fog was glued to the lawn outside. He didn’t want to fail again, and more importantly, he didn’t want anymore blood to shed that was already necessary.

Maybe he was being overly worried, and maybe a bit too critical, but he had yet to find a reason as to why he shouldn’t be. Even if he was some sort of trained agent beneath the guide of the government, that didn’t make his humanity any less than what it already was. He still hurt like everyone else did, felt the same remorse and the usual tides of momentary sadness. He knew better than to linger in such emotions, but with such an unusual tide of night, he found himself soaking in the darkness for what it was, unable to hope for anything brighter than this.

The moment the sun arose, Wooyoung lazed in bed for longer than he probably should’ve. Yeonjun had already stirred and waltzed into the en-suite, taking a refreshing shower and going about his routine as he usually had. Wooyoung could care less about getting out of bed, wanting to stay still for a second longer, soaking in the remnants of his home before he’d be forced to abandon it in just mere hours.

Yeonjun was quietly humming beyond the ajar bathroom door, having just turned off the shower and now likely drying his hair with his plush towel. Wooyoung listened contently, rolling to his back, pulling his blanket up further to cover his exposed chest and tattoos. He brushes a hand through his hair, taking in a deep breath, listening to every single sound Yeonjun had made as if it’d be his last.

Their routine, as minimal and quiet as it was, was the oddest bit soothing, serving as some sort of warmth that came with the morning sun to try and dismiss the chill that came with the ascent of the moon. The blankets were warm, but having Yeonjun here, stirred the warmth even warmer, giving Wooyoung a chance to slowly allow his eyes to close, choosing to relish in the tranquility rather than dread what would come the moment they left their home.

He listens to the rustling about, the sink turning on and off, followed by a drawer or two closing before the light switch snaps off, earning a slight, but tired, glance from Wooyoung, spotting Yeonjun walking back into the room with just his sweatpants on.

“Tired?” He asks, messing with his hair as he holds his towel in the opposite hand.

“You have no idea,” Wooyoung replies, watching Yeonjun with a sleepy smile. “Are you gonna miss me?”

“You act as if you’re being sent off to war,” Yeonjun laughs quietly, tossing his towel into the nearby laundry tote, reapproaching the bed after.

“I am–” Wooyoung whines, kicking his leg out playfully, purposely avoiding Yeonjun’s stomach. “I’m being sent away and you’re not even bothered about missing me.”

“Now, who said I wasn’t going to miss you?” Yeonjun smiles as he presses his palms into the mattress, leaning closer, raising his brows slightly.

“No one said anything, I’m just–”

“Assuming,” Yeongjun interjects, hovering over Wooyoung as he dodges the younger’s jestful, yet gentle kick. “Yah! Young’ah, you’re being rude to me, and it’s barely ten in the morning.”

“I just want to hear you laugh,” Wooyoung says, laughing quietly himself. “I want to memorize the sound, make some memories before I’m sent off to war.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Yeonjun criticizes, grabbing Wooyoung’s kicking ankle and holding it, leaning closer as he looks down at the younger.

“I don’t want to lose this,” Wooyoung mutters, his tone suddenly quiet. He takes in a deep breath as Yeonjun’s expression completely softens, laced with something Wooyoung knew all too well. Guilt.

“Listen, you’re not losing anything by embarking on this.”

“But we don’t know for how long I’ll be gone,” Wooyoung says, furrowing his brow. “I could be gone a few days, a week, a month–”

“You take the time that is necessary,” Yeonjun states, his tone slightly firm yet utterly gentle. “I’ll be here. We’ll all be waiting for you, and I don’t want you to stress about rushing back here without thoroughly completing your tasks.”

“Part of me can’t help but want to,” Wooyoung says, reaching his hands up to cup the sides of Yeonjun’s jaw. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, honestly. I know I’m more than capable of handling this, but. . . we’re talking about a mafia, Jun. I’m not one to turn away from danger and even still, I find myself questioning the boundaries that I’m going to cross.”

“Justice can’t be served if we don’t trek across the lines that others would refuse to simply cross. There’s no right and wrong in our line of duty, Wooyoung. We have to operate in a gray area of indifference.”

“Even if that means spilling unnecessary blood?” Wooyoung mutters, earning a sigh from Yeonjun.

“Young’ah, we have this discussion at least once a week,” he breathes out, leaning away from the bed completely. “Aren’t you tired of this doubt? You’ve seen enough blood in your time under this agency, and this doubt that you carry is completely clouding over everything you’ve been through.”

“Just because I’ve done a certain amount of things, doesn’t mean that I can’t feel a certain way.”

“Is that what I said?” Yeonjun asks, placing a hand on his hip. “Quite literally the opposite, really.”

“I really do not want to argue with you right now, Yeonjun, please drop it,” Wooyoung sighs, leaning back into his pillow. “I was trying to be honest with you, and if you’re just going to be dismissive to me, then we don’t have to talk about it.”

“I didn’t mean for it to come off that way–”

“It’s fine,” Wooyoung smiles, using his hands to guide him into sitting upright. “We’re not going to argue today, not when I leave tonight. Just forget about it, okay?”

“Wooyoung–”

“I’m serious,” Wooyoung replies, tossing the comforter off of his legs. “I’m gonna shower, and then we’ll head to the office, okay? There’s a lot for us to do before I leave for the other side of Seoul.”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun replies, nodding slightly. “Yeah, alright. I’ll be downstairs.”

Wooyoung offers him a smile as Yeonjun turns, reaching for his phone and heading towards the door of their bedroom, leaving the door ajar as he moves to leave the space. Wooyoung sighs, rolling his eyes, wanting nothing more than to scream at the world for bringing up this delusional conversation again.

This topic, this sense of judgment, was a weekly thing that they tried to converse through, but was always meant with differing opinions. Yeonjun, for the most part, was cold-hearted to the ideals of their career. Yeonjun, just like Wooyoung, had served in the military long before joining in a specialized agency, but he harbored a past far different than Wooyoung, laden with terrible memories that were colored in crimson blood.

Yeonjun, from what he’s mentioned, has seen death time and time again, which likely made it easier to turn his head away from the crimes the government so willingly wished to commit. Wooyoung could understand the less heinous crimes, ones that involved tracking, stealing information, infiltrating storage units to gather intel in the only way they could manage without being noticed. That was the work Wooyoung was used to, but as of late, the tasks slowly began to get more and more. . . violent.

Apparently, the government was seeking to rid themselves of future problems, trying to focus on more internal matters that were concerned with another branch of their agency. Wooyoung’s division was the most specialized in their task force, ranging from undercover intel, stealth missions, reconnaissance, gang units and patrols, with another branch dedicated to drug-related crimes. Scoups sat in the chair for overseeing everything in relation to political and drug-related operations, whereas Wooyoung typically ran a leadership role in most of the more strategic missions. Wooyoung took pride in this, acting as humbly and intelligent as he could manage in such an atmosphere, but in the last few months, he began to notice a new downward trend, starting with a vague mention of possibly dealing with an opposing political figure. Wooyoung didn’t think much of it at the time, but as the mission began, he noticed that Scoups and Jeonghan weren’t exactly keen on keeping this figure alive, given the fact that he was involved with a sex-trafficing ring. He deserved it, that was for sure, so Wooyoung didn’t bother to stand in their way when it came to deal with him.

After that, less vague details came afoot, highlighting more monstrous crimes that dealt with getting rid of the evidence, leaving without a trace, placing the blame on a specific innocent individual. Wooyoung said nothing, even if his heart begged for him to. He wanted this job, this opportunity, and the itch to leave the agency became harder to ignore the more vengeful the mission became.

But now, having an assignment to completely end the life of a notorious crime lord, he supposes that the act of this was justified in some sort of means, though he truly had no idea what he’d be walking into. A modern day mafia, hidden beneath the folds of a lively casino, riddled with fortune, running on an act of code and brotherhood; details of a crime thickened amongst the web of such a dealing.

It was a thin line to be walking, worrying about teetering too far in one direction, falling into the abyss of an unknown that was deeply terrifying. He could get caught, or he could simply just be killed. He knew kingpins tended to be cold and heartless, but Wooyoung refused to allow Choi San the pleasure of showing simple fear. He would be resilient, just like he had in the face of so many negative experiences, working his way through the ranks to earn a spot close to San, chatting away in his ear until he could find himself at his table. He knew that he’d have to be close, but as to how close, and how trusting he’d have to be, he remained unsure.

Wooyoung looks to the left, pulling his knees to his chest as he rests his chin on his knee, allowing his body to settle into a nulled state of hesitant peace. The world outside was so calm and elegant, waiting and watching for a semblance of anything but. Wooyoung didn’t wish to step away from his home and everything he knew, even if it meant uncovering the tangled mess that a mafia construed.

Was Choi San worth all of this risk? Was the consequences that would come to follow such a high-profile killing prove to benefit the government and its shady agenda?

He knew the government could easily wipe their hands clean of the blood that would be spread amongst them, wiping their skin dry, watching as the liquid swirled down the drain with the flow of running water. Wooyoung, though, has been trying to clean his hands of his guilt, and has found himself unable to for the last several years.

But, it was okay. This is what he was trained for. This is what he was best at.

Even if it meant peeling back his humanity in trade for his paycheck.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

Hours later, Wooyoung found himself sitting in his office, staring at his computer monitor, his eyes laced with fatigue and sudden worry.

He had been writing this report for the last few hours, finally typing the final statements to fill the remnants of the void spaces, yet his cursor remained over the forward button, hesitating; his hands laced together as he rested his chin upon them, letting his elbows rest against his desk. His glasses were slightly smudged in the corners, from a weary resolve to absently keep adjusting them, a slightly nervous habit that he had forged over the years spent detailing paperwork that came with a lace of lies.

His keyboard was silent, void of the usual mechanical clicking that would speak of his dedication to work, and yet he sits idly, staring at his blinking cursor, wondering if he should pretend to submit it, or simply send it minutes before leaving for his undercover op.

He knew what he had put on this document was far from the standard, though he had to admit, it felt subtly freeing to be able to let off some of the guilt he was harboring. It was only a slight admission, a delicate trace over the truth that wavered on the tightrope of rights and wrongs. Wooyoung wanted to remain where he felt safe, in a gray area, just as he had always done when it came to his job and the consequences of such acts. He knew better; truly, he did. But he couldn’t find it within himself to care.

He glances at the clock settled on his desk, soaking in the electronic blue color the numbers were coded with, hoping that they’d blink slower, or almost stop the time from ticking past completely. He had just under an hour before he needed to head towards the other side of Seoul, marked in an indiscriminate car, something that wasn’t even remotely his or the agency’s itself. He had packed a slight bag of darker, more worn clothing, all per Mingyu’s instruction. There was a tactical element to all of this, but Wooyoung longed to forget all of it. He wanted to hone in on the finer details, to think of all the faces and match them with their names, to remember the precarious details that came with certain members and their standings.

Mingyu was concerned, mostly, about Wooyoung’s ability to conceal his true identity, but after their discussion, Mingyu seemed more at ease about it all, straying away from the worry that came with transferring such a risk. Wooyoung was more than capable truly, given his experience and time spent training beneath the eyes of the military and special forces.

Though, he felt slightly underprepared for this. Based upon the names and faces of these people, along with the things he had heard about the Crimson Cartel, he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He could sit here and try to compare this mission with the several others he had already embarked on, but nothing felt as dangerous as this. He’s seen plenty of different countries, loaded with dangerous people and an absurd amount of weapons, but engaging with a mafia, where its kingpin remained nearly anonymous to the public, sent a chill to Wooyoung’s skin.

It was an inescapable feeling, watching his monitor with a lulled gaze, feeling as the unease traveled through his nerves and veins, laying thick like another layer of skin. Maybe his office was just a bit too cold, or maybe his clothing wasn’t thick enough, but this feeling was far unlike anything else he’s ever encountered. Anticipation, strangled and wading with the feeling of the unknown, burying its roots deeply into the psyche of Wooyoung’s mental state, ridding the clear path of a composed demeanor, and now laying the footwork of something darker, something more unnerving.

Wooyoung can feel his heart beating in his chest, thumping in tandem with each blink of the cursor as it stared back at him, tantalizingly reminding Wooyoung of just how critical his decisions would remain from here on out.

This one felt simpler, really. To lie, to hold off, to wait and push off the inevitable or to suffer the consequences long before embarking on a mission that would consume him for an unknown lapse of time. Maybe he’d get taken off of the job if he just came clean about his lie, or maybe Mingyu just wouldn’t care and would submit it to the bigger boss, allowing the paperwork to be filed away and lost in the transgressions of everything else they had done. Even better, maybe it would be swept under the rug, played off as if the accident truly wasn’t even just that, but rather a means to ending the entire chapter before the book had even started to reach its apex.

Wooyoung leans away, feeling his body all but fall back into his chair, his hands and arms falling to his sides and lap, listening to the hum of his computer tower as the machine ran fluidly. His breaths were deep and even, possibly contemplative, mirroring the inner sense of connective thought that was coursing through his very being. He wasn’t entirely sure what his next move were to be, but time was ticking, and there was very little time left to think about the decision that fell before him.

So, he glanced at the clock again, noting that another five minutes had passed. His gaze flicks back to his cursor, then to his left, looking at the picture of himself and Yeonjun hugging one another tightly, laughing with drinks in hand, gold necklaces around their necks, confetti raining down around them as they celebrated the eve of a new year. Everything he loved was here, and everything he loved would remain here once he saw the otherside of this operation. Somehow, the picture wove a warmth to fight off the chill of his unease, bringing him to roll closer to his desk again, forcing his eyes back onto the cursor, delicately still hovering over forward with a subtle blinking motion.

With a decisive motion, Wooyoung quickly moves his hand and presses on the mouse, clicking the left button as the cursor pressed the forward action, sending the paperwork away and off of his screen, leaving him to stare at his wallpaper, one of which was a photo of himself and his mother, looking happy and carefree, just days before he would leave for mandatory service.

“For you, ma,” Wooyoung mutters, feeling his jaw tighten. “I will do what’s best for me, for you, no matter the cost.”

He turns in his chair, reaching for his duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he walks, freeing himself of the confines that his office wrought, trying to breathe in air that had felt slightly less suffocating. He knew he hadn’t much time left before his inevitable trip, which made one last conversation pivotal before he met with Mingyu one final time.

His steps guided him down the corridor, passing by Jeonghan’s office, which was to the left of his own, and Scoups’s empty office, still vacated of the male’s brooding presence. On the final sling of private offices was Yeonjun’s, quaint and eerily still, void of the male’s usual quiet presence. Wooyoung pauses, looking around Yeonjun’s office as he walks inside, setting his bag down on the black chair settled in the corner. Yeonjun, who happened to be the luckiest of the four, landed the corner office, held with two windows that provided a lovely view of the outskirts of Seoul. There was a nearby park, bustling with life and vibrant in color, making the exterior of the building feel far less intimidating and dark, a fair contrast to the usual demeanor carried within these four walls.

Yeonjun’s office was practically the same, given the furniture and paint colors were near replicas, but the small amount of decorations he had within such a space warmed Wooyoung’s heart, if just slightly. There was a photo frame on his desk, a picture of Wooyoung that was taken in front of a statue in Incheon, holding a playful pose with a warm smile from a time that was far simpler than this. His name plate was next to that, along with a wire cup full of the same black pen, a stack of folders neatly stacked on the opposite side, labeled with red and orange flags, stating their importance.

“Hey,” Yeonjun’s voice came from behind Wooyoung, walking closer as the younger turned around, smiling at his partner. “Come to pay me a visit?”

“Yeah, actually,” Wooyoung replies, dropping his voice slightly. “Can we talk in private? About this morning?”

“I thought it was fine,” Yeonjun mutters, taking a few steps back, using his hand to reach as he pushes his door gently shut. “Do you really want to discuss this before you leave?”

“We can’t leave things unsaid, Jun.” Wooyoung moves back, leaning up against the edge of the desk. “I don’t know how much we’ll be able to talk while I’m undercover, and there’s a tension left between us; you can’t tell me that there isn’t.”

“I’ll admit, I was a bit wrong in my assumptions,” Yeonjun says, folding his arms against his chest. “But, it’s only normal for me to ask these things. It’s a bit weird that you’re so off put by all of this, no? Based on our shared history and the lives we share–”

“It doesn’t matter,” Wooyoung interrupts, his tone subtly turning firm. “We’re just people at the end of the day. I’m allowed to feel a surge of guilt for my faults. Taking that away from me strips away my humanity. I don’t want to become heartless, even if there’s blood on my hands. I still had a mother, a father, a past and a childhood just as everyone else had. We took that away from those people, Jun. We violently ended their lives before fate had its own hand dealt in it.”

“You don’t have that blood on your hands,” Yeonjun replies, keeping his tone even, though Wooyoung could sense the undercurrents of irritation laced beneath. “I’m the one who killed him, I’m the one who pulled the trigger, Scoups is the one who killed his wife.”

“And yet, I’m the one who led you all there and gave you the green light to do what was necessary in order to save Jeonghan.” Wooyoung pauses, trying to calm the storm brewing within. “I may not have pulled the trigger, but that blood is still on my hands, Yeonjun. It’s not fair of you to be so dismissive when I’ve clearly told you how I felt about all of this.”

“You’re acting like such a baby, right now,” Yeonjun mutters under his breath, letting a deep breath roll through his lungs. “This is why I didn’t want to talk about it, because you feel the need to make it all about you.”

Wooyoung’s eyes narrow, swallowing Yeonjun’s words. “You don’t mean that.”

“Oh, don’t I?” Yeonjun shakes his head, brushing a hand through his hair before he saunters closer, raising a brow. “I’m tired of this guilt trip. You know what you signed up for when you agreed to this job. This shouldn’t be anything new to you, and based upon everything you’ve told me, I find it hard to believe that you find any sort of guilt in relation to any of it.”

“You really want to leave things like this?” Wooyoung asks, feeling the slight prick of tears settle against his lashes. “You want to sit here and degrade me just because I have a sense of remorse and you don’t?”

“No–” Yeonjun stammers, cutting himself off with a breath. “No, of course I don’t. I’m just frustrated, Wooyoung.”

“And you think I’m not?” Wooyoung replies, leaning off of the desk, taking a step closer to Yeonjun. “I know what this job entails. I know what I’m about to be tasked with, and I have to live with the consequences of my actions in the same way that everyone else does. But just for a minute, maybe even just a second, I want my partner to support me instead of degrade me.”

“I want to be the best I can for you, Woo, but I really need you to hear me.”

“Hear you? Hear you and listen to you basically say that all of my feelings are too human for you? What will you call me next? Delusional? Soft? Too much of a pussy for this job?”

“Did I say any of that?”

“In so many words, you did.” Wooyoung glances at his bag, dropping his gaze a moment later. He didn’t want his final minutes with Yeonjun to be spent tense and on edge, arguing about something that shouldn’t even be an argument. Yet, here they were, unable to agree on the fact that what happened was wrong, and that Yeonjun’s cold heart was anything but right. “Yeonjun, listen to me–”

Wooyoung hesitates, reaching a hand up to press his fingers against his temples, rubbing slightly in small circles. “I love you, and I know that our lives aren’t exactly normal. We see things, and we do things that aren’t typical of a regular nine to five, and I know I should be more resilient to that. I am, but I can’t run away from my guilt. I can’t run away from knowing that I could’ve played a hand in preventing either of you from killing that man’s family. But now they’re dead, and no one else in this fucking office seems to give a fuck except for me.”

“I love you, too. I see what you mean, and I’m not saying that you’re entirely wrong, but. . . if we allow ourselves to feel guilt about one death, there may come a day where we hesitate when the time matters, and that time could be the one instance where one of us gets killed.” Yeonjun takes a step closer, placing his hands on Wooyoung’s shoulders. “I trust you, and I know you’re capable, Wooyoung. I know you will do what you need to on this job, but I worry–”

“Worry about what?” Wooyoung asks quietly, searching Yeonjun’s gaze, trying to see the myriad of emotions hiding away behind his locks of blonde hair.

“I worry that you won’t kill Choi San,” he expresses, slightly squeezing Wooyoung’s arms before letting go, wetting his lips before speaking again. “I’m terrified you’ll be that person; that you’ll hesitate, and that I’ll be the one coming to save you just to bury you.”

“When have I ever hesitated before?” Wooyoung asks calmly, tilting his head slightly. “I’m plenty capable of going through with all of this, and there is not a single person in that mafia that would ever catch the upper hand on me, Jun. Believe that.”

“I can’t come with you to cover you, Young’ah,” Yeonjun explains, shaking his head. “There’s no one to save you if something happens.”

“Nothing will happen,” Wooyoung admits, trying to smile small. “I’ll be okay. I know how to survive, how to trick everyone and how to play my cards carefully. You weren’t the only one commended for their training, Yeonjunnie.”

Yeonjun smiles, if only slightly, rolling his eyes. “I understand. Just be careful. I’ll try not to contact you unless you contact me first, but. . . forgive me if I text and send messages unannounced.”

“I’ll cherish every single one,” Wooyoung murmurs, placing his hands on the sides of Yeonjun’s jaw, pulling him closer with a slight lull to his eyes. “I’ll be back. Just wait for me.”

“Okay,” Yeonjun replies, breaching across the distance, pressing a kiss to Wooyoung’s lips. “I’m sorry about what I said. You know that I love you.”

“I know,” Wooyoung replies, giving in to another kiss, trying to relish in the warmth of it, memorizing just how much he cherished being touched like this by his lover. “I’ll be safe, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

Night falls.

Wooyoung exited the agency nearly twenty minutes ago, settled in a new car that he knew nothing of. It was souped up, blacked out, fitted with a spoiler and fancy rims, trying to allude into the knowledge of Wooyoung’s supposed background as to why he was even attempting to join the ranks of the Crimson Cartel.

Mingyu had explained, briefly, that Wooyoung was a known street racer down in Daejeon, well out of the way of Seoul to keep Choi San from looking into any further details. Mingyu apparently had spotted a call for a new driver posted in the threads of the dark web, listed with a need for specific skills and a plea for loyalty, which, based on the undertone of the post itself, made Wooyoung believe that anyone who accepted this offer and tried to run away after a single shift, would be marked down and killed before day could break.

The car sped through the city lights, blurring the view that came to pass as Wooyoung navigated himself into the better half of the business district. He acquired a burner phone, one he’d use to play decoy as his actual phone, receiving instructions and delivery details from the mafia itself onto this device. Mingyu didn’t wish to risk anyone accessing Wooyoung’s actual phone, for the fear that their secrets would be callously revealed by some form of hack.

The Velvet Mirage soon comes into focus, standing large and powerfully against the tall, dull office buildings that were nearby, outshined by the red and gold tones covering the outside of the casino itself. The aesthetic of the casino was overly vintage, and from the looks of it, prided itself on more retro decor, sticking out starkly in a street that was eerily quiet.

Wooyoung slowly pulls his car into the drive, strolling through the line of cars until he sees the not-so-subtle sight of a large, brooding iron gate. Wooyoung takes a breath, rolling his car to a stop before placing it into park, killing the engine before slowly beginning to step out.

The breeze rushes through his longer locks of brunette and blonde-streaked hair, serving as an even uneasier backdrop to the beginnings of a mission he had no idea how to counter. Wooyoung moves towards the gate, inspecting the grandeur of such an entrance, looking past it to find a multitude of cars, likely designated for the employees. Though, as he further inspects the cars, he finds that most of the vehicles stored behind such a gate were not necessarily. . . pedestrian.

From the few that he could clearly make out, he could see the faint outlines of a Porsche, a Bugatti, a BMW and what looked to be some type of Ferrari. He wasn’t a car guy by any means, but he knew how to drive, and more importantly, he knew how to drift. That was all he felt he needed to know.

Suddenly, the gate whirs to life, creaking slowly as it begins to open inwards, a flash of light highlighting the back of the parking lot in an unsettling manner. Wooyoung grips his keys tighter, taking a few steps back, slowly moving to re-enter the driver’s seat before slotting his key into the ignition. The car purrs back to life, the engine rumbling with a slight roar as Wooyoung shifts it into gear, slowly and hesitantly pressing on the gas as he guides his car through the parting gates.

An open spot appears on the left, hidden between two different cars, leaving Wooyoung to maneuver his vehicle into the space, taking a deep breath the moment he turns the car off again, placing his keys into his pocket, sliding his burner phone into the opposite pocket.

He exits the vehicle and grabs his bag from the backseat, walking to the middle of the lot when all of the sudden he hears footsteps, followed by the slight mumbles of voices, lost in the darkness that came from the evening.

Wooyoung turns around, rooted in the spot, listening as the sound of the encroaching footsteps bounced off of the walls, making it hard to pinpoint where they were actually coming from. He was surrounded by cars, all hidden and nearly jet-black, their license plates covered or ripped off, slightly shimmering beneath the gleam of the moon as they all faced towards him, their engines off, but somehow intimidating in their silence.

“Jung Wooyoung,” a voice calls out, reverberating around the lot, causing Wooyoung to pause, feeling a chill crawl against his spine. “You’ve come on the whim that you’ve been accepted for a job, is that it?”

Wooyoung turns around again, now spotting the vague, darkening silhouettes of three unfamiliar figures, causing his eyes to slightly squint as he forces his gaze to try and focus on whatever he could make out against the haze.

“I was told I’d be a driver,” he replies, loud and clear. “That’s what I do; I drive. I need money, and I need a place to stay, far from my old grounds.”

“It’s money you're after, huh?” The voice drags on, followed by a slight laugh. “We can supply you with that, but what can you do for us?”

Wooyoung feels his jaw tense, but he tries to allow his composure to settle, not letting his fear show in the midst of such a confrontation.

“I’m fast, and I’m quick on my feet. I know how to get out of tight situations, and I’m not exactly helpless, either. I can hold my own, and though I’m used to being a lone wolf, I can work in a team.”

The figures begin to further their approach, finally breaking into the light with an intimidating stature, encapsulated by the small amount of light that shone down from the street lamps. The tallest male, likely the ring leader of this party, stepped closest. He had long black hair that came in waves, his build relatively thin, though it was clear that he was stronger than he appeared to be. He had tattoos on his chest crawling up his neck, piercings adorning his ears and lip, smokey black eyeshadow darkening the bottom of his eyes, making him feel more like an intimidating predator; a lion staring down an innocent antelope.

The male to his left was shorter, his fingers laden in rings and his wrist covered in a large gold watch. He wore glasses, his black hair slicked back as his frame accentuated the build of his muscles, all hidden beneath the facade of a button-up and a leather jacket. Wooyoung eyes the third male, swallowing quietly, looking at him from head to toe. His hair was brunette, his features slightly covered by his longer, unkempt bangs as a cap settled atop his head. He wore a sleeveless shirt, a few necklaces stuck to his neck and chest with a scar running down the length of his neck. He had a few tattoos as well, but they were faint in comparison to the lead male, less detailed moreso. He was tall too, maybe not as tall, but taller than the second male in question, yet all of their eyes looked incredibly daunting. None of them showed a single sliver of emotion, and yet, Wooyoung felt the sheer presence of all three.

“That’s what we need, isn’t it?” The leader states, glancing at his male counterparts. “You’ll be sent on a test run this evening, and that’ll truly state if you’re really ready to come and be a part of everything that we are. For now, you’re on our green list; an outsider in the graces of such a notorious cartel. Show respect, follow the rules, and all will turn in your favor.”

Wooyoung nods, gripping the handles of his bag a little tighter before he smiles, glancing between the males. He wasn’t sure what he’d be embarking on, nor how illegal or dangerous it could be, but he’d have to do it. He needed to fit in and he needed to gain access into the network, all so he could loom closer and closer to his final task.

“I can do that,” Wooyoung replies.

The lead male steps closer, looking Wooyoung from head to toe, a smirk becoming of his expression as he looms large, clearly impressed by the younger’s resilience, or perhaps willingness to cooperate.

“Ready, greenie?” He asks, his voice low and jestful, fully prepared for any move that Wooyoung was about to make.

“Do I get to know your names? Or do I just get to call you boss man?”

The male laughs, putting his hands into his pockets. “Don’t call me that. I can’t tell you my name now, not yet. You’ve got to earn your keep, let it be known that you're loyal to us. We can’t have just anyone leave such a circle knowing the innermost parts of our operation. Our names are crucial, as are our faces, but nothing in comparison to our boss. Just as a warning, greenie–” he pauses, leaning forward, dropping his tone to an intimidating murmur. “If he finds out that you’ve betrayed us tonight, he’ll gut your family like a fish and make you watch.”

Wooyoung smirks, lulling his gaze as he looks into the eye of the man near him, tilting his head back slightly as he replies, full of arrogant confidence which seemed to only please the male further.

“Well–” Wooyoung says with a hum. “When can I start?”

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

“When can you start?” The tall male asks, taking a step backwards as he turns on his heel, laughing quietly, clasping his hands together with a loud smack. “We’ve got a delivery for you, errand boy. You say you can drive? Prove it. Right now.”

Wooyoung watches the male intently, studying his body language and depth of his tone, his eyes gathering as much information about the male he was sure to have been Park Seonghwa. From his studying, the images presented to him by Mingyu had vaguely discussed details of each male he’d likely come across. Seonghwa was practically the keeper of the underground, and seemed to be the only way to gain access to such a network. He was intimidating with a slight husk to his voice, and the way his eyes narrowed and lulled when he spoke only added that much more intrigue to his every word. Wooyoung knew he’d have to impress these three males, the other two remaining unclear, though he has a vague recollection of names that harbored themselves closest to San’s throne.

Seonghwa seemed to work directly beneath San, and for the most part, would be the first or second in command to such a cartel. Kim Hongjoong, presumably the male with glasses and slightly shorter, was known to be San’s right-hand man. If San wanted anything done, it went straight to Hongjoong, who then passed it down the chain towards Seonghwa. Hongjoong was smug, maybe a bit of a know-it-all, but Wooyoung could see the myriad of thoughts dangling between his hues. He was trying to piece everything together, to try and match Wooyoung’s face to something that he’s seen before. Wooyoung wasn’t sure how much Hongjoong knew, or for how long he had been a part of the underworld, but he could tell just based upon his posture and near-emotionless expression that he was hardened enough to seem cold yet utterly interested.

Lee Minho, which Wooyoung assumed to be the final male, dressed in leisurely, loose dress-wear, accented with a ball cap and long, unkempt hair, made Wooyoung assume that he was the lead on driving. There was a simple nature to Minho, as he seemed quiet and overly unenthusiastic, but there was a fierceness in his eyes that seemed to play on the edges of risk. He liked the chase, liked to feel a car’s engine purr beneath his finger tips, to shift the gears and pull on his e-brake, to feel as the car drifted around a curve with a subtle squeal of his tires. Wooyoung knew what it all felt like; the adrenaline and the rush, the craving for something that could truly never be cured.

They all were mysterious, harboring more details on the inside, but just based upon his first assumptions and detailed readings, Wooyoung can assume that they all lay interconnectedly to San himself, acting as the leaders within the mafia’s center ring.

“What are the details?” Wooyoung asks, shifting the way he had been holding his bag.

Seonghwa simply smiles, shrugging his shoulders, glancing at Hongjoong. “Get in your car, open the trunk. We’ll load the delivery in the back, and all you have to do is to get from point A to point B.”

Wooyoung, internally, begins to question what exactly they’re going to load into the back of his car, but he swallows the impulse.

“I can handle that,” Wooyoung says, reaching into his pocket for his car keys. “Let’s get this underway.”

Seonghwa nods, turning to whisper something to Minho and Hongjoong before gazing back at Wooyoung, who had already turned on his heel and moved back towards his car. He watches as his car lights turn back on after he presses the unlock button, opening the back seat to toss his bag back inside before moving to the driver’s side door, pausing as he listens to the rustling about behind him. He’s worried, only slightly, that this was entirely a set up, but he knew that he needed to play along for the fear that they’d kill him on the spot.

So, he takes a breath, inwards and out, settling into his seat before restarting the engine, listening as it rumbles and purrs, vibrating the vehicle slightly before calming down. Wooyoung reaches to press the trunk button, spotting the trunk popping open in his rearview mirror. He can hear conversation looming outside of his car amongst the rumbles of the engine and exhaust, along with feeling something heavy be placed in the rear of his trunk. Wooyoung’s eyes are nearly glued to the rearview mirror, waiting for an inkling as to what had been placed within. For all he knew, it could be a slander of drugs, a myriad of weapons, or even worse; a dead body. He didn’t want to question the things that the mafia itself were drawn into, as he didn’t wish to step on anyone’s toes, but the anticipation and the unknown all pressed against his chest, making his heart flutter with worry.

The trunk slams shut, followed by approaching footsteps before Seonghwa nears the window, using his knuckle to knock against it. Wooyoung rolls the window down, watching as Seonghwa leans down, smirking when their eyes meet.

“Here,” he says, handing over a black ear-piece. “This will keep you connected to me. I’ll instruct you on where to go.”

“Easy enough,” Wooyoung mutters, brushing his hair back as he smoothly places the ear-piece in.

“Remember,” Seonghwa says quietly, wrapping his hand around the car door, right where the window should’ve been. “Do not get caught by the police. Stay in the dark, avoid high-traffic areas, and whatever you do– do not bring the police back here. The king will have your head.”

Wooyoung nods, placing a hand on the steering wheel, watching as Seonghwa meanders away, shouting something to the men who must’ve lingered nearby. Wooyoung rolls up his window, shifting the car into reverse, eyeing his mirrors before he spots Seonghwa in the reflection, watching him closely. Wooyoung pauses, feeling as if Seonghwa was purely staring into him, boring into his soul from the reflection alone. Suddenly, Seonghwa reaches up and taps something in his ear, his voice smoothly coming through the ear-piece that Wooyoung now wore.

“Move back towards the gate. It’ll open for you.”

Wooyoung takes a breath, shifting the car again as he places it into drive, steering off to the left, observing as the iron gates slowly begin to open automatically.

“I forgot to mention something,” Seonghwa starts, a slight hum to his voice. “There are two other people making deliveries to the same warehouse. You need to beat them there by any means necessary.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

“You thought you were the only one applying for this job?” Seonghwa laughs. “You’re not the only driver in the world, Jung Wooyoung. Prove your worth. Make it to that warehouse first. Show us just how prepared you are to join the Crimson Cartel.”

Wooyoung focused on the space ahead of him, gripping the steering wheel a fraction tighter as he slowly lowered his foot down towards the gas pedal, hesitating, hovering; anticipating anything else from the male the continued the stare at his vehicle. But, in the space of a breath, Wooyoung hears the rumble of two other cars pulling up behind him, their lights flashing on, engines roaring, coming to a soft halt just inches away. His gaze flicks between all three of his mirrors, studying the cars, trying to make out faces or makes of the cars, as he wasn’t sure if these other men were drifters or straight racers. He didn’t know who he was up against, let alone did he ever expect to be street racing for a place amongst a mafia, of all groups. But, he wouldn’t back down. Not now, not ever.

“On my mark,” Seonghwa hums, his figure disappearing amongst the evening shadows, yet his voice appears like a phantom, sending a chill up Wooyoung’s spine. “Go.”

The gates, now fully open, made way for the vehicles as they sped off and out of the parking lot, the brakes screeching as each car exited the grounds, turning off to the left, causing the once quiet city streets to roar with the grumble of intense engines.

Wooyoung placed his hand on the gear shift, tapping the button inwards as he shifts into a new gear, pressing on the gas pedal heavily, his eyes flicking up to look at the cars behind him. They were a comfortable distance away, for now, but he wasn’t sure as to how long it would last. These people, unknown to him with skills he couldn’t quite anticipate, made him uneasy, but it somehow only settled his resolve even further.

“At the next intersection, turn right and stay on the straight for the next few miles. You’ll get your next directions soon.” Seonghwa’s voice rings through the earpiece, reverberating through Wooyoung’s mind callously. His eyes focus closely on the road ahead, watching as the road merges into an intersection, traffic suddenly cleared, the traffic lights off. Wooyoung doesn’t think too much into it, placing his hand on his e-brake as he pulls it upright, turning the wheel quickly as the car’s rear end swivels outward, following the pull of gravity before Wooyoung shifts the car again, pressing on the gas to steer it forwards again.

Wooyoung listens as the cars behind him give chase easily, swerving around the bend with ease that seem unnervingly practiced. He glances at the mirrors, watching as the cars begin to close in, speeding up with rapid intent as the straightaway opens widely ahead of them. All of the traffic that was normally dancing around this part of Seoul had been empty, nearly barren, leaving this chase free to cause chaos as loudly as possible. They were told not to drag the attention of the police back towards the casino, but Wooyoung wasn’t quite sure how that’d be possible, considering that they were the only cars visible on this roadway right now.

So, he shifts gears again, pushing his car harder, faster; doing everything possible to remain ahead of these two other men who loomed closer with every passing breath.

“Pass two traffic lights, then turn right again. You’ll see a back alley appear on the left after the turn; take it. The police have been notified of your activity, so we need to disappear from the main roads. Things may get a little. . . rough.” Seonghwa laughs quietly through the ear piece, his voice crackling out before shifting into silence. Wooyoung takes in a breath, shaking his head unenthusiastically.

“Fucking ridiculous,” he mutters under his breath, switching gears again with a flick, glancing up at his mirror. The car to his left, the one that seemed to be faster than the other and red in color, suddenly sped forward, a loud roar bellowing from the engine as he soared past Wooyoung with intense speed. Wooyoung curses under his breath again, pressing on the gas harder, giving chase in the only way he knew how to.

They speed beneath a traffic light, now approaching the second, but this one was turned on. Wooyoung watches as it shines green light down onto the pavement below before suddenly flicking crimson red, signaling for traffic to move in the opposite direction. Wooyoung hesitates, just for a moment, watching as cars begin to move into the intersection unsuspectingly, completely oblivious to the racing cars approaching at a rapid pace. His hand moves to the e-brake, eyes shifting to observe the red car as he taps on his brakes before blowing his horn, alerting all of the innocent civilians to the incoming turn.

The traffic continues, some cars pausing, others continuing without fret, which in turn causes the red car to slam on their brakes, screeching to a halt with white smoke fleeing from behind. However, Wooyoung spots an opportunity. There was an opening, a brief lapse that he knew he could make because of the red car’s newly forged hesitance, and with his current speed and positioning, he’d have to thread the needle of possibility.

With a huff, Wooyoung approaches the intersection first, steering right before pulling up his e-brake, feeling as the car begins to swing out from its rear. Wooyoung watches, feeling his heart thump away in his chest, praying and hoping that his intuition was correct. The traffic was completely paused now, blaring their horns, shouting indistinct warnings of sorts, flashing their brights at the speed racers who dared to interrupt their evening commute. But Wooyoung didn’t care. The car moved through the intersection with ease, just barely missing another car in passing before Wooyoung slammed back down on the gas, popping the e-brake back into place as he shifted his car once more, listening to the engine respond immediately.

He glances up, looking in the mirror and watching as one of the opposing cars, which had been silver in color, began to drift behind the red car but had misjudged the turn. The car drifted with a screech, slamming into the side of a civilian’s car, smacking into it with glass shattering on impact. However, the silver car kept going, correcting itself and steering straight, staying true to the mission as it followed the red car a bit slower than before.

Wooyoung carefully guides his car into the alley, following through with the instructions given as his tires carry the vehicle over the curb and against the cracked pavement, feeling as the suspension in his car bounces with each bump, followed by an array of loudening thuds. Wooyoung’s grip tightened around the wheel, his knuckles whitening as each second brought him closer to the destination, but with the glare of enemy headlights brightening in his rearview mirror, he couldn’t help but feel uneasiness travel through his core.

“Turn right,” Seonghwa commanded with a hum, almost as if he was completely unbothered and uninterested. “The destination will be at the end of your street. And by the way–” he pauses, an audible smile traveling through his words, “–the police will be there any minute now.”

Wooyoung taps his breaks, spotting the alley nearing an end as he prepares to drift yet again, but the red car behind him doesn’t seem to slow down. Wooyoung feels as his car is suddenly thrust forwards, the back end being rammed into by the grill of the red car.

“Aish–!” Wooyoung curses, hitting his gear shift back into drive before he reaches for the e-brake, hearing the impending sound of nearing sirens. “This is fucking bullshit!”

With a swift movement, Wooyoung pushes the e-brake upwards, sending the tail of his car spinning as he veers off to the right, listening to the vibrations of the engine roar as he switches back into manual, pushing the car into another gear.

He can see the faint red and blue shimmers of lights bouncing on and off of the building behind him, coming closer with each faint, trembling breath. Beyond the haze of lights and shrouding darkness, Wooyoung can see the visible outline of the warehouse. It was large, emphasized by the beams of the brightening moon, revealing huge, barren crates and wooden palettes, fixed with a chain link fence that was broken in several different locations. Each detail, vivid and somewhat blurred, came closer into focus as his car sped dangerously fast towards the gate that hung loosely by its hinges.

Wooyoung glances up, watching as the red car veers off to the left, making a move to pass after gaining a splitstream off of his car. With a laugh, Wooyoung shakes his head, looking down to glance at the gearshift of his car, his eyes focused on that of a small blue switch.

“Oh, how stupid you are,” Wooyoung smiles, looking up, gripping the steering wheel tighter as the red car comes up to his sideview mirror, preparing to speed past before he switches the lever upwards, feeling the nitrous tank in the rear of his car suddenly burst to life. With a growl, the car surges forwards at an intense speed, moving well out of the way of the red car’s possible chance to score victory in crossing the theoretical finish line.

The red car loomed further and further into the distance, the silver car now catching up and passing the red car too, leaving Wooyoung to trail even further ahead, shining the high beams of his headlights onto the fence itself. He flies over the curb, allowing his car to roll into the empty lot of the warehouse before stomping on his break gently, coming to a clean stop in the back, away from prying eyes.

The sirens grow louder, the headlights of the other cars flashing to his left, coming to a halt well out of sight of the law. Wooyoung freezes, taking in a breath, listening as the earpiece crackles with laughter on the other line.

“Congrats, greenie–” Seonghwa hums, chuckling still. “Drop the package off at the warehouse doors and come back to the casino. We need to have a chat.”

Wooyoung looks down, spotting his shaking hands, feeling the rush of adrenaline coarse through his skin and ripple through his veins. He takes a breath, pausing, listening as the other men get out of their cars with no hesitation, moving towards their trunks to unveil whatever package Seonghwa had placed into their cars. With a slow movement, he opens his door, slamming it shut as he gets out, popping open his trunk with his keys as he turns the corner of his car, his eyes widening at the sight of said delivery.

It was a fucking bomb.

He hesitates, just for a moment, trying to pretend that he wasn’t phased by the audacity of such a gesture, but he swallows it. He hides away the unease crawling over his spine like a spider thickening its web, picking up the sides of the duffle bag surrounding the device, closing it, and taking the handles into his grasp. He’s careful, slamming the trunk and carrying the bag towards the large, looming warehouse garage door, setting it down on the ground nearby the other two bags. Wooyoung says nothing to the other two men, but he offers a glance, studying their faces and allowing their expressions to settle into his memory, acknowledging that this very well might be the last time he ever saw them.

But, he turns, moving back towards his car and settling inside, starting the engine once more just as the sirens of distant police suddenly dissipated into the evening mist. He takes one more glance, looking into his mirrors, watching as the other males went back to their cars without a word, barely acknowledging the other, acting as if they had done this routine time and time again.

Wooyoung reaches into his center council, shuffling around until he finds the familiar edges of his personal phone, using a trembling hand to find his messages, tapping on Mingyu’s name, beginning to type out a short message.

We need to talk.

He listens as the gravel and pavement crunch beneath the other car’s tires, leaving him to discard his phone back into the council, clasping it shut and putting his car into drive, moving to follow behind the line of other cars.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

The ride back to the casino was silent. Wooyoung watched the taillights of the car ahead of him, blurring with the unease of what was to follow this delivery. It was weird, knowing that there was a consequence to possibly become of all of this. Seonghwa seemed adamant about recruiting someone for said deliveries, but Wooyoung couldn’t anticipate that they’d be handing off bombs to other warehouses.

What was Choi San’s game? What was the reasoning behind all of this? Surely there was an explanation for such behavior, but Wooyoung truly couldn’t connect the dots. He’s seen cruel men behave wildly when they were in search of something, seeking to protect things they valued and somehow cherished within the confines of their “impenetrable” fortress. This, however, was just strange.

Choi San had no one, at least, that was what the file on Mingyu’s computer read. He had no kids, no spouse, no siblings; just parents in a large estate with a mound of cash that began to fund all of his criminal activity. There was something sitting beneath the surface, looming like a shark with its fin breaking through the ripping tide. He was on the hunt, on the prowl for a victim, gaining ground on every part of Seoul to have it within his reach.

A kingpin, as he was proclaimed, the head of his business, a cruel monster leading a group of merciless crew members to try and stake claim to Seoul and its tumultuous grounds. Wooyoung could feel the tides shifting, ever so slightly, favoring on the edge of San’s unforgiving presence, stealing away the stability that came with the infrastructure of law and politics. San wanted to unveil everything, to bring down the corporations and slaughter their politicians. He wanted unruly order, to make the world something he envisioned, controlling the police and paying those in power, acting as a leader from the shadows without ever having to step into the limelight.

He was faceless for a reason, and would remain that way. He was terrifying in that sense, and just knowing that his reach extended well past the confines of a usual criminal drove Wooyoung to a further resolve of ending this cartel long before they could play into their plans of complete control.

As they reapproached the casino, Wooyoung followed the line of cars with a careful bout of hesitance, pulling back into the same parking space and killing the engine, pausing in his seat before he heard the familiar slams of other car doors from behind him. Wooyoung glances at his mirrors before he exits his car, abandoning his belongings within his vehicle with his keys in hand, walking to the tail of his car as he spots Seonghwa reapproaching, a wide smile on his lips that suddenly pulls flat. His eyes flicked to and fro, moving from person to person, studying the faces of those who were all appearing before him.

“Well done,” Seonghwa says, his eyes moving to intently glance at Wooyoung, taking a moment to study the rear of Wooyoung’s car before smiling slightly, almost in the shift of a smirk. “Your car took a beating, huh?”

“Not by choice,” Wooyoung mutters, but he shrugs, unbothered. “Just a scuff. I can still outrun anyone, including these two.”

“You sound arrogant,” Seonghwa replies.

“Maybe I’m just confident. I can’t help that,” Wooyoung retorts, folding his arms against his chest. Seonghwa scoffs, nodding his head. He turns, looking to the other two more rugged-looking men, tilting his head slightly before gesturing with his hand.

“You ran into a civilian. You lack control,” Seonghwa says, raising a brow. “Explain that to me.”

The male from the silver car stands tall, his tone confident, though the undertones of his nerves radiated through. “I misjudged the turn by a few inches, and it cost me time. Hitting someone wasn’t my intention.”

“I don’t care if it was your intention or not. You traded paint with another car. Paint can be tracked by their VIN number, down to the model and make, isolated by a license plate. You could lead the police straight to our operation,” Seonghwa mutters, his tone growing increasingly intimidating. “We can’t have that.”

“It won’t happen again–” the male comments, but it was clear that Seonghwa was having none of it.

Wooyoung can barely blink before Seonghwa pushes his clothing aside, pulling a gun from the back of his waist, clicking off the safety with practiced ease. The male freezes, eyes widening, hands pushing upwards; but his submission was far too late. Seonghwa pulls the trigger, sending the male tumbling to the ground, lifelessly crumbling to his knees until he lays flat on his face.

Wooyoung flinches, just barely, remaining still even though his heart was racing against his chest. He knew there’d be consequences, possibly a reprimand for an accident, but this– there was nothing in his mind that could’ve possibly connected the pieces to this darkening puzzle.

“Your actions–” Seonghwa starts, lowering the gun, “–have consequences, and we don’t make mistakes here. The boss will have none of that. Do I need to repeat myself?”

Wooyoung shakes his head, glancing down, trying to ignore the lifeless male off to his left.

“As for you, red car,” Seonghwa begins, moving his free hand to point at the tail end of Wooyoung’s car, gesturing to the damage that was dealt. “Careless. How are we to trust you to not damage precious cargo to a team car that’s in front of you? How can the boss, who expects a great deal from those that he chooses to employ, trust you to handle anything? It’s reckless.”

“He slowed down unexpectedly–!” The male argues, but Wooyoung raises his brows, almost in shock that this blame was coming from someone who practically rode his ass down the thin stretch of an alley, giving himself little room to react to an upcoming turn.

“Did you not hear me, green?” Seonghwa warns, raising the gun. “You are at fault. End of discussion.”

“It’s not my fucking fault that this dumbass can’t fucking drive–!”

Before another word can be ushered, Seonghwa pulls the trigger, and the man tumbles to the ground, leaving Wooyoung to glance away, remaining fairly expressionless to the blood splattered around him.

“Well,” Seonghwa says with a breath, clicking the safety back on. “Now that that’s handled–”

Wooyoung straightens his posture, tilting his gaze upwards, watching two other figures approach Seonghwa from behind, presumably Minho and Hongjoong again.

“Let’s go head inside, shall we?” Seonghwa asks, retucking the gun back to where he had hidden it before. Wooyoung offers a nod, twirling his car keys in his hand before pocketing them, taking an uneasy step forwards as Seonghwa turns around.

“Deal with the bodies,” Seonghwa mutters to Minho and Hongjoong, gesturing leisurely with his hand. “I’ve got our new driver figured out.”

Wooyoung makes brief eye contact with Hongjoong and Minho both as they study him, but before he can truly settle into the intense stares from either male, they look away, pulling black gloves from their pockets and sliding them onto their hands, walking past him and towards the lifeless corpses nearby. Wooyoung turns over his shoulder, studying the scene before he turns away, choosing to forget the chaos of what had just unfolded and rather focusing on what was to come.

Seonghwa’s steps are light, almost bounced, his hair shimmering beneath the gleam of street lamps as they move through the parking lot without a word. Wooyoung studies the scene around him, taking note of other cars and cameras laden around the casino’s walls, looking for any sort of opening; anything that would benefit the agency later on as a contingency plan.

Though, the further they walk, Wooyoung begins to notice that the entire complex was covered in thick layers of security, making infiltration a difficult task. After inspecting all of this from a distance, he could begin to understand why Mingyu insisted on an inside job rather than their usual tactics, seeing that this job required more than just patience and a silenced pistol.

Seonghwa veers off to the right, moving towards a door that leads into the casino, holding it open as Wooyoung follows him inside. It was a back room, laden with storage boxes and shelves, something that looked rather inconspicuous yet felt anything but. Seonghwa continues forward, moving through an open doorway before he turns to the left, stopping at a door that was labeled employees only. He raises his hand, knocking twice, listening as the other side of the door unlocks, peering open slightly before a voice rings out.

“Took you long enough,” the voice jests, a scoff following suit before the door opens widely. The male, who had been tall and laden with tattoos, fitted with darker hair and earrings, smiled widely at Seonghwa in a familiar conversation filled with teasing.

“Enough, Mingi, where’s the boss?”

“In his throne,” Mingi replies, his eyes moving to glance at Wooyoung. He studies him briefly, his head tilting back slightly as his eyes lull; it seemed almost as if he was pleased with seeing someone new to the place. Or as if he was a predator staring down fresh meat.

“He’s been stuck there all day,” Seonghwa breathes out, walking forward, glancing behind him and gesturing for Wooyoung to follow. “I’ll show you to your room, then we’ll go and meet the boss.”

Wooyoung nods, choosing to keep his words drowned beneath the surface, following Seonghwa through the small, narrow corridor that slowly moves into a staircase. Together, they descend the stairs, moving deeper into the underground of the casino, unfurling a new place that had been completely contrasting to its aboveground counterpart. This facility was laden in new technology, colored in rich reds and steel, accented in white and black, the walls framed with pictures and mementos from a family tree that Wooyoung remained ill-advised of. Each and every detail seemed intentional, almost as if this was a home away from a true home. It was a running business, filled with employees, boxes, supplies and guns, but beyond all of that, there were several rooms occupied by those who chose to devote themselves to this group, living here as if it had been all they knew.

Wooyoung could hear voices in the distance, bouncing off the halls and cabinets that adorned the open rooms they passed. But before long, Seonghwa turns down a hall, gesturing to a door that had been within an inlet of walls, isolated away from the main stretch.

“This is your quarters. We care not for what you do in here, how you decorate it, how you make it feel like your place. What you do beyond this door is of your own will. But let it be known, if you hide something from us, we will always find it. Understand?” Seonghwa says, standing with his arms folded, raising his brow.

“I understand,” Wooyoung replies, glancing at the door before returning his gaze to Seonghwa.

“I’ll send someone to grab your belongings from your car before they transfer it to our underground garage, just to keep police scanners off of our tail–” Seonghwa looks at the door before holding his hand out, looking back at Wooyoung. “Give me your keys.”

Wooyoung hands over his car keys, refusing to bat an eye and choosing to remain calm, placing his hands within his pockets to submerge his subtle anxiety to the back of his tongue.

“Alright,” Seonghwa says, smiling as he closes his fist around Wooyoung’s keys. “Let’s go meet the boss.”

Seonghwa turns, guiding Wooyoung through the halls and corridors of their base, traveling with an ease that came with a light hum. He seemed carefree and yet so serious, a complete contrast to the male that had appeared before him just minutes ago. He had turned into a cold-blooded killer on the flip of a dime, and now he acted as if his previous actions held no weight. He didn’t care, even in the slightest. Wooyoung tries to study his surroundings as he walks, but he can’t help but focus on the tune vibrating off of Seonghwa’s tongue. He was humming a familiar tune, something that was both calming and utterly unnerving.

Before them appears two very large, grand doors. The guards that had been stationed there open the doors without hesitance, glancing down as Seonghwa passes through, closing it automatically as Wooyoung passes through the threshold. The room was dark, wall lights cast down at painted portraits of people who must’ve meant something to this cartel long before the boss himself took over as king.

A subtle growl emits from the space before him, and all Wooyoung can do is pause in his steps.

There before him lay a deep velvet red throne, accented with gold, sat before a desk with a large painting hung behind him. The lamp on the desk illuminated the paperwork and files cast askew on the surface, highlighting the disarray of one’s mind that only made Wooyoung grow even more curious. His eyes traveled down to a black and tan doberman, sitting down beside the desk, its ears erect and listening, a gold chain hung loosely from its neck. The dog’s lips were pulled back in a snarl, but he remained seated on his rear, stationed in place as the male behind the desk set down a heavy glass of whiskey with a quiet thud.

“Seonghwa–” he bellows. “Who did you bring me now?”

Wooyoung can feel his heart pulse in his throat, his breath seizing, caught up in the dangerous gaze that stared over the wooden desk with an intimidating smirk. His eyes were dark, glimmering with mischief and intent, though his voice was husky enough to draw allure. Wooyoung stands still, unable to pull his eyes away from the man behind the desk, unable to place a name to the face of who he was truly looking at.

“Your new delivery boy. Isn’t he pretty?” Seonghwa comments, turning on his heel, watching Wooyoung with a smirk.

The man behind the desk smiles, leaning back in his seat, reaching for his glass of whiskey once more. He raises the glass to his lips, tilting it slowly, his jaw sharp in the low light, and yet his gaze was nearly glued to that of Wooyoung’s own.

His heart thumps away against his chest, saliva settling over his tongue as he stands there, seemingly a deer lost in the headlights of an oncoming car. He didn’t know what to say, where to move, nor if he could even breathe.

The male lowers his glass, setting it back down, not once ever removing his gaze as his eyes sharpened. As he leans forwards, his elbows settled on the wood of his desk, the light suddenly graces his hardened features. The cut of his brows, the jut of his jaw, the sharp glimmer of emptiness glued to his irises; all complimenting the large, expensive-looking coat held against his shoulders, hiding away the crisp white shirt laden beneath. Golden rings adorned his clasped hands, his knuckles bruised from a battle that seemed external, though Wooyoung had a feeling it was far more than just that. Tattoos crawled up his skin, beginning from his wrists, disappearing beneath his sleeves, moving to wind their way up to his neck. They peaked out, just barely, an act of tease as the light continued to lavish his skin with a tender, alluring embrace.

His hair was slicked back, short and black, tailored perfectly to accentuate the sharpness of his features. He looked exactly like his illuminated picture, but even that in itself hardly did the male any justice. He was muscular in stature, his shoulders wide and robust, somehow barely fitting into the jacket that lay overtop. The huskiness of his tone seemed to match the inner depth of his darkened heart and scarred exterior, making Wooyoung truly question if any remnants of a beating heart lay beneath.

Wooyoung can’t breathe. He can’t move and he can’t fathom the words simmering on the back of his tongue. He can feel Seonghwa’s eyes on him, and most of all, he can hear the beating of his own heart thumping away within the pulse of his throat, standing still and refusing to allow his fear to simmer above the surface.

But this male, this man– Wooyoung knew who this was before Seonghwa’s devious tone could even bear to speak it.

“Jung Wooyoung–” Seonghwa says, gesturing with his hand as he points to the stoic, intimidating figure, a smirk curled on his lips as he continues to speak with quiet vigor. “Meet the king of the Crimson Cartel. . . Choi San. ”

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

Wooyoung stands there, his gaze raking over the features of the exact man he was there to kill. Choi San.

He looked arrogant, maybe a bit snide and cruel in his stature, so completely sure of himself and everything he stood for as he sat within the confines of his throne, leaning forwards with a subtle raise to his brow. It was almost as if he was waiting for Wooyoung to say something, to say anything, to begin the conversation that he himself wasn’t even sure how to begin. There was something unspoken brewing between them, a crackling of emotions that somehow tethered themselves to the space settled between the two males. Wooyoung couldn’t convince himself to look away, even if every inch of his entire essence screamed to turn away.

“You’ve found yourself quite the job,” San mutters lowly, reaching for his glass of whiskey again, pressing his fingertips into the delicate dips and curves of his expensive glass, swirling around the liquid inside gently. “Tell me, Wooyoung, what inspired you to take upon our offer?”

Wooyoung can feel his words fall apart before they even had the chance to be spoken, glancing away briefly to try and collect himself.

“I raced a lot in my previous town,” he begins, taking in a breath for good measure as he looks back up, meeting the steely gaze of San’s own without fret. “I needed more money, bigger goals and bigger targets–” he pauses, watching as San’s eyes lull ever so slightly, “–a bigger city.”

“So, you come to Seoul? For what? You realize that I control every single inch of this city, don’t you?” San contests, slowly beginning to lean back into his seat, allowing the shadows of the room to mask over his expression, making it harder for Wooyoung to decipher the male’s true emotions.

“For exactly what I told you,” Wooyoung retorts carefully, his gaze unwavering. “Money. I don’t care about power, and I don’t care to make a name for myself. If the quickest way to a small fortune is through your cartel, then so be it. I can play nice with others.”

San chuckles in a low rumble, the hint of a smile bleeding onto his lips as he raises his glass, taking another sip of his decadent whiskey. Wooyoung watches him closely, studying his movements, the slight edge to his voice, the depth of his gaze, the subtlety that came with every movement; as if he held such a dignified grace beneath the hardened exterior that coated him. Wooyoung was intrigued, in an. . . analytical means, nothing more. But, he had to admit, something about San was rather alluring, and he knew that this task, more so than anything else, would be the hardest thing he’d come to face.

“I can’t say that I’m impressed with your attitude,” San speaks out, setting down his glass once more, his fingers hesitating before he lets go of the glass, barely anything left within the crystalled basin. “But your work ethic, the way you drive– it makes me curious.”

“Curious?” Wooyoung dares to question, listening as San’s lungs roll out a husky hum. Even in such casted darkness, Wooyoung could see the glimmer in his eyes. He was intimidating, but in the most obscurely alluring way possible.

“Why haven’t I heard of you before?” San questions, prying even further. Wooyoung takes a soft breath in, holding it, fearing that the secret was already loose well before it had hardly begun. “You talk a tall tale of being a big name within another city, far from here I’d assume, and yet you come to my doorstep, the most notorious name in all of Seoul, in search of a ghost–”

“You were pretty easy to find for a ghost,” Wooyoung retorts carefully, watching as San’s lips curled into a dangerous smirk.

“I like you, I’ll give you that,” San remarks with a brief lapse in his arrogance, leaning forwards again, resting his elbows on his desk. “But hear me when I tell you, if I find out an inch of deceit coming from your name, I’ll have your head mounted on the wall.”

“Yes, sir,” Wooyoung replies jestfully, bowing his head a few inches before looking down, trying to be respectful yet defiant, already having learned that San was rather intrigued by such a demeanor. “You won’t hear a thing.”

“Be in the meeting room tomorrow morning at nine. Don’t be late,” San commands, pointing hastily with his finger as he rises from his chair, though his eyes never leave Wooyoung’s. “You’ll come to see that I don’t take kindly to those who disregard the importance of my business.”

Wooyoung nods, on the cusp of replying further, but he chooses not to. He was too keen on watching San as he stepped around his desk, adjusting the collar of his shirt and brushing a hand through his slicked hair, his head turning to truly show off the sharpness of his jawline. Wooyoung swallows hastily, looking between Seonghwa and San both as the two males begin speaking softly between themselves.

“You’re free to leave,” Seonghwa mutters, looking at Wooyoung before turning to look back at San, resting a hand on the male’s shoulder. “We’ll send someone to grab your things out of your car.”

Shit. The phone.

“I can go get it–”

“No need,” Seonghwa interrupts, shaking his head. “Settle in, get some rest. We have plans to discuss in the morning and it's already late.”

Wooyoung bites the inside of his cheek, offering a brief nod as he turns on his heel, walking back towards the very doors he had walked through. He could hear the mutterings of Seonghwa and San continuing to converse behind him, though he paid no mind. He moved through the doors and back into the lavish hall, glancing at the paintings and scalloped-like lights adorned to the walls, listening to the silent hum of the space culminating the vacancy where voices lacked. It was odd to Wooyoung that he was freely allowed to stroll back into his room, given that he could willingly explore the rest of the compound with curiously-lead steps, though he wouldn’t, knowing that San likely had cameras installed everywhere around this underground mansion.

So, he wills himself back to his apparent room, guiding himself back to the familiar stretch of walls and lights, finding the door to his room with eventual ease. He turns the handle down, swinging the door open, revealing a smaller space, completely bland of decor. It was quaint, but modernized, met with a desk and a computer, a big enough bed, a wardrobe and en-suite bathroom. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough.

Striding indoors, he leaves the door ajar, waiting for the inevitable arrival of his things, slightly worried about his phone having been left in the center counsel of his car, though he tries to not think too heavily into it. Making himself anxious would only give way to concern from the rest of the members within this cartel, and he couldn’t give way to his vulnerabilities; not now, not yet.

Getting close to San would be a game of trial and error, playing his cards correctly, balancing his scales, trying to inch as close as he could maintain. He didn’t know how, but beyond the rushing thoughts trying to consume him, he knew he’d have to play it safe, to watch everyone closely, take mental note of routines and escape routes before it was too late. This mission would take more than just a few days, maybe even weeks. Part of him worried that he’d be here for months, but that was the cost of all of this, wasn’t it? Mingyu warned him that there’d be risks in partaking in all of this, mostly being the risk to his life in the event that San caught on way quicker than Wooyoung could anticipate, but he hadn’t thought about that much. Wooyoung was well-trained, and he knew what he was doing. He was far from stupid, but San wasn’t exactly idiotic either. They were both incredibly smart and overly critical, but there was something about the way San was already studying him,  which only made Wooyoung worry more.

He needed to get into contact with Mingyu. More importantly, he needed to contact Yeonjun, to let him know that he had been successful, well into enemy territory beyond unknown lines and boundaries, but most importantly, that he was safe. All of this was beyond stressful, but it wasn’t far from anything he had witnessed before. At least this place had a room to sleep in, food to eat, the semblance of safety to cover over all of the negative aspects as to where he was exactly. There was a bonus to some of this, Wooyoung supposes, but he knew what he was ultimately here for. Not for friends, not for money, not for the rush of adrenaline; to kill the kingpin. That wouldn’t change.

The sudden approach of footsteps drags Wooyoung’s attention away from his reverie, moving to shed his jacket as he rests it over the back of his desk chair, turning to see an unfamiliar face holding his duffel bag, though Wooyoung has a feeling he’s seen this man’s face before in the depth of his analytic files.

“This all you had?” He asks, earning a nod from Wooyoung.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung takes a few steps forward, taking the bag from the male’s hand, looking back up to briefly scan over his features. He was shorter, though it was obvious he frequented the gym just based upon his build alone. His hair was shorter, dark and ebony in color, his eyes a hue of brown, but his voice wasn’t all that closed-off. He seemed slightly personable, a striking difference in regards to Seonghwa and his crew.

“You’re Wooyoung?” He asks with a pry of curiosity, earning another nod.

“That’s me,” Wooyoung breathes out, moving to set his bag down on the edge of his bed, turning to spot the male nodding, glancing around the room before his eyes eventually land onto that of Wooyoung’s own once more.

“I’m Changbin,” he begins, shoving his hands into his pockets. “We’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other since we’ll work beneath the same people.”

“I haven’t been assigned to anyone, I don’t think–?”

“You will be tomorrow morning. I heard it from Yunho; he’s my boss,” Changbin muses, almost playfully, rolling his eyes. “You’ll get to meet everyone, and you’ll see who to report to and who lays where within the hierarchy. It’s complicated, but– ah, you’ll see what I mean.”

“I expected nothing less,” Wooyoung admits, offering the slight curve of a smile. “By the way– where did they park my car?”

“In the garage,” Changbin replies, raising a brow. He was suspicious, maybe a bit curious, and Wooyoung can sense the change in dynamic between them. Maybe it was because he knew he was an outsider to this closely-knit group, and threatening the safety of that made Changbin defensive, albeit subtly. Though, he couldn’t be too sure, so he elected to try and change the topic before Changbin became too suspicious.

“Just curious–” Wooyoung waves him off, smoothing out his shirt. “Wasn’t exactly given the grand tour, you know?”

Changbin cracks a smile, the tension leaving his shoulders. “Sure, sure. I’ll see you in the morning.”

With that, Changbin leaves, turning on his heel and exiting the room, closing the door behind him with a decisive click. Wooyoung takes a breath, subtle and quiet, glancing around the confines of his new room for the next few days, maybe weeks or even months. This place wasn’t home, and more than ever did he know that his insomnia would act up in such a situation, but this was what he was trained for. He could stay awake, studying the faces he’d see within the confines of this underground operation, report back to those he trusted and left behind, moving about the next day in the hope to forge an eventual plan that would end with the kingpin six feet beneath the ground, and Wooyoung far from the Velvet Mirage.

The room was quiet, maybe too still for his liking, spurring the need to move. He was anxious, albeit internally, worrying about his phone, trying not to let the thoughts and feelings get into the way of what composure he managed to front. But that wasn’t what mattered. He needed his phone, he needed to communicate with Mingyu, to relay his safety; but he wasn’t sure how.

He would wait, settling here on the edge of his bed, watching as time ticked past on his burner phone, only then acting upon a later hour, accompanied by the depth of the night and hopeful stillness. He needed to find the garage, to find his car, and, hopefully, maneuver through this hellish prison the mafia called home.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

As the evening crawled to a deepening drawl, Wooyoung sat in his room, eyes transfixed on the wall ahead of him, his fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the bed. He was nervous, wondering too heavily about his car and his phone, waiting for the most opportune time to exit the safety of this room and head into the eerily lit halls, meandering towards the unknown location of the garage.

He was impatient, though composed, listening to the subtle creaks and shifts of the bed as he rustles and moves about, switching between laying on his back and sitting upright, anticipating everything yet nothing all at once. He was worried that the mafia held eyes everywhere, only partially, knowing that there was a huge possibility that there had been cameras in this room, or at least a microphone, meant to weed out the weak and kill off the traitors who sought to steal San’s crown. It was slightly obvious, in the most obscene sense, but Wooyoung knew better than to trust some random room without windows, conversing with himself or that of his boss openly and without fear. The consequences would be grave, and he would never choose to risk this entire facade for the sake of a few nerves.

But, he grows nearly restless, pushing himself off of the bed, wetting his lips as he strides towards his door, turning the handle down, slowly pulling the door towards him. The hinges shift slightly as the door moves, but it makes little noise as it falls open, leaving Wooyoung to take a cautious few steps outside, shifting his gaze left and right before spotting the same vacant walls he had gazed at before. He pulls the door closed behind him, softly letting go of the handle as he turns the opposite way, walking away from the direction of San’s office, back into the unknown where a labyrinth of halls and unknown rooms come into play.

Delicately, he walks through the hall, subtly glancing upwards as he catches the sight of a camera, not noticing the reddened hue that usually emanated from one while in use. It must’ve been off, or focus must’ve been pulled elsewhere; whatever it was, Wooyoung had a feeling they were watching; that San was watching. He knew he needed to be careful, to make this journey as quick as he could manage, for the fear of questions requiring answers he could not yet convey.

He reaches an impasse, a break in the long hall that narrows down to what he assumed to be the common area. There were a few bits of furniture, a large television, yet seemingly lavish and vacant, left amongst the modern walls, abandoned. The room was colored in whites and blacks, adorned with marble accents and golden picture frames, but Wooyoung had yet to truly see the colors that Choi San was hiding beneath. There was more at play here than some decorative styles he hadn’t agreed with and a few bits of gold.

It was more than just the silence that crept through the halls and the blank video cameras, vacant of their usual glare. It was the way fear crawled up his spine, keeping him on edge, sending the hair on the back of his neck to stand in defense, worrying around every corner he’d turn. The underground of the Velvet Mirage was well-kept, clean and nearly sterile, void of a mess yet organized with the fashion of someone who cared. However, Wooyoung has a feeling that this mask, this golden facade, was covering more than just the blood that was smeared across Choi San’s name.

As his eyes drift away from the common space, he greets the sighting of the staircase he had descended just hours previous, knowing that the easiest access to the back of the casino was from there. But, there was always a guard present, or so it seemed, so it would never be the easiest way to escape, if he needed it.

He moves past the staircase, walking down a shorter hall, coming across a few doors that hadn’t been labeled. He takes a breath, glancing at each door before spotting one at the end, well-lit by the light hung on the wall above it.

Wooyoung raises a brow, assessing all of the doors, taking note of the similarities woven between. There was no clear distinction that would set the doors apart, but something about the door at the end of the hall made him utterly curious, driven with an instinct to investigate. He walks closer, pausing in his steps as his hand reaches for the handle. His hand freezes, just a mere inch away, hovering over the golden knob, reminding himself that he wasn’t supposed to be investigating random rooms within this underground maze, but rather searching for his car, realizing and remembering the risks that came with him just being out of his room.

Sudden voices spur Wooyoung’s attention to look behind him, listening as the sound of encroaching voices appear louder. He hesitates, albeit briefly, before pushing the handle down to the mysterious room and disappearing inside. He closes the door quietly, letting the darkness of this unfamiliar space crawl and linger against his skin, feeling his heart thump impeccably fast against his chest. He presses his ear to the door, listening as the voices outside louden before they simply disappear, the sound of a door closing behind them with the disarming sound of laughter following. Wooyoung’s brows furrow, almost having not expected such a jovial noise in such a place, but for a moment does the realization cling to his memories of what lives people maintain behind the facade of their occupation. They were all just people, trying to survive. Just like that man that he allowed to be murdered with his family.

He turns, swallowing harshly as a defensive act to dissolve the memory before it lodges back into his cranial nerves, blinking twice before looking up, taking in the sight of everything around him. The space was vacant of life and dark, but laden with what looked to be a mass amount of shelves, storing a million forgotten memories. Carefully, Wooyoung moves closer, his hand reaching out to touch an opened box, peering inside before reaching for the first thing that appears before him. It was a picture frame, dusty and slightly cracked at one of the edges, though intact. Gently, his fingers brush over the glass, wiping away the dust to reveal an image of something he hadn’t expected.

San stood with his parents, but in front of the three of them was the image of a younger little girl. Her hair was tied back nearly, wearing a flowing blouse with a matching skirt, her smile radiant as she held her hands in front of her, poised and elegantly placed in the middle of what seemed to be her family. Wooyoung takes a breath in, hesitating, feeling his heart beat with uncertainty before he moves to look in the box again, yet finding only the remnants of papers and miscellaneous files. He glances back at the frame, his eyes tracing over every single detail with a meticulous gaze, trying to understand why such a memory had been stored and hidden, locked away from the eyes of someone who should’ve cared.

San looked. . . younger, here. He was poised and stoic, his smile not as beaming as the girl’s, but polite, nonetheless. He was dressed in a sharp suit and trousers, the white of his undershirt not subdued by the sheen of dust laden on the glass. His eyes, now currently dark and intimidating, wore a different nature in this image. He looked at peace, almost whole, as if the entire world around him hadn't shattered and stripped away his humanity. He looked to be just a person, a picture-perfect son standing with his parents and what looked to be his little sister. He wasn’t covered in tattoos, nor was he as muscular in this picture, but he was still San, maybe just the remnants of who he used to be versus the fraction of what he was now.

Carefully, Wooyoung sets the picture frame back into the box, moving the lid hesitantly back into the place he had found it, taking a few steps back to survey his surroundings properly. There were hundreds of boxes in here, all unlabeled, likely storing papers and files, leaving Wooyoung to wonder if there was more beneath the surface of such a picturesque family. From the outside, it seemed to be as if San’s parents were just as cold as he was, funding his empire all while running their own, staking claim to a fortune that Wooyoung wasn’t sure they deserved. The family was notorious for being wicked and evil in ways that Seoul typically shied away from, but now it was all they knew. San funded the police and political parties, swaying things in the favor of whatever he desired, taking control of shipments and supplies in the same fashion a dictator would. Whatever game was at play here, Wooyoung had a feeling that he was about to uncover something more than just an old, dusty photo.

With another breath inwards, he turns on his heel, placing his hand on the door handle before turning it, carefully beginning to make his exit. The halls were vacant once more, only mildly disrupted by the faint click of the door closing behind him. He walks through the hall with tentative steps, glancing around the corner before peering back into the common space, walking in the opposite direction towards the other long stretch of walls, finding more doors, all unlabeled and ominously similar. He sighs, yet treks forward, uncertainty clinging to his every step before he pauses, turning to the right to spot a door within an inlet, oddly painted white, yet again unlabeled, but a stark contrast to the other, darker oak doors with golden handles. He inches closer, opening the door hesitantly, and with a breath of relief, spots the familiar contours of a garage setting, met with the view of several luxurious sports cars. He steps through the door, closing it gently behind him, turning to the left to see a wall rack laden with key rings. They weren’t labeled, so Wooyoung assumed everyone only drove their assigned car, leaving him to reach for the familiar key ring that belonged to his coupe.

Keys in hand, Wooyoung peruses past each of the cars, the dim lighting overhead casting a sheen over each of the cars delicately. Each vehicle was different in its own right, a different model, different make, fitted with various equipment and engines, making each member’s taste far different from that of Wooyoung’s own. He wasn’t much of a car fanatic, but he liked his car to be. . . simple; elegant, maybe. He didn’t need anything flashy or expensive, just something that would drift easily and speed away from whatever threat he was running from. This car was exactly that, a quick and yet nimble vehicle, hard to spot and trail with its dark body paint and tinted windows. It was all Wooyoung needed, and for whatever reason, Mingyu supplied it, just for the sake of this mission. Though, Wooyoung wouldn’t dare complain.

His steps echo quietly through the concrete garage, his eyes gazing over each vehicle until he stumbles across the familiar contours of his own. His hands move automatically, unlocking his car with the keyfob before clambering inside quietly, eyes running over every single detail in the fear that his car had been stripped and robbed of its contents. But, everything looked to be in place.

Opening the center counsel, Wooyoung spots the relieving and familiar sight of his personal phone, reaching for it and holding it tightly in his grasp, carefully backing out of his car and closing the door. He eyes his car for a moment, his gaze slowly traveling to the space around him, but he decides against lingering outside of his room for much longer. He had a feeling there were eyes on him, though he couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there.

Quickly, he moves back towards the garage door, hanging his keys back up to the same hook they laid on before, opening the door as silently as he could manage, listening for any type of disturbance as he steps back inside. The corridor was still quiet, void of life, leaving him feeling comfortable enough to move back through the halls, clutching onto his phone as if the device would simply disappear from his grasp. It felt like the only lifeline he had, the last remnants of his previous self masked beneath the facade of some hardened criminal. He wanted his own bed, his home and his partner, to be in the arms of someone who made it so easy to fall asleep. Yet, here he was, awake and alert, subconsciously worried about his every breath as he turned a corner, unsuspectedly meeting the gaze of someone he hadn’t expected to be walking towards him.

“Oh–?” Seonghwa says, raising a brow, pausing his steps. He was holding a book in his hands, wearing black-framed glasses, his hair slightly tied back, adorning a more casual appearance versus the one Wooyoung had seen just hours ago. “What are you doing up?”

“Insomnia–” Wooyoung spits out, almost out of an automatic habit, trying to keep his voice even as his hand slowly moves behind him, reaching for his pocket. “I don’t sleep very well, and I couldn’t find my medication in my bag–”

“Where did you go to look for it?”

“I thought it might’ve been in my car,” Wooyoung says, shrugging as he carefully slid his phone into his back pocket, trying to be as nonchalant as he could manage. “I was wrong, so I must’ve forgotten it.”

“We do have a doctor on site,” Seonghwa mentions, watching Wooyoung’s every move. “If you needed medication, we could’ve directed you there. What do you take?”

“Estazolam,” Wooyoung says with a breath, knowing very well that Seonghwa was prying as a mere test, though he begins to step away, dancing on the words that hang on the edge of his tongue. “I will make a quick visit there tomorrow morning.”

Though, he pauses his meaningless trek as Seonghwa halts him with just the utterance of his words. “You realize what time it is, right? It’s nearly five in the morning. The meeting is in a few hours, so if there is any chance of you resting, I’d do it now. We’ll all be fairly busy the moment that meeting ends.”

“I understand,” Wooyoung mutters, watching his words carefully, glancing back at Seonghwa. “I won’t be late. I’ll be there. Just. . . adjusting to a new place.”

Seonghwa nods, though a glimmer of doubt settles into his eyes, continuing to watch Wooyoung’s body language with a curious gaze. “It’s been a long night, Wooyoung. Go rest. If you need something else, ask.”

Seonghwa turns, heading down the hall and off to the right, likely heading towards his room or somewhere else. Wooyoung turns on his heel, quickly making his way back to the confines of his room, allowing the rush of a relieved breath to smooth past his lips.

Locking the door, Wooyoung strides towards his bed, reaching for his phone, slowly pressing the side buttons inward as the phone turns back on, beaming with life as his home screen comes into focus. Unlocking his phone with a code, he swipes and slides to his messages, watching as notifications begin to pour in from Yeonjun and Mingyu.

Yeonjun

Haven’t heard from you. It’s been hours.

I know you’re safe, but just. . . let me know you’re alright when you can.

He pauses, hesitating; unsure of if it were completely safe to be texting the members of his agency at this time, given that San could be watching his every move at any given second. But, he decides to anyway.

I’m fine. Don’t worry. Going dark, I’ll contact you as soon as I can.

He swipes away, moving to Minyu’s messages, reading through an array of details that felt all too burdensome to digest right then.

Mingyu

There will be no time for us to talk, Wooyoung. Listen to me. Choi San is an evil, cruel man. He has eyes everywhere, and those people you interact with will protect him with their lives. If they find out your true intentions, they will have your head on a stick. Do not give them a single trace of what we’re doing, and do not contact us unless absolutely necessary.

Get close to him. Do whatever you have to in order to get close to him. We know the costs, and we know the price to pay. But, at the end of the day, the greatest evil Seoul has come to know will be dead, and you’ll be the one to thank for it.

Wooyoung chews on his lower lips as he reads, threading a hand through his hair. Mingyu didn’t want to be bothered, nor did he want to be contacted. He didn’t wish to bring more risk to the table than necessary in regards to all of this. As much as Wooyoung wanted to reply and to demand answers for truths that seemed yet untold, he kept silent, swiping away from the messages with a heavy heart. He knew Mingyu was right, as he usually had been, but he couldn’t help the feeling of abandonment sinking into his core. He was alone here, well and truly alone.

These people, this ring of misfits and criminals; they were family to each other. Their bonds were unbreakable, and amongst that was the undeniable fact that they’d simply trade their lives for the sake of San’s. Wooyoung knew the feeling of wanting to protect his family and the ones he cared for most, but this was different.

It was like a blood pact, a deal signed with the devil himself, pledging not only your allegiance, but your life, in regards to protecting the crimson throne. Choi San was enigmatic, intimidating, and utterly powerful, and all Wooyoung could do was sit on the edge of his own bed, eyes glued to the wall ahead of him, feeling a shiver crawl down the sill of his spine the moment he remembers the darkness cast across San’s deep gaze.

His eyes were dark and dreary, solemn in a way that he’d never seen before. The image of him sitting there, alluring in the most cunningly annoying ways, adorned with jewelry and a large coat, sipping on his whiskey as if the whole world fell at his knees; it was a reminder of the power shift at play, a key difference in their worlds that felt so adrift. Though, Wooyoung couldn’t help but notice the current settled between them, sparking with an electric fire that made his skin tingle. San had an almost primal look about him, as if he were a lone wolf searching for prey with blood-stained jowls and paws, ravaging anything in its path for a simple conquest. Wooyoung had felt like a deer in the headlights then, unraveling and wavering in his composure, becoming the exact thing that San must’ve been hunting for.

San was curious, teetering on a fine line of indifference and indulgence. Wooyoung was trapped there too, wanting to know more, to dive in deeper, to discover the truth behind that old, dusty photo. He wanted to know what lay behind the mask of glitz and glamor, to see the pool of crimson blood flooding beneath the surface. He was curious in a way that he couldn’t describe, wanting to know more, to see everything– but more importantly, he wanted to seek the truth, to find out why San held an iron grip over the entirety of Seoul.

He swallowed sharply, his pulse thudding away in the depth of his neck, clutching his phone tighter as the image of San’s eyes on him makes his heart slowly race. This wasn’t just a trial of power or a means of simply killing one another, if at all. It was a waiting game, a test of patience, glimmering with anticipation for one’s next move.

San knew more than he was led to believe, and the thought of that only unsettled Wooyoung more than he’d like to admit. But in the fashion that it scared him, it also made him feel something else, something that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

He was excited; enthralled, really.

He smirks to himself, shaking off the cool chill that caused goosebumps to lay over his skin, hating the effect the male’s gaze still held over him, even after all this time. It was infuriating in the most tantalizing of ways, but Wooyoung couldn’t find it within himself to hate it.

He didn’t know much about San’s past, nor his family line and the history that came with him acquiring such an empire, but Wooyoung wanted to unravel it all. He wanted to absorb every detail into his skin, wear it like armor, relish in the idea of knowing the utmost secrets of such a sought after cartel. This challenge, this risk laden with isolation, though complicated, only made Wooyoung’s heart race quicker.

His smile lingers, his gaze dropping down to his phone, shaking his head slightly as his brows pinch together. He knew this would be difficult, but he just hadn’t anticipated how difficult it’d remain.

“Choi San–” he whispers, allowing himself to fall backwards onto his bed, letting the mattress capture his fall. “Who even are you?”

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ꜱᴀɴ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

The room felt heavy, laden with implications that San couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the arrival of someone he couldn’t yet trust, or perhaps it was the hidden mischief settled in the male’s eyes. Whatever it was, it cultivated something deeply within San, sparking a curiosity that belayed him. He wasn’t necessarily keen on newer individuals, especially when he felt as if he didn’t need anyone else to enter within the web of his cartel. But, Seonghwa insisted on a new driver, someone who could take the heat off of Minho for the time being.

This proposition was everything that San didn’t want, as he felt that Minho was the only man needed for such a task. But, Seonghwa, in agreement with Hongjoong, felt the need to expand their ranks, to lessen the risk of fatality. San would never take so kindly to such advice, that is, unless it was from either of those two. Seonghwa had been his longest running ally that he can remember, sticking by his side through everything, remaining as the one steadfast thing he’d ever be able to grasp. Hongjoong was the same way, though coming into his life much later, but had proved with his intelligence at just how pivotal of a right-hand he’d be. These two people, though alike and different in the same regard, held San together, fortifying his statements and reassuring his decisions, setting the stage for his plan with every passing day.

He needed to steal a data chip from within the government’s holding, which would provide a means to intercept crucial networks and trade ports, planting himself within the mainframe of Seoul’s day-to-day life. He needed more control, more power, more ground to cling to; trying to steal everything away from the harsh tenacity of his own family. He didn’t much like to discuss his parents, as they had been key factors in how he had ended up as such a reverend and feared kingpin, and yet, the only two people in this world that seemed unafraid to challenge him were exactly them; his parents.

Constantly threatening his ideals, marring over his projects, talking over him and using him as a doormat; San wasn’t a son in their eyes, rather a means of getting anything they wanted. A wire transfer of millions, lawyers and political figures to work beneath their foot, an empire so large that it simply ran itself without needing either of them to step into the hellish confines of their office. San didn’t wish to feed into their tyrant behaviors, but when they held something so precious to him, something that made him remember who he was beneath the cloak of a killer, he felt all but indebted to protect them.

Now, he rather sits back in his chair, listening as his dog grumbles next to him. Daemon, his Doberman, seemed rather disturbed by this new individual’s presence, and he couldn’t fault him. The male was seemingly younger than he was, or so he looked it, his hair a mixture of darker shades of brown with light traces of blonde settled in between, contrasted with the tone of his skin and the dark umber of his eyes. His posture was slightly rigid, though somehow confident, lacking any real sense of what the male was truly feeling just beneath the edge of his facade.

Wooyoung, as he was called, was odd to San. He was standing so defiantly, cast in a hue of shock at the mere presence of such a throne room, as San liked to call it. He was merely feet away, and yet somehow, the distance settled between them felt like a cavern. Something unknown was lingering in this space, sparking with an electric fire that San couldn’t quite put a finger on, and yet he chose to remain put, watching Wooyoung’s every move with an analytical gaze that likely felt predatory.

“You’ve found yourself quite the job,” San begins, leaning forward slightly to wrap his hand around the crystal of his glass, raising the whiskey just enough to swirl it around, letting the aroma of such a strong drink fill his senses. “Tell me, Wooyoung, what inspired you to take upon our offer?”

“I raced a lot in my previous town,” Wooyoung replies, though San noticed the small breath the male inhaled, likely in an attempt to grasp a hold of himself. Wooyoung’s eyes retreated for a moment, then returned, his composure seemingly bleeding over every single ounce of nerves he once held. “I needed more money, bigger goals and bigger targets. . . a bigger city.”

“So, you come to Seoul?” San asks, arching his brow slightly in disbelief. “For what? You realize that I control every single inch of this city, don’t you?”

San leans back into his seat, falling back into the haze of shadows that overtook this part of the room, all in an effort to make Wooyoung sweat. He didn’t want the male to analyze him, nor did he really wish for Wooyoung to see the curiosity glimmering in his eyes. He wanted to study him, to watch the heaviness of his breaths, to study the way his eyes darted around the room, to simply see the pure effect he held on someone that was merely a stranger.

“For exactly what I told you. Money. I don’t care about power, and I don’t care to make a name for myself. If the quickest way to a small fortune is through your cartel, then so be it. I can play nice with others,” Wooyoung replies, keeping his tone steady, though San didn’t believe the confidence he was trying to portray. Instead, he rather chuckles, a low and husky sound that belayed his amusement towards the situation itself.

He takes a sip of his whiskey, letting the slight burn of the liquor smooth down his tongue and throat, not bothering to wince at the sting as it descends his throat. He keeps his eyes on Wooyoung, unwavering in their glare, trying to make his stance known. Wooyoung seemed to want something from San, a request or maybe to ask a few questions, but San wasn’t exactly in the mood for such games. He had business to attend to, documents to brief over, plans to enact; but more importantly, he had research to unveil.

“I can’t say that I’m impressed with your attitude,” San begins, setting down his glass, letting his words mull over the space that was inflicted between them. “But your work ethic, the way you drive– it makes me curious.”

He knew of Wooyoung partially, rather than who he was, but Seonghwa was adamant. He was a good driver, maybe a bit brazen and stubborn from the looks of it, but unphased by anything that had already happened tonight. San would’ve rather gotten rid of Wooyoung, tossed his body somewhere and moved on, but Seonghwa was so damn persistent– persistent enough to drag San’s attention elsewhere. So, in a move of risk, he takes a chance on Wooyoung, swallowing his urges and keeping them to himself.

“Curious?” Wooyoung asks, earning a momentary hum from San in turn.

“Why haven’t I heard of you before?” San pries, prodding in a hope to search for some essence of a truth. He watches as Wooyoung’s chest heaves lightly as he absorbs another breath inwards, composing himself once more. He was nervous, and San could feel it. “You talk a tall tale of being a big name within another city, far from here I’d assume, and yet you come to my doorstep, the most notorious name in all of Seoul, in search of a ghost–”

“You were pretty easy to find for a ghost,” Wooyoung mutters, though his voice held anything except unease. San smirks, a spark of irritation laden with subtle amusement sinking over his expression, causing him to shift in his seat slightly, watching Wooyoung without bothering to glance away.

“I like you, I’ll give you that,” San replies, keeping his tone low, trying to hide the layers of his true amusement, complicating his words further by lowering the depth of his voice. He leans forwards, resting his elbows on his desk, gesturing idly with his hand as Wooyoung stands before him, almost an enigmatic figure of defiance. “But hear me when I tell you, if I find out an inch of deceit coming from your name, I’ll have your head mounted on the wall.”

“Yes, sir,” Wooyoung retorts playfully, his head bowing down slightly, almost in a mocking gesture. San bites down on the interior of his cheek, his jaw tightening, wondering why this male was anything but respectful. “You won’t hear a thing.”

“Be in the meeting room tomorrow morning at nine. Don’t be late,” San commands, rising from his chair as he points at Wooyoung, allowing the low lighting to glimmer against the rings on his hand. “You’ll come to see that I don’t take kindly to those who disregard the importance of my business.”

San watches as Wooyoung nods, choosing to rather remain silent, swallowing whatever words sat on the tip of his tongue. San stepped around his desk, slipping a hand through his hair as he approached Seonghwa, standing just a few inches away from him. He can feel Wooyoung’s eyes on him, as he isn’t blind to knowing that the male was purely observing and studying his mannerisms, but for what? San wasn’t sure what game this male was playing into, but whatever it was, he’d find out, no matter the cost.

“You’re free to leave,” Seonghwa spoke out, his voice soft in comparison to the tone he usually held. “We’ll send someone to grab your things out of your car.”

San watches Wooyoung, studying the way he paused, the way his breath caught in his throat, almost as if he was hesitating, stuck in a loop of thoughts that rendered him speechless. San could feel Seonghwa’s gaze on him, as well as the hand he placed onto his shoulder, but San couldn’t remove himself from watching Wooyoung, curious as to what had been causing him to vulnerably hesitate.

“I can go get it–” Wooyoung begins, but Seonghwa interrupts.

“No need. Settle in, get some rest. We have plans to discuss in the morning and it’s already late,” Seonghwa orders lightly, turning his gaze back to properly face Wooyoung as he stands before the two men, seemingly pondering his decision before he nods and turns on his heel. San watches as he exits the room, the doors slowly beginning to close behind him as his steps trail down the hall before fizzling out.

“Who the hell did you bring into my cartel, Seonghwa?” San asks, watching as Seonghwa scoffs, not quite bothered by Wooyoung’s overall presence.

“He’s a firecracker,” Seonghwa mutters, a smirk evident. “I like that about him.”

“You might like it, I rather despise it,” San sneers, leaning back just enough to sit on the edge of his desk. Seonghwa turns, raising a brow.

“You like it more than you lead on, you’re just made of steel and lack emotions,” Seonghwa jests, nudging his elbow into San’s abdomen gently. “Don’t be so rash for once, San’ah. Embrace a new future of the Crimson Cartel. We’re in need of a new driver; someone who’s confident and maybe a bit risky. He has an edge, and you can’t tell me that he doesn’t.”

“What are you seeing that I’m not?” San asks, folding his arms against his chest, feeling as his jacket clung to his form casually. “He’s arrogant. Just based upon his demeanor alone, I can tell that he’s got a motive behind everything he does. I can’t trust that.”

“Don’t we all have a motive?” Hongjoong asks as he breaks into the room, walking with a specific bounce of swagger, a smile placed onto his lips. “Isn’t that part of the reason we’re all here?”

“You speak too vaguely,” San says unamusingly. He raises a brow, watching as Hongjoong saunters over with too much confidence. “Why are you so eager? Didn’t Seonghwa tell you to dispose of the bodies?”

“Minho insisted that he had it covered, besides–” Hongjoong waves his hand in a swatting manner, almost dismissing the topic. “I had to pay my two best friends a visit after all that. . . chaos, didn’t I?”

“You use such adolescent words,” San says, rolling his eyes, hiding the true amusement beneath the depth of his husky tone. “Call me something else, like your boss, for example.”

“Now why would I ever do that?” Hongjoong smirks, pausing in his steps as he looms closer, leaning just an inch nearer as he drops his voice to a murmur. “You know I like to tease you, Mr. Boss Man.”

San scoffs, shaking his head as he places a hand on Hongjoong’s shoulder, softly pushing him backwards. “Enough of your teasing, I have work to do. Have either of you gotten my schematics from Yeosang just yet?”

Seonghwa shakes his head, taking a half-step backwards. “No, not yet. We were. . . occupied with the delivery.”

“Wasn’t even a delivery,” San brushes off, moving away from his desk as he carefully moves between Hongjoong and Seonghwa, turning to glance over his shoulder. “They were fake bombs meant to scare the shit out of those three to see if they’d back out of the job, and Wooyoung was the only one who delivered safely. The other two were fucking idiots.”

“Practice makes perfect, does it not?” Hongjoong asks, leaving San to nod, albeit hesitantly.

San pauses, hellbent on remaining the dangerous, brooding male that he was known to be, and yet, Hongjoong always knew how to make a joke out of everything. He couldn’t hide the soft edges of a smirk curling on his lips, shaking his head as he turned away, using his hand to softly pat his thigh.

“Daemon, come. We’ve got work to do,” San mutters, resuming his steps as he begins to walk away, listening as the canine’s paws patter after him, following in tow loyally.

“Always work, no play,” Hongjoong criticizes playfully, earning a scoff of disapproval from Seonghwa. San can hear the subtle brushing of fabric, almost as if Seonghwa had smacked Hongjoong in retort, or something vaguely similar.

“Stop it, Joong’ah, leave him be.” Seonghwa’s voice trails off, their banter comforting as it was familiar, leaving San to silently cherish the camaraderie settled between the three of them, even if there were bigger things at play.

San listens as his steps carry him through the doors of his office, down the vacant corridors and to the left abruptly, taking a sharp detour to trek his way towards Yeosang’s control room of sorts, a rather tech-savvy empire that the male thrived in. San had bought everything Yeosang needed to run the operation from the simple flex of a keyboard and a few monitors, and now, he rather had everything he could ever want at the touch of his finger tips.

Offering a sharp knock on the door, San enters the room a moment after, Daemon following behind him like a loyal canine would. Upon entering, he spots Jongho settled in the far chair, enjoying a bottle of soju as he talked lightly with Yeosang, which was an unlikely sight for San to have seen. Jongho was rather cold and contemplative, maybe a bit cut off and reserved, but for some reason, he always seemed to have a softer gaze towards Yeosang and no one else.

Jongho, for the most part, was calculated. His dark eyes and black hair felt to be mirrors into the soul that lay within. He was very cold, killing people without remorse, feeling anything but guilt, doing what was asked of him without asking a single question. Though, Yeosang was a brighter light, maybe a bit more intuitive and meticulous, laden with technical genius that San wouldn’t be able to dismiss. Yeosang brought out a softer, more delicate version of Jongho, and part of San felt at ease knowing that the people he shared a cartel with found some sort of safety within each other.

It wasn’t that San was unable to feel that, he just rather chose not to. Being in love, having someone special like that attached to him, it made him feel the very thing he was terrified of. Vulnerability. The urge to protect someone, to bear his heart and his soul to someone; it was the one thing he vowed to never do. He was fine on his own, he always had been. No parents to rely on, no one to bear his soul to, no one but himself to withhold expectations for. Loneliness was the answer to a successful, well-run cartel, and he’d do just about anything to protect that.

“Yeosang,” San says, approaching the male’s desk with a few carefully placed steps. Yeosang turns in his chair, offering a brief smile before he leans back, glancing at Jongho before reaching for his glasses, perching them onto his nose.

“What brings you by, Sannie?” Yeosang asks, raising a brow.

“I need schematics to the government buildings, the ones I told you about,” San begins, pausing his steps as he glances at Jongho, almost in a silent command for the male to exit, keeping their conversation private.

Jongho, having seen the glare, offers a brief nod, moving out of his seat and towards the door, closing it behind him as he moves past the threshold.

“The buildings in the heart of Seoul?” Yeosang questions the moment the door closes behind Jongho, switching his gaze back towards his computer monitors, the light from his keyboard illuminating back at him.

“The capitol building,” San reiterates. “I need the plans for their underground bunker. They have the data chip down there, the one that holds the interface for everything that makes Seoul the way it is.”

“I can snag that,” Yeosang comments, tilting his head slightly as he hovers his fingers above his keyboard. “It’ll just take a second–”

“But?” San asks, stepping closer, placing a hand on the edge of Yeosang’s desk, leaning into it, looking between Yeosang’s monitors and the male himself.

“There’s got to be a reason for all of this,” Yeosang presses, his curiosity bleeding through his words. “I won’t ever question you, boss, but I have a feeling there’s more to this data chip that you’re letting be known.”

San contemplates, pausing before he speaks, his jaw tightening absentmindedly as he waits, watching Yeosang with a slight pinch of his brows. Yeosang was a loyal member of this group, as was everyone else, but his ability to see through all of San’s plans by just being curious was something he respected beyond all means. Though, he wouldn’t lie in saying it irritated him all the same.

“I have plans, Yeosang. I need this data chip to enact said plans,” San says lowly, not really bothering to explain any further. Yeosang, having caught the hint and slight irritation from San’s body language, decided against pressing any more, nodding curtly as he turned to face his monitors.

“I’ll get to it.” Yeosang begins typing, fingers deftly moving against his keyboard with very little hesitance, barely looking down to see exactly where his fingertips were landing as a line of code falls over his left monitor. San leans away, tapping the back of Yeosang’s chair, almost in a gesture of silent gratitude that he knew wouldn’t go missed.

San slowly begins to turn around, strolling back towards the door before he pauses, tightening his jaw, narrowing his gaze as he stops in his tracks. A lingering question runs stale on his tongue, a murmur of doubt and the shadow of regret resting over his shoulders like a looming storm cloud. He wanted to know more, or rather, he wanted to know everything possible about Wooyoung.

The male was undoubtedly someone who he knew would push his buttons. Though, something about him felt. . . off. There was something confusing about him and why he remained so oddly defiant. Curiosity befell him, and for the first time in a long time, the swell of interest he had long since ignored ignites like a campfire, glowing and burning away beneath the grandeur of the evening sky, casting aflame subtly. San knew that diving into Wooyoung’s past wouldn’t be easy, as it felt overly too perfect for someone as charming to be practically invisible from another city. How he ended up in Seoul of all places, searching for work with a set of skills such as the ones he harbored; it confused San beyond belief.

“Yeosang–” San calls out, glancing over his shoulder.

Yeosang shuffles around in his chair briefly, raising a brow as he adjusts his glasses, watching San with a silent plea for the male to continue.

“Look into Jung Wooyoung, dig up anything and everything you can.” San wets his lips, looking down at his dog, watching as the canine looks back up at him with a familiar glimmer, something that had always grounded him when the tides of his mind were too strong. “I need to know everything. There’s something about him I can’t place, and I– I don’t trust him.”

“I don’t think any of us do,” Yeosang replies, keeping his tone even, though soft in an aspect San hadn’t anticipated. “But with the line of work we do, with the things we commit to, trusting anyone new is harder than it seems.”

San bites his tongue, keeping his words at bay, choosing to rather nod as he begins to move towards the door. He knew Yeosang would do everything that was asked of him and he wouldn’t question it, but deep down San knew more than anything else that Yeosang could see through it all. He wasn’t dumb, practically the pure opposite. But, San wasn’t idiotic in knowing that Yeosang would bite off more than he could chew. Yeosang was ambitious like that, which is what made him the perfect person for the role he fit into.

A part of him worried that Seonghwa was too rash in his decision making, though he knew that he needed to trust the men who worked beneath him. He chose everyone within this cartel for a reason, and none of them have disappointed or proved him otherwise. There was a delicate balance built between San and his men, and he’d do just about anything to protect the folds of an empire he built with his bare hands.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

The warm embrace of steam and water tightly hug the area of the porcelain shower, raining down without worry for mercy. San had found himself glued to the downpour of water, lingering in the shower for maybe a bit too long, pressing his palms against the wall while his head tilted beneath the cascading water, feeling as the droplets moved through his hair and down the back of his neck, curling all the way down his chest and stomach, running down into the slotted drain to be recycled.

His mind was a current of thoughts, a forever downpour of things that felt too uneasy to be unveiled. He could harbor it internally, just as he did everything else, keeping himself straight laced and put-together for the sake of the cartel. But here, in the confines of the shower, he felt this to be the only place where he could be a fraction of who he used to be, a mere human lost in a world he deemed cruel.

The only things he knew were barbaric and tyrannical, laden with a pool of blood that seemed to etch over everything he was raised to believe. A poised figure of society, forever bearing a suit and a higher education, lost in a world that was too blind to see the true darkness settled behind a mask of fake tranquility. It was all he knew all those years ago, picturesque perfection, an abysmal social light glimmering too brightly, hazing him with the idea that a life like that, a life of pure isolation, would be the only thing he deserved.

The irony wasn’t lost on him; he knew where he was. He may be surrounded by loyal members of a world he built, sitting on the throne like some sort of long lost king. Yet, he was alone, settled beneath the storm of a shower, listening to his own hollow breaths cast beneath the pour of water. Being lonely didn’t bother him; not really, anyway. But a part of him knew that remaining this way would forever isolate him into the darkness he created for himself, glued to the idea that being alone would be the only thing he needed. He didn’t care for the fortune, the power, the control he held over the entire city, but vulnerability, love and trust– those were all things he couldn’t allow himself to dive into, let alone fall victim to.

Shakily, his hands move, turning off the shower, listening as the curl of water flows down into the drain, sinking into the pipes, dragging the thoughts of his own cruelty along with it. His moment of negativity is lost, leaving him to shoulder his armor again, placing the facade of the kingpin he knew how to portray so incredibly well back across his features, expressionless and numb.

As San left the comfort of his warm shower, he wrapped a towel around himself, brushing a hand through his hair, feeling as the wet strands cascade and mingle intermittently, dangling in front of his gaze as the water droplets curled to the tips. San glances at himself in the mirror, studying the depth and array of his tattoos, watching as they crawl from the thick of his neck and down his shoulders, breezing past his collarbones and onto the planes of his chest, contouring themselves down his sides and near his stomach. Each one told a story, a small tale of a life he once had, lost in a tangled web of blood and gunpowder. The tattoos covered much of his skin, covering wounds he longed to forget. Scars trailed up his sides and down his back, a laden memory of a gruesome ordeal, one that had rendered him in a coma and clinging to life with the tip of his finger.

Being a kingpin, being a true mafia boss, placed a target so large upon his back, he felt the need to remain shadowed. He hid away, keeping his face out of the light, looming like a phantom in a dark room. He had people to do his jobs for him, political figures beneath the faint bend of his knee, money accumulated to a fortune that felt to never be dented into; he wasn’t afraid, but he rather had nothing to truly ever fear. He wasn’t afraid of dying, of injury, of being overrun or caught by the police. He had one goal in mind, one thing he wished to do before he embarked on his journey to a forever sleep: to get the data chip, and to put an end to everything his parents had built.

After changing his clothes, adorning something more comfortable, San moves back into his suite, allowing his eyes to trace over the subtle decor and low-lighting within his room. His bed was rather large, set in the dead center of the room, accented with a dark comforter and headboard, lit by modern sconces hung on the wall. His bedside tables were empty, save for the picture frame that sat on one side, face down, never to be placed upright. Daemon’s bed was nearby, which had been a rather large black embroidered cushion, a few bones scattered nearby with his food dishes against the wall. The room was darkly painted, the floors a rich umber with decadent hardwood, contrasted with the plush of a red and gold rug, kept neat and centered beneath the hem of his bed.

His room was cold, barren of any real connection to a part of himself that he rather chose to harbor. It was plain, settled with just enough furniture and subtle decor to make it feel somewhat like home. Even with the lighting, the warm linens, the softer, monochromatic tones of paint; the room still felt cold, empty, burdened with being too afraid to dive into something that would give him purpose. He had enough, just enough to get by, and enough to not place a target on someone else’s back.

The sudden buzz of his phone elicits a quiet sigh, a release of a breath he didn’t quite realize he had been holding. Pulling it free from his pocket, he glances down, catching sight of a message from Yeosang, one that had simply read: I’m done.

He figured Yeosang would be quick with his work, as he usually always was, but part of San didn’t expect all of his research to be done within just a few hours. If Wooyoung was who he said he was, surely there was a myriad of truths hidden beneath a line of code, lost in a city on the other side of the country. Someone with his skillset, with his training and ability to drive with such ease, likely stirred up enough of a headline somewhere. But to capture all of the information so easily, without issue, rendered San slightly at a loss. Yet, he shrugged, walking towards his door, closing it behind him, leaving Daemon to rest comfortably on his bed, chasing after the sleep San had wished he too could partake in.

Strolling back down the hall, San carries himself quickly to Yeosang’s office, not knocking on the door before he enters, finding that the male was still sitting in the same spot, this time with a mug of coffee in his hands.

“You’re quick,” San mutters, closing the door behind him. “What’d you find?”

“The schematics were easy work. Five minutes tops,” Yeosang says, setting down his coffee mug as he moves his hand to his mouse, clicking on a few things before he pulls up the images, safely stored away in some sort of rotating IP network. “I’ve got them all here in an encrypted file. We can print them, or we can upload them to the holographic system in the meeting room.”

“That’s good,” San commends, lingering closer, waiting for Yeosang to continue talking, but he doesn’t. “Wooyoung–?”

“That’s what I called you here for,” Yeosang slowly begins, taking a breath inwards. “There’s nothing on him. Not a single thing. I’ve searched through criminal databases, the underground data market, anything from cities that are within driving distance from here. In our proximity, at least from my point of view, he’s a damn ghost.”

San recoils slightly, his brows furrowing. A ghost? How could he be? San leans closer, pointing at Yeosang’s monitor. “Show me something. There has to be something.”

“And here I was thinking you were the only ghost in town,” Yeosang mutters, scoffing lightly as he types away on his keyboard, shuffling through a line of code before a new window pops up, the large red words of NO DATA FOUND appearing before San’s very eyes. “Like I said; he’s a ghost. There’s nothing to his name.”

“Is it possible that he’s using a fake name?” San questions, but Yeosang shrugs.

“I don’t think so. I scanned images of his face from the documents Seonghwa gathered upon Wooyoung’s application from the dark web. Facial recognition didn’t work either. So, either he’s from an entirely different country, or he’s erased everything there was to know about him. His digital footprint is gone, San. There’s nothing for me to pull from.”

San’s brows furrow, irritation flicking across his features before he settles, swallowing the anger that suddenly coats his tongue. Were they being tricked? Was all of Wooyoung’s mischief and terrible manners an act? Was there an angle they missed beyond all of the layers of his demeanor and skill set?

“Look harder.” San’s words left no room for argument, his tone deep and insufferably husky.

“San–”

“I said what I said, Yeosang. Do it. Look harder.”

Yeosang pauses, looking at San before he looks away again, adjusting his glasses with a subtle gesture. He nods, no trace of hesitation in his movements as he hovers his fingers over the keyboard once more, pressing the escape key to exit out of his programs.

“I’ll try again.” Yeosang keeps his tone even, but San can hear the subtle laces of exhaustion seeping through his every word.

He hesitates, leaning away from Yeosang’s desk as he moves towards the door again, his hand resting on the handle. He turns his head, gazing over his shoulder, allowing his words to carry over the dark space between them.

“In the morning,” San comments. “Get some rest, Yeosang. The work can wait.”

Yeosang turns in his chair, saluting San with a subtle smile before he returns his gaze to his computer, already beginning to type again. “I’ll do my best, boss. See you in the morning.”

San nods, walking out of Yeosang’s office and back into the corridor, allowing the flood of white lights to hang over him like some sort of suffocating cloud. Though, his curiosity befalls him. Instead of turning to the right, striding back towards the odd comfort of his dreary bedroom, he turns left, moving back towards his office, each step heavier with the wait of unease. He needed to know more, to know everything, to seek and search for who this man was. He was hiding something, and San would do anything to uncover it.

The confines of his office were cold, a mirrored image to just how he kept his entire life. He flicks on the lights, pressing his fingers into his temple before walking closer to his desk, tracing a finger along the line of the wood as he passes. Settling into his leather chair, he moves his hand beneath the center of the desk, brushing against a button that lay hidden, well within the shadows. Pressing it, San spins his chair around, watching as the wall behind him shifts, the contraption whirring quietly before it hums, lowering the wall before him to unveil an array of screens, all of which flickered to life the moment the wall receded half of the way. Cameras, dispersed into every room within this compound, suddenly began to display among the monitors, revealing every inch of the facility behind the view of a laden lens. San reclined into his seat, resting an elbow onto one of the arms of his chair while his chin rested in the cusp of his palm, his eyes carefully watching each screen for the enticing view of movement. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, or even if he was searching for anything, but he wanted to believe that something was wrong. It all felt off, a weird intuition that he didn’t wish to believe and yet couldn’t dispel.

It was late, well within the depth of the evening, but San couldn’t care. Sleep was a fickle thing, something he’d easily survive without, and somehow, it didn’t bother him. He couldn’t sleep much without figuring out the depth of this issue anyway, so he’d rather sit here for as long as it took, waiting for the faintest slip up from the man he couldn’t exactly trust.

Hours pass by the time San slowly begins to nod off, his eyes lulling, gaze overly exhausted, shifting more comfortably into his chair as he uses a voice command to lower the lights. The screens were still, void of life and movement in a compound that somehow felt compromised. He was slowly beginning to give in, to break away from this suspicion and to finally just concede, but the faintest glimmer of sudden movement drew his attention away, spurring him into leaning forward, staring directly into the monitor that was placed in the center.

There he was, just like San expected him to be. Wooyoung was moving through the corridor, sneaking about, looking around every corner for an unknown presence, searching for someone to be lurking when they were rather sleeping. He was in search of something, looking around at the doors and details of the compound, taking note of the staircase and shuffling down into a corridor, eventually disappearing into one of the storage rooms as the sounds from Jisung and Minho appeared from around the corner. San watches as Wooyoung disappears into the storage room, just in time as Minho and Jisung disappear into their apparent shared room, which was a relationship he hadn’t been too aware of. The moment the door closes and the pair sinks into the confines of their safety net, Wooyoung eventually exits the room, maybe after a few minutes of lingering in the event that someone else was up and roaming about.

Wooyoung then walks a careful line, strolling to the opposite corridor, glancing from door to door, eventually stumbling across the garage door. San continues to watch, his eyes narrowing, brows pinching together, one hand holding his chin as he sat by and watched, trying to piece the pieces together in any way he could. But then, it all clicks.

Wooyoung was awkward about getting his stuff himself just mere hours ago, wanting to retrieve all of his items from his car personally rather than rest safely within the confines of his temporary room. It almost felt as if he didn’t want someone in his car, and didn't wish for them to search through his belongings. From what San knew, Changbin looked through the car and found nothing of importance: a bag of clothes, another bag of his equipment, along with a hoodie and some other random items one would usually find within a car. Nothing raised the glare of a question in Changbin’s eyes, but San felt as if he had missed something; something important.

He watches as Wooyoung grabs his car keys, shuffling past the line of sports cars and luxury vehicles until stumbling across his own, unlocking it and heading inside. San couldn’t clearly see what he was reaching for, nor to what he was grabbing, but by the time Wooyoung closes his door and locks his car, San spots something within the male’s hand. There’s a very faint, blurry glimmer of something unknown within Wooyoung’s grasp, but it could’ve been anything. A medication bottle, a phone charger, headphones or even just something as simple as his wallet. Though, San had a feeling it was much more important than something as fickle as that.

Wooyoung quickly hurries back into the compound, nearly running into Seonghwa as he rounds a corner, discreetly placing his hands at his side, hiding the item within his palm expertly. San, however, could see his every move, even if Seonghwa couldn’t. They were chatting, discussing something that seemed to cause Seonghwa momentary confusion, something that San could easily read from the view of the camera. However, as San’s eyes move to watch Wooyoung once more, he notices the male’s hand moving to his pack pocket, sliding what appeared to be a cell phone into the safety of his jeans, hidden and well out of sight from Seonghwa. San leans backwards, unable to hear the conversation but picturing the idea that Seonghwa was questioning everything that Wooyoung was doing, especially at near five in the morning.

As the conversation ends and Seonghwa disappears from view, Wooyoung saunters back towards his room, disappearing beyond the confines of his door, well away from the view of San’s cameras. San leans back into his chair, folding his arms against his chest, chewing on his lower lip as his curiosity only dares to grow.

Jung Wooyoung, San thinks, feeling his jaw tighten. Who the hell even are you?

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

Wooyoung didn’t sleep. He knew he should’ve, yet he felt unable to. There was a fear gnawing at the back of his throat, lingering and simmering his gut into a current of unease, stirring awake feelings he hadn’t felt since he became a trainee at the agency.

He had laid on his bed for a number of hours, staring at his ceiling, contemplating on reaching out to Yeonjun or Mingyu, just someone, almost in a plea to reel him in away from the isolation he knew he was falling into. But, he had nothing to relay. He’s met San, and uncovered an odd family photo, but otherwise, he’s come up with nothing. Not yet, anyway.

He knew Mingyu would be pissed if he checked in by saying that he was snooping around and got caught, nearly losing his phone, all while acting like a nervous puppy in front of the man himself. He was acting like a fool, but he had to admit, San just seemed to have that effect on him. There was something about the way he carried himself, an obvious opulence that he couldn’t really convince himself to dispel. His aura was overly commanding, but there was something more that Wooyoung could sense just from his eyes alone. An intensity, an unbridled control that he craved to harbor with just the snap of his fingers. He wasn’t sure what he was seeking to control, maybe all of Seoul, maybe more political figures or money, but Wooyoung could sense the undercurrent of emotions, thickening in a web of things that he desperately felt himself seeking to understand.

Beyond the mask that San adorned, Wooyoung sensed something more just beneath the surface, lingering and looming, like a shark nearing the surface just before it was about to strike. Wooyoung wanted to study him, to find a routine in his habits, to learn about more intimate details, to truly uncover everything that there was in the folds of San’s mind. He wanted to know anything and everything that he could manage, taking it back to relay to his company as they sought to unravel the very fabric of the Crimson Cartel. But, what if it wasn’t enough? Mingyu did say that he needed to get close to San by any means, but Wooyoung knew that there was no way that he’d be able to get close enough. Not to mention, Yeonjun wouldn’t like the few ideas that strung to the front of his mind as he entertained them, twirling around the mere fantasy of sharing a drink with San, lingering close enough to try and lure him somewhere private.

It wasn’t for the rush or thrill of something intimate, but to rather trick him into a place of knowing that San would let his guard down, if for the moment, inebriated and lured into a state of arousal. It would be enough, maybe. He just didn’t know San that well. . . yet.

So, he danced with the idea in his mind for a while, maybe an hour or so, weighing the pros and cons of a move that would likely end with his head on a stick in consequence, though, would it be for the greater good? Would killing San truly bring Seoul peace? Wooyoung didn’t have an answer for that, which made this decision that much more difficult. He knew that Mingyu chose him for this job because he was cunning and good at manipulation, which he had proved in the past, though his humanity had a way of triggering his mind into a different state of thinking. Morally, all of this was wrong. San was just a human being beyond all of this. He had parents, maybe a little sister of sorts, and an entire family behind him. Was killing him worth the aftermath? Surely there’d be something to come after his death, almost like an uproar or a tactical killing of Wooyoung himself by the members of the cartel. He couldn’t know for sure, but just based upon the small intricate details he’d be likely to unfold at this meeting of sorts, he knew, more than anything else, that the members of this cartel wouldn’t let San’s death go by silently.

As the time slowly began to dwindle, leaving him with less and less time to sit and think, Wooyoung pulled his phone free, his actual phone, leaving his work phone left on his bed, laying face down, ignored and forgotten.

He unlocks his phone, scrolling into his pictures, looking at memories from a past that he could no longer recall. Yeonjun looked brighter and happier in these pictures, less strained with the tribulations of being an agent, no longer stained in the blood that currently came with the delicate signature of his name. He was younger, his boyish charm somehow weaving a gentle smile on Wooyoung’s lips even now, making him wonder why he’d ever to agree to be away from him for an unknown amount of time. Of course he missed him, but more than that, he missed how their relationship used to be. A time where they were in the honeymoon phase, exploring the depths and curves of their love, just now finding solid footing before landing in a place where they lived together and tried to envision a future with one another. But now. . . things are hardly the way they used to be.

Yeonjun was colder, stern and strict, placing work duties before any facet of their relationship; unable to find a balance that would work with the lives they pursued. Yeonjun did care, at least, Wooyoung hoped he did. But with their line of work, with the amount of risks they took on a day-to-day basis, Wooyoung couldn’t be completely sure as to where their relationship stood. Was he important to Yeonjun? Was he the first thing that Yeonjun thought about on a daily basis? Were they equally worth the effort and time they placed into one another? Would they survive the aftermath of this exact mission?

The thoughts were relentless, arriving in a barrage of intimidating ideals and insults, causing Wooyoung a bit more stress than he’d like to admit. So, carelessly, he taps open his messages, looking at the message he had sent his partner just hours ago. He said he’d contact him soon, leaving him in the dark as he went offline, but his heart ached to be reassured; to just be a human and away from the callous deeds of what he was tasked to do.

Are you awake?

The message was simple, straight to the point, bringing nothing forth other than pure curiosity. It was nearly seven in the morning at this point, so he assumed Yeonjun would be awake, or almost awake at this point considering their usual routine. And, with luck and maybe a bit of surprise, Yeonjun begins typing.

Yeonjun

I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon, Woo. You okay?

I’m fine, I just. . . I have an idea, and I need to hear your thoughts on it.

Yeonjun

Thoughts on what?

I need to get close to San, by any means, per Mingyu.

Yeonjun

So what are you proposing?

I just. . . I need to get closer to him. I just don’t know how. There’s only a few ways I can truly do that.

Yeonjun

Are you asking me for permission to sleep with him? What the hell kind of question is that?

Did I say that?

Yeonjun

It’s insinuated. Wooyoung, I swear to God, if you cheat on me, I’ll come in there and kill him myself.

I wouldn’t ever do that! Who the hell do you take me for?

Yeonjun

What the hell am I supposed to think, Wooyoung? I don’t know this guy, nor am I there with you. How can I gauge your feelings on the matter when Mingyu is breathing down your neck and hounding me about everything else?

I get it. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I just need to trick him. . . and, I don’t know, you know how Mingyu is. He’s hellbent on ending this.

Yeonjun

I know he is. But at what cost? You need to be smart about this, Wooyoung.

I know I need to be. But getting close to him in order to complete all of this shit is going to be harder than any of us realize. This is a kingpin, a fucking mafia boss, that we’re talking about. He has so many people that live in this compound, Yeonjun, that this is going to be nearly impossible.

Yeonjun

Do you remember one of our first missions together? Back in Russia?

Yes? What about it?

Yeonjun

Jeonghan was really smart that day. He used a manipulation tactic to undermine our enemy in order to get in close to him. It seemed innocent to someone without a trained eye, but to you and me, we knew exactly what game he was playing.

So, you’re suggesting that I need to do something off the book? To be bolder?

Yeonjun

You surely have caught his attention just by being new, as it is. But, we can’t know for sure if you’ve gained his attention in a good way or in a negative light. We need to shift that. If you find a moment to make a bold decision, take it. It could just be the decisive coin flip to turn the tables in your favor.

Wooyoung pinches his brows together, stuck in a rapture of thoughts. Would that work? Would being openly brazen catch San’s eye in a more positive light? Would acting in such a way in regards to an upcoming mission draw more focus onto him, giving him the window he would be in search of?

Maybe you’re right. But he and I just met, Jun. How can I be so sure that this idea will prevail?

Yeonjun

You won’t know unless you try. Just don’t be reckless, Wooyoung.

With a sigh, Wooyoung hovers his thumbs over his electronic keyboard, chewing on his lower lip as he contemplates a response, but he remains unsure.

Yeonjun

I miss you like crazy, Woo. Just be safe. Please.

I know. I miss you, too. I’ll be careful, I promise. Just wait for me.

Yeonjun

Always.

With a breath, Wooyoung tosses his phone away, staring back up at the ceiling, taking a moment to simply breathe. This was a lot, and it was overly complicated. But this is exactly what he signed up for. He didn’t have parents to really worry himself with, nor did he really have anyone except Yeonjun in his life, so accepting a reality where he’d be committing to an agency that sought to better the very foundation of South Korea as a whole was all he ever ached to know. He couldn’t understand how someone like San wanted to ruin it all, to take the entire city hostage and somehow still crave more and more power, having so many people just run amuck beneath the very tip of his fingers. San was the devil, looming with a haze of darkening clouds and crackling thunder, taking whatever he wanted without the mere threat of consequence.

Wooyoung wanted to put an end to all of it. He wanted San’s grip to be released, to remove his toxic poison from the very veins of Seoul’s heart, extracting every ounce of San’s entire essence before he could infect every single city and sub-city that he could reach. His power knew no bounds, but that isn’t what terrified Wooyoung, not even in the slightest. It was his lack of humanity, his sheer lack of concern and empathy, the cold demeanor cast in his sharp eyes, lost without a glimmer of anything positive.

He looked like a lone wolf, head of a pack he created of his own volition, scarred and towering above the rest, running his pack like a true dictator with little room for mistake. Even if he had everything that he could’ve possibly needed, there was a thirst for more, craving anything and everything that he could simply get a hold of. Wooyoung knew he was in the devil’s den, lurking around in a careful, tedious manner, struggling to comprehend how Mingyu truly thought anyone could undermine someone who built this entire cartel from the ground up.

San wasn’t an idiot. Based on his demeanor and from what Wooyoung had already seen; he was calculated. He was perceptive, watching and studying everything, taking note of smaller details and little discrepancies, making sure that his ship ran smoothly and without fret. Wooyoung, for the most part, could feel the intrigue bleeding off of San from the moment they had made eye contact.

Maybe it was in the tilt of his head, the lull of his eyes or the set of his jaw; but there was something different about San that radiated far from the aura that arose off of Seonghwa and Changbin, or anyone else he had met thus far. San had been studying him, in every single way possible. The way his breaths hitched, the way his shoulders tensed and how his eyes averted San’s intimidating stare; they were tools, tactics of understanding that Wooyoung knew San would forever compile into a mental folder to store away for later.

He was an outsider, entering into a bonded family of misfits and skilled mafia members, looking into the deeply engraved bonds that he felt that he was nearly intruding into. There were members he hadn’t met yet, faces he had seen and studied within Mingyu’s files and yet hadn’t quite matched to their real-life counterparts. He knew there was information he was missing, and yet, his stomach ached with anything except anticipation. He was nervous as hell, but he’d follow through, just as he was told.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

After a shower and a change of clothes, Wooyoung finds himself exiting the safety of his room, shoving his pretend-phone into the pocket of his ripped jeans. He can hear faint echoes of footsteps and conversation lingering off to the right, likely coming from the supposed meeting room that San had briefly mentioned yesterday. So, he follows the noise, listening as his sneakers softly greet the floor, barely making any noise over the sound of Wooyoung’s ever-racing heart.

He didn’t know how many people he was to meet, but he knew there was at least a handful he hadn’t properly met. Mingyu’s documents were detailed to a terrifying extent, labeling relationships and previous warrants, laden with details that went down to their very birthday and security numbers. San remained as the only one who was nearly untraceable, given that his parents were within a social light he found hard to comprehend. In comparison to his parents, San was like an enigma, a phantom within the limelight, a mere person in a photograph with a little girl Wooyoung hadn’t recognized. In all of his research, or rather Mingyu’s, no mention of a little girl game into the fold. He couldn’t be sure if it was his daughter, his sister, or just a random relative who just so happened to be present for a photo. But, now that Wooyoung thinks about it, he never found out the reason as to why San went rogue and turned away from his parents, claiming stake to an empire so large that it intimidated everyone else, except for the likes of his own family.

But, even as he turned the corner, he spotted an open door just down the corridor, the light from inside flooding outwards, drawing Wooyoung even closer to the noise and ambiance. As he approaches, he can hear the familiar sounds of Seonghwa’s voice, along with quiet laughter from Changbin, or so he assumed as much. Crossing over the threshold, Wooyoung notices the group of faces he must’ve been missing, trying to place names over everyone as they all turned to look at him, confused and mostly intrigued.

“Good morning, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa greets, setting down the cup of coffee he held in his hands, allowing the ceramic to greet the large, dark oak table ahead of him. “Glad to see you’re on time.”

Wooyoung bows his head slightly, wetting his lips before his eyes dart upwards, looking to cast across the faces of people he hadn’t met yet, even if he tried to place names to faces.

“I wouldn’t dare to be disrespectful,” he replies, watching as Seonghwa’s lips slowly curve into a smile. “Besides, what first impression am I to make if I’m late?”

“I see,” Seonghwa hums, nodding his head slightly. The long locks of his hair were slightly tied back while a few strands framed his face, wearing an expensive-looking black button-up, his blazer hanging on the back of his chair. A male he had seen the night before sat next to Seonghwa, watching him with a curious smile, almost as if he was feeding into the conversation silently.

“You’ll get to meet everyone eventually, but for now, take a seat. San will be arriving any minute.” Seonghwa’s gaze locks with Wooyoung’s for a moment before he looks away, focusing on a mound of paperwork settled near his seat.

Wooyoung takes a breath inwards, briefly running a hand through his hair as he moves to find an empty seat, which coincidentally was settled next to Changbin. The familiar face, though recent, was somehow calming to him, lessening the burden of having to memorize names and faces when he already had to deal with San’s obnoxious glare that would appear from the other side of the room.

The moment San enters into the space, the room falls into silence. Everyone moves into their seats, quietly and without the utterance of a word, giving San their full attention as he maneuvers to the head of the table. Wooyoung watches him, shifting his gaze from the table, then to the man that stood ahead of him, composed and utterly authoritative.

He was wearing a snug button-up, his blazer fitted around the broadness of his shoulders, accentuating the watch on his wrist and the chain around his neck, not to mention the slight golden glimmer of each of his rings flickering back at him. Wooyoung leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his lap, waiting for the words simmering on the edge of San’s tongue.

“You all have met Park Seungjae,” San begins, his jaw tightening as he studies the gazes around the room. “We were business partners, someone who was laid under our foot, providing cars and an influx of intel from the underground drug trades here in Seoul.”

San steps aside, his focus turned towards the screen behind him, watching as it flickered to life. An image of an older man comes into view, the lights within the room suddenly darkening, allowing all of the focus to fall onto the man known as Seungjae.

“Our friend here likes to think that he can undermine me,” San begins, reaching for the small remote on the table as he flicks through to another picture. “Little does he know that his friends are more terrified of me than they are of him, and I’ve come to learn some fairly interesting news.”

Wooyoung studies the picture, furrowing his brows slightly as he turns his head to glance at San, watching as he composed himself, letting the anger simmer just beneath the armor he wore like another layer of skin. He was holding back, hiding whatever emotions that lay within, continuing with the briefing as if his own emotions held no weight. Wooyoung was curious, more than he should’ve been, wondering why San was so affected by a mere drug lord than anything else.

“The details I’ve uncovered come from the raiders that live in a sub-city, just outside of Seoul’s city limits. Their leader, Choi Beomgyu, has relayed to me that Seungjae intends on stealing from me. He wants to buy a mass of stock, sell it for higher than he’s supposed to, then lie about the profits. He truly believes that I won’t notice, that his plan will go beneath the radar in the way he supposes,” San expresses, his tone bitter and cold, though far from emotional. “So, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands. We’re going to steal his cars, his prized possessions, and sell them off, to get the money back that I’ve been owed.”

San clicks a button on the remote again, his gaze moving back towards the small group before him, gesturing towards someone in specific. “Minho will be leading the mission, per usual, so you’re all expected to respect his decisions and layouts. He’s already gotten a head start on the routes we will use for this, and we must remain strategic. Seungjae, as stupid as he can be, doesn’t lack in security. His place is well-armed, well-guarded, and for the most part, he knows how to protect his compound.”

“Not against us, he doesn’t,” a voice from the back of the room emerges, a slight smirk curled on the fair edges of his lips. Minho, as Wooyoung supposes, steps forwards, wearing a thick leather jacket and forward-facing ballcap, his eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his hat. “He’s an idiot, like San said. There are some holes in his defenses, things that Yeosang will know how to hack into and expose for our sake. We can get in, and get out. Quick and mostly quiet, except for the one thing we need more than anything else– a distraction.”

Wooyoung raises his brow, watching as Minho’s gaze immediately flicks to his, drawing the attention of everyone else within the room. “Wooyoung, since we know you can handle yourself behind the wheel, you’ll be our distraction.”

Wooyoung doesn’t protest, though he feels a nagging question sitting on the back of his tongue. He chooses to rather nod, saving his words for a more suitable time other than this.

“Yeosang will accompany Wooyoung, hacking into Seungjae’s systems locally, but from the safety of Wooyoung’s car. We can’t risk Yeosang getting too close, as he will dislodge an EMP blast in order to shut down the entirety of Seungjae’s system.” Minho walks closer, stopping next to San, taking the small remote from San’s hand. “This needs to be tight. No room for error. We get in, we take the car we’re assigned to, and we get out. Am I clear?”

The group resounds in a similar bout of nods and small yes’s, leaving Wooyoung to watch curiously, his focus drifting back towards Minho as he moves to the next picture, which had been a map, detailed and colored with specific routes for each team.

“San and Mingi will remain as a unit, sitting near the back. San, you need to grab the Bugatti near the back of the lot. The windows are tinted, so it will be hard to see you within that car.” Minho’s gaze travels towards a male in the back of the room, who had been wearing sunglasses and a smug smile, the black tank top he wore exposing the tone of his arms and collarbones, but not yet covering the cross necklace dangling from his neck. Mingi salutes, either in jest or complete seriousness, which in turn earns a scoff of approval from Minho himself.

“Seonghwa, you will accompany Hongjoong. You two need to aim for the Porsche, which is circled in red. Your car will be one ahead of Mingi’s, since it is likely to draw more attention, but I’ve also come to learn that the windows are bulletproof. Use that to your discretion.” Minho glances around before he gestures to the next colored line, which was blue. “Yunho, you’ll be with me. Together, we’ll aim for the Spyder. You and I will lead the convoy back to the casino, but we have to be wary of traffic and the police, which will likely be on our tail from the moment we blast that EMP.”

“How can they tail us even with the EMP?” Yunho asks from the seat across from Wooyoung, earning a response from Yeosang, who was sitting next to Changbin.

“The EMP blast is only designed to set off to a certain range. I can mess with the range of it, but I don’t necessarily want to blow up an entire part of the city, causing everything to go off-the-grid. We only want to affect Seungjae’s compound, to centralize our attack, otherwise we’ll just be seen as reckless thieves who can’t control their own equipment.”

Wooyoung watches Yeosang as he speaks, studying the composure in his features as he thoughtfully weaves his way through each word. His hair was deeply brunette, longer on the sides and cast in front of his eyes just barely, but he wore a colder expression, something that expressed a tale of time spent behind the screen of a computer. Wooyoung could see the slight weave of bags beneath his eyes, the lace of exhaustion that nearly mirrored stupor, a hardened exterior that saw more bloodshed than he didn’t like to admit. Then, he turns to look at Yunho, who had been one of the tallest members that he’d come across, sitting elegantly in his chair with his arms folded against his chest. He was wearing a crewneck, though dark in color, left with glasses perched on to his nose. He looked overly inquisitive, though from his research, he knew that Yunho was far from the soft appearance he portrayed. He was a trained killer, a weapons expert, someone who knew his way around every single model of gun imaginable. He was smart, calculated, introspective and curious; glimmering with ideas that he likely wanted to bounce off of Minho’s detailed plan.

“We need to be calculated,” Minho reiterates. “Yeosang knows what he’s doing. We need to trust that.”

“Continue, Minho,” San says lowly, moving to lean against the wall that was behind him, a little further away from Minho.

Minho nods, then continues. “Jongho will operate alone for this, as we need someone as a rogue vehicle just in case we get trailed. Jongho is the best shot we have, and if something goes wrong, he and Wooyoung are our ways out.”

“So, we want the Spyder, the Bugatti, and the Porsche?” Yunho asks again, earning a curt nod from Minho.

“Correct. Study the map, talk to your partners. We leave at dusk. Changbin and Jisung will remain here with Hyunjin, locking down the casino and its assets, keeping watch for any attempt at retaliation.”

“Then it’s settled,” San says, stepping forward, leaning away from the wall as he reaches the head of the table, placing his palms down on the wood. “You all know your roles. Prepare, rest up, gather your weapons. At dusk, we take back what’s mine.”

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

As the sun set and their plans went into motion, Wooyoung found himself sitting in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel of his car maybe a bit too tightly. Yeosang sat next to him, his laptop settled on his lap with a multitude of wires connected into the interface within Wooyoung’s car. He was typing away, silently looking down at the screen of his laptop, purely immune to Wooyoung’s glances and subtle breaths. It was practiced, this silence and composure, something that Yeosang must’ve done a hundred times over.

Wooyoung was following Mingi and San’s car a careful few feet away, listening as his engine rumbles and hums beyond the silent ambiance of his car’s interior. He muted the stereo, listening to Yeosang’s congruent typing and softened breaths, leading his mind into a state of tranquility that was somehow blissful. This mission was serious, and though he’s worked in a group this large many times before, something about this was gnawing at the back of his mind. He was nervous, only slightly, tightening his grip around the steering wheel unconsciously.

They were nearing the compound, nestled in the outskirts of Seoul, far away from the inner city chaos that came with the hustle and bustle of city traffic. It was quiet this way, darker and at a loss without any flooding street lamps. Wooyoung knew that San wanted this done cleanly, without fret and without incident, striking without giving Seungjae the chance to even retaliate.

As the compound came into view, Wooyoung observed his surroundings briefly. He could feel the earpiece within his ear buzzing away, the slight murmur of words coming from Minho and Mingi both, which were terms of conversation he couldn’t bother to listen to just yet. He was taking note of everything, from the windows and chain link fences around the compound, down to the more minute details of license plates and street signs. He wanted to relay everything to Mingyu, to give every single recall of this mission that he possibly could, but he’d have to be smart about all of it.

“Remember your route,” Minho commands through their coms, the cars beginning to split off in several different directions, leaving the road completely open for Wooyoung. “You’re up, Wooyoung. Make some noise.”

“On it,” Wooyoung replies, moving his hand down to shift his car into another gear, pressing on the gas as his engine roars with a burst of power. “Hold on to something, Yeosang.”

Quickly, Wooyoung speeds his car down the center of the road, listening as Yeosang’s typing remains undisturbed. The car moves through the street before it rapidly begins approaching the gates of the compound, but Wooyoung doesn’t let up. He pushes his car even faster, further; watching as the grill of his car bursts through the chain link gate, splitting it open seamlessly before he blares down on his horn. The lights from within the compound suddenly flick on, emanating outside from within their windows, plastering the ground in front in an array of yellows and oranges that only spur Wooyoung into placing his car in reverse, spinning his tires enough so that they screech.

“Get that EMP off, Yeosang! We’re running out of time!” Minho commands through the line, which only leads Yeosang into typing faster.

“I’m working on it,” he mutters. “A few more seconds, tops. Just keep going, Wooyoung. Confuse them even more.”

Wooyoung allows his car to spin backwards as he flicks his car back into drive, shifting gears before he taps on his brakes, pulling the parking brake as he spins his car around, flooding the street in a flare of white smoke and chaotic screeches. He taps on the horn again, blaring out into the night, to which he only then begins to hear shouting come from the compound behind him.

“Got it!” Yeosang says, typing a few more commands before he presses enter, whirring the device within the pack of Wooyoung’s car to life. “Ten seconds, guys. Move in now!”

Wooyoung continues his loudening, maddening movements within his car, spinning around and dusting white smoke into the atmosphere, hoping that his honking and obnoxious drifting would be just enough to convince the members of Seungjae’s compound to come outside, far away from the threshold of the large shared garage. With the gates forced open and completely unguarded, Wooyoung spins his car until it shifts straight, flicking on his high-beams as he faces the compound, listening to each loudening voice as they approach the fence just feet ahead. He revs his engine, once then twice, watching as more and more figures appear near the fence, armed with high caliber guns and flashlights, shouting and yelling as if they could penetrate over the sound of Wooyoung’s sports car.

“Moving in right now. Hold them, Wooyoung. Keep their attention,” Yunho stated over the com, their plan continuing smoothly, signaling no signs of issue beyond the threat that stood just in front of him.

“Why don’t you come out, and stop acting like a righteous jackass?” One of the men near the fence yelled, but Wooyoung pretended not to hear him, revving his engine once more. “I mean it, asshole! Come out or fuck off!”

“Be careful,” Yeosang mutters, clicking a few more buttons on his keyboard. “The EMP is about to go off. They’re likely going to panic–”

“The windows are bulletproof,” Wooyoung mutters, hovering his hand over his gearshift. “I’m not scared.”

“It’s not about being scared,” Yeosang comments, closing the screen of his laptop. “It’s about being smart. Remember who you work for now.”

Wooyoung bites his tongue, hesitating, listening as a switch clicks in the back of his car, followed by a loud whirring noise that only escalates in pitch before it switches off, silencing itself for a moment before sending a surge of electrostatic energy through the car and into the surrounding area. Wooyoung’s eyes widened for a moment, watching as the compound fell completely dark, silenced by the blast from the EMP.

“Now.” Wooyoung listens as Minho’s voice breaks through the silence, somehow not thoroughly affected by the blast of the EMP, yet disturbed enough to cause static. Wooyoung flashes his lights again before he hears the sudden onslaught of yelling, broken apart by the revving of his engine as he smacks his gearshift into position again.

A flash of bullets smack into the windshield of Wooyoung’s car, bouncing directly off and into opposing directions, creating not a single dent or crack within the pane of glass. Wooyoung places his car into reverse as he pulls away from the line of fencing, screeching his tires backwards as the barrage of bullets ensues, unrelenting and not stopping, not even bothered by the incoming flicker of beaming headlights coming from their own compound.

“Go, go, go!”

Wooyoung can hear the loud rumbling of engines emerge from his right, speeding out through the gates, exiting in a line that was exactly to their plan. Wooyoung counted the cars, shifting his car back into drive as he followed behind what was supposed to be San’s car, the stolen Bugatti Veyron, tailing behind him as the bullets continued without bothering to stop.

“Minho! How is it looking outside?” San bursted through the coms, though his voice was composed despite the obvious adrenaline coursing through him.

“We’re clear. Yeosang, tap into police radio signals, see if you can get a hold of anything before we lead them straight back to the Velvet.”

“On it,” Yeosang mutters back, re-opening his laptop.

Wooyoung shifts his car into another gear, staying right behind San, just as he was told to. The windows, just like Minho had explained, were blacked out, but he was still a target, nonetheless. Mingi was in the car ahead of San, left in the car they had arrived with, blocking in each of the stolen cars with finesse, leaving no room for error. The coms were alive with chatter, relaying every single traffic light, every single sound, every single sight that they picked up on in their mirrors, and yet, Wooyoung saw nothing behind them. They were clear, away from the compound, successfully having stolen the three cars of San’s choosing. It seemed too good to be true, a mere tale of fiction from a fairytale.

But then he saw headlights.

Three beams of light emerge from the darkness at the back of the street, racing forward with a speed Wooyoung couldn’t hardly believe. His eyes flick back and forth, watching each set of lights part further and further away, until two split in the opposite direction.

“Yeosang–” Wooyoung breathes out, his eyes moving in between mirrors and then back to the road, following closely behind, trying to remain alert. “Three cars. Dead south. Two split off, likely trying to cut us off.”

“Three?” Yeosang asks, his typing now having paused, turning to glance behind him and over his shoulder, now spotting the headlights in question.

Wooyoung glances to his left, watching the buildings pass in a flash of colors and in a blur of movements, but with every break, every single pass of an alley, does he see the image of a speeding car, aligned and in tandem with the position of San’s.

“Minho,” Wooyoung begins, glancing in his mirror. “Where’s the next intersection?”

“One minute ahead. What’s going on back there?”

“We’ve got company,” Wooyoung mutters, turning to look to his right, spotting the same movement from the third car, in tandem with San and the vehicle to the left. “San, when I tell you, I need you to hit your brakes.”

“You’re not calling the shots, Wooyoung–”

“Just trust me!” Wooyoung replies back, glancing ahead of him, spotting the incoming traffic lights.

“Wooyoung, don’t–!”

“Trust me, Yeosang. You might want to put your laptop away.”

“Don’t act defiant! Now isn’t the time for that!”

“I’m not being defiant,” Wooyoung retorts, shifting his car again, veering out to the left, leaving San’s flank exposed. “I’m being smart, remember?”

With a heavy press of his foot, Wooyoung guides his car in line with San’s, keeping steady and keeping pace, aligned and prepared for anything that might become of this interaction. He continues to look left and right, and before he realizes, the cars began to speed up, falling out of tandem and running ahead, making their intentions awfully clear. They’re going to ram San’s car.

“San, I’m serious–” Wooyoung interrupts through the coms, cutting off whoever had been speaking before him. “When I tell you to, pull on the damn e-brake!”

Silence becomes of the call, rushing through waves of static before Wooyoung spots the intersection rapidly approaching. He glances behind him, taking a deep breath inwards, listening as Yeosang tucks his laptop away, but Wooyoung pays no mind. He watches the cars, counting in spurs of threes, trying to connect the dots before they catch him off-guard.

Everything falls into slow-motion. Wooyoung speeds his car up, blocking the front half of San’s car as they move into the intersection, met with the sound of his voice calling for San to pull on his e-brake. Wooyoung can see the lights beaming from behind him, but before he has time to gauge if his plan had worked, he feels the side of his car be smashed into, rattling and breaking his window with a force so strong, the moment his head collided into it and bobbed to the other side, his vision blurred, and everything else faded into dark.

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ꜱᴀɴ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

The moment glass shatters, San’s eyes widen with anticipation. He had pulled on his e-brake, his tires stalling to a halt as the car screeched against the pavement, white smoke trailing up into the atmosphere, all seemingly fading into a blur as he focused on the crash ahead of him.

Wooyoung, as stupid and reckless as he may be, took the brunt of an unprecedented attack that he saw before anyone else. He tracked the movements of the enemy cars, watching from a perspective that resulted in a calculated push to try and divert the attention away from San’s car, taking on the brunt of the attack, leaving San completely unharmed.

The cars steered to a halt, bumping into one another with a trail of broken glass shattered around the street. Wooyoung’s car, now practically totaled, collided into a lightpost, the hood dented inwards as oil and smoke poured out of the broken grille.

“Seonghwa–” San says through the earpiece, guiding his car to a complete halt before shifting into park. “Call for Chan. Wooyoung crashed.”

“He what?” Seonghwa replied back, leaving San to breathe out in irritation. He reaches for the handle of his door, swinging the door open, seeing the bright beam of headlights grow stronger the quicker a car rolls up from behind.

“Mingi, I need you to turn back. Yeosang and Wooyoung are likely hurt. The car is totaled. We can’t wait– we need to rip off the license plate and remove any trace of us from around this area.” San reaches behind him, feeling the weight of his gun tucked into his trousers and against his back, listening as a car skids to a stop behind him, followed by the slam of another door.

He turns, wrapping his hand around the base of his gun, pulling it free, clicking off the safety as he faces the male walking towards him. This male, whoever he was from this opposing gang, raised his gun without hesitance, but San was quicker. San pulls the trigger, firing twice, watching as the male buckled at the knees and simply fell limp.

San tightens his jaw, clicking the safety back on before he tucks his gun away again, smoothing out his jacket as he turns, leaving his car running as he walks towards the crash site, listening to the hums of broken engines and glass crunching beneath his shoes. It was oddly silent, save for the creaks of the raptured vehicles, but it all sent an uncomfortable chill down San’s spine. He was used to this level of chaos, but knowing that his own men were involved in this crash sparked a worry that was unlike him, causing his steps to slightly quicken as he heard the rumblings of another vehicle approaching. Glancing up, San saw Mingi exiting his car, quickly walking towards the accident with his weapon drawn in a protective measure.

“The guy in the Challenger is dead,” Mingi says, his gaze forced on the opposing car before he shifts, looking into the smashed window of Wooyoung’s car. “He’s breathing, but it’s labored.”

“How’s Yeosang?” San asks, rounding the back of the car, moving to the passenger door.

“I’m awake–” Yeosang grits out, the door suddenly being shoved open, followed by a pained grunt. “God fucking dammit.”

“Hey, relax. Take it easy,” San chides, watching as Yeosang balances himself with the door, slowly pushing himself out.

“I’m fine, just sore.” Yeosang winces as he stands properly, but San couldn’t see any physical injuries from where he stood. He did seem to be okay, at least, for the most part.

“Mingi, can you get Wooyoung out?” San asks, looking over the top of the car, watching as the male nods. San turns his focus back towards Yeosang, offering him a hand, but the male refuses it.

“I’m fine, San’ah. I can walk.”

San takes a breath inwards, biting back the words simmering on the back of his tongue. Yeosang, albeit hesitantly, takes a hold of San’s hand, holding onto him, taking a few shaky steps towards him.

“You’re sure?” San asks, dropping his entire facade, feeling a strike of concern meld over his features.

“Positive. Just get me to a car. I’ll be fine.”

San moves around, wrapping an arm around Yeosang’s lower back as the male rests his arm on San’s shoulders, carefully walking in tandem to the back of the car, but he stops at the center of the trunk. With a careful hand, he reaches for the bolts holding the license plate onto the car, undoing them with a quick, practiced movement, unscrewing both bolts before the plate itself comes loose. He looks up, if only for a moment, now seeing as Mingi fully situates an unconscious Wooyoung in his arms, holding him delicately as he kicks the driver’s door shut with his foot. San holds the plate in his right hand, gesturing towards Mingi’s car, only because it was closer.

Mingi followed suit, each step careful and measured as he watched Wooyoung, San leading the pace, though not too far ahead. Sirens were wailing in the distance, but still were too far out for San to worry about the police appearing. Yeosang eventually lets go of San, using the car to help himself towards the passenger seat, walking on his own so San could help Mingi situate Wooyoung in the backseat. Opening the door, San steps out of the way after tossing the license plate onto the floor of the car, ridding themselves of the physical evidence for the time being. He knew he’d have to get Yeosang to wipe the car from the registry, removing every single trace of it legally, considering that it could no longer be driven, but for now, it was enough.

Carefully, Mingi moves to lay Wooyoung down in the backseat, on his back, flat on the seats, his breathing somewhat steadily despite the circumstances of his injuries. San watched over the entire process, taking a step backwards as Mingi closed the door, secluding Wooyoung and Yeosang in the safety of Mingi’s car.

Wooyoung looked oddly peaceful in this state, though the blood streaking down the side of his head mingled with the dirt and debris, casting a weathered look across his usually perfect-looking skin. San stands there, nearly aloof, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest that once seemed peaceful, but now looked rather pained. He could have broken a rib, or even worse, be bleeding internally somewhere, and though San was concerned for his safety, the irritation of knowing that all of this could be avoided, pained him the most.

“Head to the Velvet. I’ll be right behind you,” San orders under his breath, finally tearing his eyes away, giving Mingi a soft pat on his lower back as he walks away, leaving no word for argument or conversation.

The sound of glass echoes out beneath his shoes as he walks back to his car, the headlights brightening the asphalt, shining against whatever remnants of fluid and glass lay ahead of it. San adjusted his jacket, smoothed out his shirt, taking in a heavy breath as he placed his hand on the open door of his car, still hearing the distant sound of sirens growing closer, loudening with every passing breath. He places a hand on his still-open car door, turning to see Mingi’s car beginning to pull away, the engine rumbling as he pressed on the gas. San settles back into his seat, slamming his door, letting a heavy breath sink through his lungs, almost in a motion to relieve the stress.

The image of Wooyoung, unconscious and slumped in the front seat, caused a pang of momentary unease to flash through his veins. He didn’t know Wooyoung, really hardly at all. And yet, this male, as known or unknown as he may be, was still a part of his crew, which made his risk and his injury all that more palpable.

He shifts his car back into drive, carefully maneuvering his vehicle past the remnants of the wreck before pressing on the gas, propelling his car further and further away from the evidence of it all. The world was a blur around him as he sped off, listening to the chatter within the earpiece, but he rather chose to remain silent. He was angry, furious even, completely baffled at how the cars had caught everyone off-guard, except for Wooyoung. Though, now that San was overly thinking about it, Wooyoung did say that there were three cars, and only two had been dealt with.

He checks his mirrors, casting a careful glance between each of the reflections, yet finding only street lamps illuminating the space behind him. It was empty, as it should’ve been, barren of visible enemies or police lights, leaving San to refocus, gazing out at the road ahead of him, trying to guide himself home in the safest manner possible.

The blur of lights, the fading hum of the engine, the cool air coming in from the vents; it all seemed to mask over every single emotion boiling just beneath the surface. San didn’t know what to think. He was lost between conflicting arguments, wanting nothing more than to interrogate Wooyoung about his negligence, while also to praise him for being so vigilant. He hadn’t even been within the cartel for more than a week, and he was already risking life and limb, calling out moves that he didn’t even pass by Minho or San himself, dictating the flow of the mission with one careless, reckless decision.

Even as he arrived back, the atmosphere was suddenly tense, barely interrupted by the sounds of footsteps and engines being killed. The cars were safely parked in the underground garage, organized and accounted for, all of the stolen vehicles untouched, and completely scratch-free. Was it because of Wooyoung’s impulsive nature? Was it because of the ill-timed attack? San couldn’t be sure.

Now, safely back within his own compound, he follows the remnants of his crew inside, listening as the mumbles of conversation fill the void space where silence seemed to reign.

“San’ah,” Mingi calls out from the end of the hall, gesturing towards the medical wing. “Chan is here. He needs to talk to you.”

San nods, continuing his pace down the hall as he watches Mingi disappear back into the room, the voices from the living space dwindling out the further he walked. His steps echoed, bounced off the walls, reverberating in a clinical sense that seemed to mimic the thumping of his heart. He didn’t know what to expect, but for all he knew, Wooyoung could be seriously hurt because of his own impulsiveness, which made San’s head spin in a way he hadn’t expected. He cared for all of his crew members, their safety and health remaining as one of the things he worries for the most behind whatever facade he maintains. Wooyoung, as new as he was, wasn’t isolated from that concern. San knew that Wooyoung could handle himself, but he sure as hell did not have to risk life and limb the way he did.

Turning the corner, San walks into the medic’s office, one of which was usually vacant during the morning hours, and hardly ever called upon. San was strict with his security, lowering the risk of injury by every single way he could manage. But, this was different. Partially, he felt guilty for keeping Chan on call like this, but he worked under his beckoning command, and there’d be no room for argument regardless.

“Thank you for dropping everything to come by,” San begins, watching as Chan looks up from his computer, adjusting the glasses perched on his nose. “I know it’s not exactly ideal.”

“No worries, boss,” Chan says with a breath, though San could sense the undertone of his exhaustion. “He did quite a number on himself, I won’t lie to you.”

San raises a brow, folding his arms against his chest. “Alright. Let me hear it.”

“Mingi described the event partially,” Chan begins, leaning back in his chair. “Car accident?”

“He was practically T-boned,” San says, turning to glance at Mingi. “Where’d you leave Yeosang?”

“Yeosang is lying in the other room. Said his head was hurting, so Chan gave him some painkillers and sent him off to rest.” Mingi leans back, finding a place against the wall as he stands by, earning a slight nod from San as he turns back to look at Chan.

“Right, well,” Chan says, adjusting his glasses. “It’s likely that he has a concussion, since the wound on his head makes me believe that he collided with his window, and beyond that, his shoulder was slightly knocked out of place. He’s going to be out of commission for at least two weeks, San. You’re telling me he’s new to all of this?”

“He just acted. I don’t know what he was thinking,” San explains, shaking his head. “It was careless; reckless, even.”

“But, it saved your ass,” Mingi speaks up, drawing San’s gaze towards him. “What he did might not have been the smartest, but you have to admit, he saved your ass.”

San’s jaw clenched. Sure, he thought, he did save my ass. But at the cost of what? His car being left abandoned in the middle of the street? Those two gang members ending up with their lives lost? Putting Yeosang’s life in danger just because he couldn’t help but be impulsive?

“It doesn’t change how reckless it was, Mingi. Watch your tone with me,” San warns, narrowing his gaze. “I don’t care what could’ve happened to me. Seungjae can send every single man in his house after me, and he will still fall beneath my heel. Don’t forget who owns this city.”

Mingi nods, though curtly, giving way for San to find a sense of his composure, turning back towards Chan.

“Two weeks?” San asks, watching as Chan nods, crossing his left leg over the other.

“Two weeks. No other way around it. He needs time to heal,” Chan gestures to the computer before he sighs, partially glancing between Mingi and San again. “His vitals are normal, which is the best news I can give you. He just needs time, and I mean it, San. This isn’t just someone you can bandage and send out on the streets the next day.”

“I wouldn’t–”

“You have before. I understand you guys have quotas to meet, people to take care of and a reputation to maintain. But take this time to understand the consequences, just for once.” Chan rises from his chair, reaching for his folders and documents, rustling around in his pocket to find his car keys. “Besides, you all could use a break. It’s been a long few months, and I know you want to be rid of your parents. But you have to remember, these men who work beneath you, at the end of the day, they’re just people, and people have limits. Even you.”

San bites back the words hanging on the edge of his tongue, taking a moment to nod, swallowing all of the hateful words fighting to be free. He understood, if just partially, but he was withholding too much resentment, too much anger, all of which screamed to be spoken of.

“I won’t push it, Chan.” San takes a slow breath into his lungs, watching as the male nods, reaching out to place a hand on San’s shoulder.

“He has a list of instructions for his medications sitting next to his bed. Just keep him calm, for now. He shouldn’t wake up for the next few hours, but I’ll be back in the morning to check on him and to stay for a few days.”

“You’re not staying now?” San asks, raising a brow.

“I do have a job outside all of this, San,” Chan says, dropping his tone slightly. “I do work for you, and I am loyal to you, but I have a family I need to support. I’ll be back.”

San nods, albeit reluctantly, but he understood, at the very least. “Thank you, Chan. Mingi–” San turns, facing his bodyguard, “–escort him to his car and out to the gates. Make sure no one is lingering around from Seungjae’s crew.”

Mingi nods, leaning away from the wall as he makes his way out of the medical office, Chan not too far behind him. San stands there, chewing on the interior of his cheek, brushing a hand through his hair as he looks up, eyeing the ajar door just ahead of him. Wooyoung was just through that door, passed out, medicated and recklessly injured, yet alive. San didn’t know if he should be grateful or not, even if a part of him flared with anger at the male’s rash, impulsive behavior.

Quietly, he walks forwards, pressing a hand to the door as he softly pushes it open, just enough to accommodate for himself. His eyes look upwards, catching sight of Wooyoung sleeping in the bed, covered in a thin, woven white blanket, his head tilted to the left, eyes closed, chest moving upwards and down in a steady rhythm, stuck in the deep confines of sleep. There was a bandage on the side of his head, the remnants of a stain running down his cheek from where the blood had leaked past, though San could see the undercurrent of something more within Wooyoung, even from such a distance.

He was tired. His eyes were dark beneath, laden with circles and bags, signifying his reluctance to find the bliss captured with sleep, marking his truth about having insomnia. San’s heart clenches, his steps instinctively finding footing as he roots himself closer, settling in the black chair that was against the wall nearby. He sits down, leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees, his head tilting down, listening to the hums and beeps of the machines, the IV bag nearby dripping with every half-second. 

He sighs, shaking his head, almost in a mock of disbelief. Things don’t go wrong like this, they hardly ever do. But, the rational part of him accepts that accidents happen. Mistakes happen. It’s all a part of life, even if he didn’t want to accept them.

Having been raised beneath a strict regime, San can’t help but feel out of control. He seeks to maintain control, to keep his power, to follow a timeline; but this was different. It fell out of the loop, spiraling out of his control, causing the accident itself to send the plan into a near cluster-fuck, which drove the plan even deeper into the gutter. He was meticulous, maybe a bit over-reactive, or even demanding, but there was a means behind his madness. There always had been. This just simply wasn’t any different.

His parents, who held an overwhelming authority over many political parties within the city, ran a strict household, met with consequences in the form of physical abuse. San learned, from a very young age, to do as he was told, to follow strict orders, to behave a certain way, and to speak with a certain tongue. He never divulged far from that path, acting like a near-robot in front of his parents, watching as they continued to harass and correct his little sister. He couldn’t do anything about it, all in the fear that they’d turn on him, giving him the same hateful corrections for simply saying a word out of place.

Soo-ah, who had been such a bright light in San’s younger years, had always been a bubble of light. The maids, who almost always took care of San and Soo-ah, allowed them to freely express themselves, giving them warnings, preventing them from being found out by their parents. They would color, dress-up, watch movies and eat an absurd amount of junk food, entertaining themselves while being locked away in a lavish estate, one of which began to feel like a heinous prison.

For once, when San was fifthteen, he allowed himself to grow lax. He was open with Soo-ah, talking about his plans for the future, claiming that he’d find a way to get rid of their parent’s fortune, finding a place for just the two of them so they’d never have to endure this ever again. Soo-ah readily agreed, making a serious swear in the form of a pinky promise that she’d do everything she could to help, even if she was only nine years old.

But, one fateful day, San found himself staring at the blood on his hands, knelt down on the ground, his eyes shaking with a rapture of tears he wasn’t sure if he could ever prevent. Their plans had gone astray, not followed correctly, completely abandoned, leaving him to stare at the empty eyes that were once shown with so much adoration and love right back at him. Soo-ah, in all of her youth and genuine kindness, was now riddled in blood, laying lifelessly before San as he sat in the grim surroundings of his parent’s estate.

Even as he resided in this quiet medical room, his hands reaching, clasping together tightly, feeling as the remnants of his control begin to slip past the tip of his fingers. He shakes his head, swallowing a breath, closing his eyes tightly, listening as the steady beat of the heart rate monitor continues in the background, steadying his thoughts, if only for the moment.

He could hear the laughter of his sister ringing through his ears, causing him to wince, feeling the sudden rush of cold blood settling over the palms of his hands. His eyes snap open, his head rushing upright, looking around the scape of the room, taking in a steadying breath. As he settles back into a state of forced-composure, he watches as Wooyoung shifts, his brows furrowing, his breath catching, hand clenching into a fist; almost as if he were fighting off the urge to remain asleep, wishing to be awake.

San watches him, leaning against the back of his chair, listening as Wooyoung mumbles something incoherent before his eyes slowly peel open, his irises shifting around to study his surroundings before his pupils dilate, almost in fear.

“Hey, you’re fine,” San speaks out, watching as Wooyoung’s head snaps in his direction, suddenly softening as realization sinks into his skin. “We’re at the Velvet. You’re safe.”

He nods, leaning back into his pillow, shifting around a bit uncomfortably before he settles, wincing the moment he moves his injured shoulder.

“What happened?” He rasps out, taking a breath inwards, likely soothing the tide of whatever anxiety had mulled over him.

“You got into a pretty bad accident,” San explains, watching as Wooyoung’s brows pinch together. “Do you remember anything?”

“Just. . . watching the car through my window. I can hear the yelling, the pleas to not act like an idiot from Yeosang, but I just–” he pauses, turning his gaze back towards San. “I don’t know. I acted, I guess.”

“You did, but we’ll discuss all of that later,” San assures, trying to suede the conversation elsewhere. “Are you in pain? Do you need anything?”

“No, no, I’m fine, I think,” Wooyoung says, slightly raising his hand to wave it slightly. “I’m just tired– really tired, actually.”

“Rest.” San stands from his seat, approaching the side of Wooyoung’s bed. “The doctor will be back in the morning. Your phone is here–” San reaches for it, taking it off of the bedside table. “Use it to contact me if you need something.”

“I’ll be fine–”

“You might think you are, but your injuries are serious. You’re on strict bed rest guidelines, and it’s important that you give yourself time before trying to run off and do something else that’s impulsive.”

Wooyoung’s once mischievous demeanor softens into something else, maybe understanding or cooperation. Whatever it was, it gave San enough peace of mind to trek back into his office.

“I’m serious. I don’t take injuries lightly, regardless of how long I’ve known you. Rest. There’s nothing more for either of us to do right now.”

For a moment, Wooyoung looked as if he wanted to respond, slowly taking his phone out of San’s hand, choosing to rather stay quiet. San turns on his heel, walking towards the door, setting his hand on the handle before he hesitates, feeling an ounce of his previous self crawl to the forefront.

He didn’t even know Wooyoung, let alone trust him. Yet, here he was, feeling overly protective over someone he’d barely known for more than a few days. But, he couldn’t help but feel a slight, deepening root of concern, wondering if he could’ve done something to prevent all of this. Was there something he hadn’t seen in the planning? Should he have been more vigilant? Should he have paired the teams differently? Should he have not been so rash in plotting to steal something as materialistic as a few luxury cars?

“I mean it, Wooyoung,” San mutters, just barely turning his head to glance over his shoulder. “Don’t fight against yourself. Just rest. I know you have insomnia, and I know it’s hard, but just allow yourself the chance to relax for once.”

Wooyoung’s brows furrow, looking down at his phone, his jaw tightening as he tries to find the words, but nothing comes out. San looks away, walking through the doorway, leaving the door ajar behind him. He wasn’t sure at what was going through Wooyoung’s mind, but he knew it was likely a myriad of stubborn defiance, laced with guilt, or something similar.

Trekking into his office, San opens the door to find both Hongjoong and Seonghwa settled inside, sitting in their chairs, concern laced into their hues. San raises a brow, eyeing them both, moving past them as he strode towards his desk, looking down at the mound of paperwork he had been trying to avoid.

“What’s bothering you?” Seonghwa asks, earning a scoff from San in turn.

“What isn’t bothering me, Seonghwa? This entire night was a fucking disaster.”

Hongjoong shifts uncomfortably in his seat, exchanging a glance with Seonghwa before the male speaks again, leaving San to settle down in his leather chair, too tired to truthfully deal with any of this.

“San,” Seonghwa begins. “I know you, better than you know yourself, sometimes. Both of us have known you for almost a decade, so don’t sit here and pretend that you’re fine. Just because you’re the boss of all of this, doesn’t mean you can’t be upset about something.”

“I am fucking upset about something, but what does it matter? What does it solve?” San places a hand down on his desk, clenching his jaw, turning his gaze away to stare at the stack of papers again. “What would’ve happened if Wooyoung would’ve died? What then?”

Seonghwa is silent, so San continues to talk, uninterrupted.

“He nearly died because of his fucking stupid, impulsive thoughts, none of which anyone dared to convince otherwise. Minho couldn’t stop him, he wouldn’t listen to me, nor Yeosang; he just– he fucking–”

“He did what he had to,” Hongjoong interjects lightly, keeping his tone calm. “Your life was at risk, and he did the very thing any of us would’ve done if we would’ve noticed in time.”

“You do realize that he said there were three cars, right? Only two were taken care of. That means, someone is lurking around the streets looking for us. Seungjae doesn’t know that it was us, but I have a strong feeling, a very fucking strong one, that he’s going to waltz right into my casino and start slaughtering people.”

“You really think he’d test you that openly?” Seonghwa asks, his brow raised in confusion and slight shock. “He’s not that much of an idiot.”

“I stole what’s most precious to him, Seonghwa. I stole his cars, the things that make him the most money besides his collection of illegal drugs. If he doesn’t have these cars, he holds no leverage. He has nothing, and he knows that. Street racers pride themselves on their cars, we all know that.”

“Then, we prepare. We have Hyunjin watch the perimeter, station Yeosang on double security, monitor patrols–”

“Enough,” San spits out, halting Hongjoong’s proposal. “I’ve had enough of this shit. I’m fucking over it.”

“We need to think this through, San. We can’t keep dancing around this for days to come. We need to handle it, and we have to handle it now.” Seonghwa rises from his seat, taking a step closer. “I know you’re scared to lose people San, but Wooyoung is fine–”

“Don’t you dare talk about what I’m afraid of! You have no right to bring up anything about my past right now, Seonghwa.” San rises from his seat too, planting his palms against the desk, trying to withhold his irritation the more his fear propels his anger, but the moment Seonghwa begins to speak again, he snaps.

“San–”

“I said ENOUGH–!” San whips his arm out, sending the entire stack of paperwork and files to the ground, scattered in a messy heap, floating and fluttering down to the ground, completely askew. “I will fucking handle it. Now, please, go to bed. It’s three in the fucking morning and I’m tired.”

Seonghwa looks at Hongjoong, and for a moment, both of the males hesitate. San raises his gaze, pleading with his silence for the males to just leave, to spare themselves whatever rage was still burying itself deeply into San’s core. But, after a few seconds of silence, Seonghwa nods, gesturing with his head as he nods towards the door. Hongjoong follows wordlessly, both of them leaving without the slightest acknowledgement, the door clicking behind them as they leave. San takes a heaving breath inwards, threading a hand through his hair.

He was annoyed, overly so, glancing down at the mess of papers and ruined stability, sending a flurry of irritation to lace across his chest.

He hated lashing out. He hated acting so aggressively. But, more than anything else, did he hate when things spiraled out of control. He was losing himself, losing his composure, losing his sense of control with this crew, watching as Wooyoung openly defied him to protect him, nearly costing him his life and almost injuring Yeosang in the process. San shook his head again, dispelling the anger, if only momentarily.

With a huff, he settles back into his chair, tapping his fingers against the armrest. He looks at his office door, listening as the silence folds inwards, pressing down on his shoulders, reminding him of just how much he was risking himself.

He was losing every single inch of himself to this anger, to this will to control everything. And yet, it’d be worth it all, every single bit of it, just as long as he could put his parents deep in a grave, six feet beneath the earth, right where they belonged.

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

The night passes, as do the days. Wooyoung barely can tell the difference between the morning and the evening with a lack of windows in the medical room, but based on his phone’s clock, he kept track of the time, counting the minutes down until he could leave. Chan had practically scolded him for sitting upright too early just a few hours earlier, claiming that he’d be stuck in this room for a week. Wooyoung just rolled his eyes, offered a nod and polite apology, laying his ass back down before he could get too comfortable with the idea of leaving.

It had been six days since the accident, marking today as the seventh, and though the headaches were lessening, the after effects of his injuries lingered like a bruise, a forever reminder of his recklessness, though he wouldn’t change a thing that he did. Sure, it was overly impulsive, but it was all a part of his grand plan. Mingyu did say by any means necessary, though Wooyoung wasn’t sure if putting his life at risk was one of those means, but it worked. San visited often, only for a few minutes at a time, checking in, asking to call for Chan, making sure that he was okay before disappearing for the entire day, likely looming in his office like the brooding boss he was.

Even now as the clock ticked closer and closer to the early hours of morning, Wooyoung laid awake, starting at the ceiling, listening to the faint rumblings of a podcast echoing out from his phone. He had hardly listened to a single minute of it, too lost in his own thoughts that all seemed to stem from either the mission itself, or San himself. The visits, the conversations, the glances; all of it seemed too soft to be who San was, or for who he seemed to be. San was showing a gentler side of himself, maybe not by choice, maybe out of concern or something that Wooyoung truly hadn’t thought about; fear. He drifted off thinking about the photograph, the details of San’s overly luxurious family and the lifestyle he likely had all those years ago, tumbling down into this underground path that led him to be the most feared man in all of Seoul. Why was he so intimidating some moments, then more human in others? Why was he shedding a layer in front of Wooyoung like this? Did he behave the same way to everyone else?

Wooyoung groaned, using his free hand to rub and press against his temple. His mind was a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts, all dazed from the pain medication and loop of podcast voices that he practically tuned out– well, for the most part, at least. He didn’t even know what they were talking about, whether it was statistics for the city, looming campaigns, press conferences or even just crime within the city. Given that all of this information was from months ago, Wooyoung still listened, hoping that the details of whatever these two men were discussing would simply drown out the other bits of chaos, but at this point, he highly doubted it.

He didn’t intend to get injured like this, completely sidelined in his efforts to succeed in his plan that was meant to end with San six feet beneath the earth. But, now he wasn’t so sure that he was gaining any type of ground. Getting close to San was hard enough, but landing a shot at earning his trust, even if it ended up with him in a hospital bed with an IV in his arm, should do the trick. He had hoped, if only partially, despite Yeosang’s loud calls of protest during the accident, that all of this would entice San into a place of unguarded trust, building some sort of relationship between the two of them. He didn’t know what to expect, but all of this, let alone San’s sudden soft demeanor, hadn’t been anything he planned to see.

Now that it had finally been a week, he half-expected to hear from Chan at some point, trekking back to his room for a sense of comfort, but also for the sake of his other phone. He needed to reach out to Yeonjun, to let him know that he was okay. He had been AWOL for a week, by accident, not really intending on being absent for so long, but he just had to hope that he’d understand.

A sudden knock pulls Wooyoung out of his thoughts, dragging his attention towards the door as it slowly swung open, revealing San, who had held a container of sorts in his hand. Wooyoung raises a brow, reaching his hand down, pausing the podcast on his phone as San steps into the room, closing the door behind him. He looked. . . softer. He was wearing a dark-colored sweater, glasses perched on his nose, jeans clinging to his legs, though his rings remained even despite the softer appearance. His hair wasn’t slicked back and styled like it usually had been, but it was rather intentionally unkempt, messily styled, hanging down over his eyes, likely just having been combed through, but nothing more.

“Hungry?” San asks, gesturing to the container in his hand.

“A bit,” Wooyoung replies, setting his phone aside. “What did chef Seonghwa prepare for me today?”

“Something easy on your stomach; doctor’s orders,” San says as he walks closer, using his free hand to open the container, setting the lid down on the bedside table. “I’m sure you can handle toast and a bit of eggs, can’t you?”

“Of course I can, who do you take me for?” Wooyoung teases back, raising a brow, watching as an amused smirk slightly curls at the edge of San’s lips.

San moves to lay the container down on Wooyoung’s lap as the younger male adjusts himself in the easiest way he can manage, though when he presses too much weight down on his injured shoulder, he winces, the breath of a curse fleeing from his lips as he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to urge the pain to subside.

“Fuck,” he whispers, nearly hunching himself over as his free hand moves, gently pressing against his collarbone.

“Do you want me to help–?”

“I’m fine, I’m okay,” Wooyoung manages to mutter out, tightening his jaw. “Just. . . gotta let it pass. I’m good.”

Wooyoung can hear as San moves his usual chair around, the feet lightly scratching against the laminate floor before it stops, followed by the sound of San sitting down, which was something he hadn’t done before. Well, not since the day of the accident.

Slowly, Wooyoung lets his hand fall away, his eyes fluttering open, taking a deep breath as the aches of his injury drift away. He carefully leans back, adjusting himself just enough so he could eat in peace without having to worry about injuring himself further. His shoulder was only partially knocked out of place from the force of the crash, but after Chan knocked it back into place, a lingering ache persisted, even beyond the force of the pain medication.

“Here,” San says, reaching over, handing over a pair of chopsticks. Wooyoung takes them with his uninjured arm, his fingers wrapping around the utensils with a soft smile, almost grateful for San’s sudden doting nature.

“You don’t have to do all of this, you know.” Wooyoung situates the chopsticks in his hand as he speaks, glancing up, finding San’s gaze. “I know you don’t trust me. So why are you here, even despite the distrust?”

“Trust or not, you are under my care, my watch, my detail,” San comments, tilting his head slightly. “Your well being depends on my actions, and partially, I feel responsible for what happened.”

“It was my stupid ass idea,” Wooyoung reiterates, pointing his chopsticks at San. “I wasn’t thinking rationally, and though I can’t sit here and say that I wouldn’t do it again, it’s my fault. No one else’s.”

“You’d really lay your life on the line for me? For someone you barely know?”

“That’s part of the job detail, isn’t it? I protect you, drive to the best of my abilities, do my job–” Wooyoung rolls his wrist, making a circle with his chopsticks as he continues. “Is it not? Did I not read the contract well enough?”

“You’re something else,” San murmurs, leaning back into his seat, though Wooyoung can see the glimmer of amusement within San’s gaze.

“Maybe,” Wooyoung replies, letting his hand fall away. “But I saved your ass, and I saved that mission. Did I not?”

San’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, Wooyoung truly second-guesses his choice of words. He was a bit too comfortable in San’s presence, maybe a bit callous or thoughtless, but for some reason, San seemed to like that.

“We’ll discuss all of that once you’re healed, Wooyoung. Just eat,” he says, gesturing his hand to the container.

“Well, you’re sitting down, so I assumed you wanted to talk,” Wooyoung begins, moving his glance towards the scrambled, fluffy eggs and lightly-toasted bread within the container. “You don’t usually linger when you come to visit.”

“You’d rather be deprived of social contact for this entire week that you’re glued to that bed?” San asks, raising a brow.

“No!” Wooyoung argues back, shooting his gaze back towards San. “Changbin has visited me. We’ve. . . y’know, talked–”

“About cars, as so I’ve heard,” San says, his words carrying through the space, slightly numb and uninterested, though carrying a twinge of authority as he sat there, looking awfully smug.

“Are you spying on our conversations?” Wooyoung asks, watching as San bites out a laugh, shaking his head.

“Please, you aren’t important enough to have surveillance on twenty-four-seven,” San replies dismissively, folding his arms against his chest. “Changbin just can’t shut his mouth. He goes around telling everyone how cool you are, almost as if he’s vouching for someone else to come in here and chat with you.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes, finally taking a piece of his eggs between his chopsticks, raising the utensils to his mouth before taking the bite, listening as San continues to talk.

“Besides–” he starts. “If I truly wanted to listen to every single minute of conversation you’ve had with any of my family, I would’ve. No one messes with the people that live down here, Wooyoung. You realize that, don’t you?”

Wooyoung pauses his chewing, turning to look at San, nodding his head hesitantly. He knew all of that deep down, as any big, bad mafia boss would clearly state something similar. However, to hear San saying it, a slight firmness, or maybe arrogance, laced within his tone, sent a silent chill down his spine. San always had this intense look in his eyes, almost as if he could swallow someone whole by simply just looking at them. Wooyoung looked away at that, resuming his eating, managing to mutter a reply between bites.

“I know all of that,” Wooyoung explains, his hand pausing. “They’re your family. I get that.”

“More than that,” San says, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “They don’t just work for me, Wooyoung. I trust them, and they trust me, no matter what the world throws at us. I got us to where we are for a designated purpose, a reasoning that you can’t even begin to comprehend. Anyone who ever dares to threaten that will find themselves faced with the barrel of my gun. Is that clear?”

“It’s always been clear, San,” Wooyoung replies. “I’ve never doubted it. I could tell by the way everyone interacts, by the strict regime you control, by the way missions are outlined; everyone has a job and they do it. No questions asked.”

San nods, his protectiveness dialing back, even if just slightly, as he readjusts his posture, taking in a breath before hesitantly releasing it.

“I don’t have family anymore,” Wooyoung expresses, trying to bridge the gap, taking another bite as his words float about in the room between them, causing San’s posture to stiffen once more. “They’re all dead, long gone; I’ve been alone for some time.”

San watches Wooyoung, and he can sense it. Wooyoung can feel San’s eyes upon him, studying his movements, listening to his every word, maybe silently interrogating the male that he seemed so incredibly suspicious of. Wooyoung had no concrete evidence of San’s stance on him, but he had a feeling, and based upon how San was so easily wound up about the simple comment about needing to be watched over, he figured he was right.

“What happened?” San asks. Wooyoung raises a brow, thinking that maybe this conversation was a little too personal, but if he wanted to gain San’s trust, he figured he needed to be as honest as he could afford to be.

“They were murdered,” Wooyoung states flatly, taking another bite. He swallows, chewing on his lip, setting down his chopsticks inside of the container before reaching for a slice of toast, holding it delicately between two of his fingers. “I was barely ten. It was a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry,” San murmurs, earning a soft, almost empathetic, smile from Wooyoung in turn.

“I appreciate that, but it’s alright. I’m healed from it. Besides–” Wooyoung raises the toast to his lips, ushering his words before taking a bite. “I hunted the men down and killed them, anyway.”

San’s eyes widened at that, drawing him further into a point of intrigue, just as planned.

“When was all of that?” San questions, leaning a bit closer, fully lured into Wooyoung’s tale.

“I used to be in the military, from the ripe age of eighteen. I left everything behind, forcing myself to focus on what I wanted most, and that was revenge. I trained hard, earned a name for myself, and when the time was right, I abandoned it all. I left the city, traveled all the way to Busan, found the name of the fucking bastards that slaughtered my parents and put a bullet right between their eyes. That was almost three years ago, I think. Just before I got myself wrapped up into all of this.” Wooyoung takes another bite of his toast, swallowing before he continues. “The driving, the heists, the illegal racing– all of it.”

San nods, clasping his hands together. “So, what? Now you’re just stuck in this lifestyle? What’s your purpose now?”

“I have no idea,” Wooyoung says, his brows pinching together. He pauses, thinking maybe a bit too deeply into a sentiment that was supposed to be a lie, but he couldn’t help the truthful words sinking past his lips. “I’m just. . . here. I’m just surviving in the only way I know how. I’ve been trained to do a lot of things, I know a helluva lot more, and I just– live. I don’t know.”

“I was the same way when I was younger,” San replies, keeping his tone low. “I was filled with this vengeful streak, maybe I still am. I didn’t know how to harness it at the time, but now, it drives me. It fuels everything that I do, the way I manipulate and plan, the routes and the trades I take on. I want to sit here and pretend that I’m not forcing myself to forget the past, but I–”

“You want to kill them,” Wooyoung interjects, setting his half-eaten piece of toast down. “Whoever hurt you, you want to kill them. . . don’t you?”

San’s jaw tightens, but he nods, letting a breath loose after a moment of silence. “Yeah. It feels suffocating at times, but I know better than to let it drown me.”

“That’s the thing about revenge, though.” Wooyoung reaches for the container, holding it in his hand as he hands it off to San, signaling his lack of need in terms of finishing. “It controls you. You act out of impulse, trying to take control of the reins before you find yourself diving in too deeply, but there’s nothing you can do to steer clear of it. No matter your intentions, no matter how clear-minded you think you might be, you’re fucked. Revenge will destroy you from the inside out. It damn near killed me in the process, but I’m here. . . somehow.”

“How did it nearly kill you?” San asks, leaving Wooyoung to sigh as the male takes the container, setting it aside.

“I was very ill-mannered for a long time. I got my ass kicked a lot, disciplined more times than I can count during my training in the military. I was too hard-headed, too keen, too ready to kill someone I didn’t know. I just remember leaving the military and driving straight to that compound, heading in alone with only a pistol, nothing more. I might’ve killed them, San, but I didn’t leave unharmed.”

“So, what changed? Why continue that lifestyle if it nearly killed you?”

Wooyoung shrugs. The truth was hard to admit to, along with the missing details of why he ended up in the agency to begin with.

“I let it go,” Wooyoung admits. “That vengeance, that need to smear the blood off of my mind, that ache to bring myself some sort of peace only brought me more pain. I spiraled down a dark path for a while, grieving my parents all over again because all my actions had done was dig up the past, reminding me of how fucking alone I was.”

San is quiet now, leaning back into his seat as he takes in all of Wooyoung’s words, wetting his lips tentatively.

“I keep doing this because it forces me away from the things that I tried to kill myself with,” Wooyoung continues, glancing down. “I’m impulsive, that hasn’t changed, but it comes with a root of needing to protect something. I don’t know why, but I just. . . feel the need to protect people in a way that I wasn’t able to protect my parents.”

It was true. He didn’t anticipate bleeding himself dry in front of San like this, but he couldn’t help the pull that he felt with San. Maybe it was the urge to finally be honest with someone since Yeonjun never wanted to sit and listen to him, or maybe it was the fact that someone was finally allowing him to just speak without interruption. He had been holding onto this for years and years, and to finally be free of it felt the slightest bit euphoric. Admitting to his faults with San was the bridge he hoped to use in order to get the male to trust him more openly, but in doing so, he felt himself let his guard down, if only slightly, baring the vulnerable state of his mind to guide San into a view of clarity, hopefully to see beyond the impulse of Wooyoung’s actions.

San didn’t know that this was all in a guise to guide them closer together, but at this point, Wooyoung doesn’t care for his mission. Everything blurs together, the line between work and reality now suddenly cracking, leaving him settled in the middle, stuck between his job and that of his current situation.

Mingyu would never sit down and talk to him like this, nor would he ever care about his well-being in terms of injuries. Yeonjun cared about him, he loved him, or at least, Wooyoung thought he did. But this, whatever was happening between himself and San, was warmer than he expected it to be. It wasn’t clinical and strictly professional; it was unreasonably soft.

“My parents did something awful to me,” San suddenly confesses, his head tilted down, his words hesitant. “I just. . . I can’t let them get away with it. They hid everything. The details, the fucking finger prints, the lawyers, the press; all of it. They got away with it and I can’t fucking let them breathe on this Earth knowing that they are just carrying on without even bothering acknowledge what they had done.”

Wooyoung watches San as he talks, noticing the way his hands slowly curl into white-knuckled fists, releasing the fury and piled-up vengeance that he had been storing away, saving it for a prime opportunity to slather someone in an unrelenting blur of violence.

“They sit on their thrones, looking over all of Seoul with all of the political outreach they could ever want and need, almost too stoic, too innocent–” San cuts himself off, tilting his head up, leaning into his chair again, shaking his head. “It’s fucking disgusting. I want them gone, dead, buried; just fucking lifeless.”

Wooyoung nods, staying rooted in his spot, even though part of him aches to try and soothe the tide of San’s unrelenting vengeance. He didn’t know why he wanted to, whether it was because of the ill-sense of similarity, or simply because he wanted to gain that closeness, to finish his mission just as he was supposed to. But it didn’t feel so simple. He was confused, allowing his brows to pinch, watching as San’s fists slowly uncurled, rather choosing to clasp together in a sense of gaining his own form of self-control.

“Don’t let it overtake you,” Wooyoung mumbles, watching the brief flicker of irritation lace itself into San’s eyes. “I’m not saying it to criticize you, but. . . rather because I’ve been there, and I know that feeling all too well. You will drown in it, San. You might think you won’t, but who knows–” Wooyoung shrugs, “–you could already be below the surface, you just don’t know it yet.”

Before San could reply, the door abruptly opens, revealing the figure and familiar face of Chan, wearing his usual glasses and long white coat, accented with jeans and a black shirt.

“Wooyoung,” he greets before his eyes flick over to San. “San, hope you’re both well.”

“Fine, thank you,” San says, swallowing whatever thicket of words hesitated on fumbling through his lips.

“How’s the shoulder?” Chan asks, setting down his bag on another chair on the opposite of the room, near the door. Wooyoung sighs, unsure of how to explain his discomfort.

“The bruise is epic,” Wooyoung explains, earning a smile from Chan. “It’s better, if just slightly. I can manage it. Might just need to relax and rest for a bit longer, but it’s not as bad as it was days ago.”

“Let’s take a look,” Chan says as he walks closer, leaving San to rise out of his seat, giving Wooyoung a brief nod before he leaves, the door slowly clicking shut behind him.

Wooyoung tilts his head slightly to the left, feeling as Chan lowers his shirt, gazing at the skin just beneath. The bruises were indeed stark, deeply colored in purples and blues, but healing, nonetheless. “How much pressure have you put on your arm?”

“Accidentally or on purpose?”

“Either or,” Chan says, his eyes flicking to look at Wooyoung.

“A bit too much, I think. I can do some things with it, but only very subtle things. Too much pressure makes my entire arm fucking ache.”

“That’s normal, but try to lessen your efforts a bit, alright? Give yourself time,” Chan explains, leaning away, pulling Wooyoung’s shirt back over his shoulder. “I’ll prescribe something else to take the edge off, but it wouldn’t hurt to ice your shoulder every now and then. It could ease the tension there.”

“You got it,” Wooyoung says, gesturing with his hand in a mock-salute.

“Oh, I meant to ask,” Chan says, walking away from the bed and towards his bed. “How in the world did you coerce San into sitting at your bedside?”

Wooyoung raises a brow, his lips parted to speak, yet the words hesitate.

“I just mean it in a way that he’s always cared about who’s hurt and who’s in my office, but he’s taken quite an interest in you,” Chan explains further. “Just curious as to why, that’s all.”

“Honestly–” Wooyoung begins, pausing, watching as Chan turns over his shoulder to glance at him. “I don’t know. He was just. . . here. He sat and we talked, nothing more.”

Chan nods, flashing him a small smile. “Alright. I won’t press anymore into it, but I’ll be back tomorrow morning. We’ll check on how you do in your own bed.”

“Really?” Wooyoung asks, his eyes alight with a glimmer of relief. “I can leave?”

“You make it sound as if I was holding you hostage.”

“I mean–”

“Don’t finish that,” Chan says with a laugh, re-approaching the bed. “Yes, I’ll discharge you from here, pull your IV, and let you rest in your own room. Surely that would be a lot cozier than in here.”

“You have no idea,” Wooyoung says, allowing a smile to bleed through.

“Alright, alright. Let’s get you settled then, yeah?”

Wooyoung nods, breathing out a response, allowing his relief to be palpable. “Please.”

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

A few hours later, long after Wooyoung had settled back into his own room, nestled beneath the comfort of his blankets, he found himself searching his bedside table for his phone. He had nodded off accidentally, sleeping off a haze of medications that seemed to overpower his will to seek out his phone earlier, which now left him in a frantic state, not able to remember where he had exactly hidden his personal phone. His fake phone, the one he used around San and the others, was resting on the bed next to him, discarded and forgotten, leaving his hand to rustle about in the drawers in search of something he couldn’t bear to lose.

But, after a minute, he finds his phone, nestled in the back of the drawer, hidden beneath the cover of his book. With a breath, he pulls it free, pressing his fingers against the buttons, watching as it slowly begins to flicker back to life. The screen illuminates, flashing the device’s logo before fading into a lockscreen, one of which he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see anymore. He knew Yeonjun would be pissed at him for being gone so long, but he could hardly ever prepare himself for what was to come.

Quickly, he finds his messages, typing out a message to his partner in the hope that he was awake, or at the very least, not busy. But, the moment his fingers began to type out a message, a flurry of messages flew into his view, presenting an attitude from the male he loved to represent someone he barely knew. Yeonjun was messaging him dismissively, arrogantly, placing his thoughts into a space where Wooyoung seemingly didn’t acknowledge.

Yeonjun

Wooyoung? Where’s the update?

Mingyu is getting pissed, Wooyoung. He’s angry. He needs to hear from you as soon as possible.

Really? Nothing? What are you doing?

Then a day later, the beratement continued.

Yeonjun

Whatever you’re doing, it better be worth it. I trust you to be smart, but why you’re not answering me is beyond me.

Mingyu is losing his cool, Wooyoung. Please respond. Please!

Is it really that hard to just reply back to me? To do your job and give us the update that Mingyu demands from you?

I swear to God, Wooyoung.

It continued for days on end, all of the messages getting more and more irritated the longer Wooyoung’s disappearance became apparent. Yeonjun seemed rather dismissive, upset and overly anxious about his partner’s whereabouts, but not once did a sentiment of concern ever find itself in the tens of messages that he had left. So, Wooyoung replies, albeit sheepishly, truly beginning to fear Yeonjun’s reply.

Yeonjun, I’m so sorry that I’ve been gone. Something happened, and I just needed time to sort it out, but I promise that I’m okay. I’m here now, and I’ll explain everything.

Yeonjun’s reply didn't come for a matter of minutes, but Wooyoung had expected such.

Yeonjun

I was worried sick, Wooyoung. What the hell happened?

I did something a bit impulsive, and I just reacted, I didn’t really think about the consequences. But I’m diving in deeper, I just need more time.

Yeonjun

You really want me to sit here and believe that just because you’re okay, that makes all of this easier to digest? What the hell were you doing? You went missing for a fucking week, Wooyoung. Mingyu has been ripping the hair out of his head because he hasn’t heard a single fucking update from you. San is still very much alive from what we can tell, which is driving him absolutely insane.

We went on a mission, and I didn’t know what to do. There was someone following us, trying to intercept us, and I reacted. I got into an accident and I got hurt. I’m fine, everything is still intact. No one suspects anything.

Yeonjun

You what?

I know, it was stupid of me.

Yeonjun

It wasn’t just fucking stupid, it was reckless! Are you an idiot?!

Don’t you dare call me that, Yeonjun. I was told to limit my contact, to focus on my job, to do as I was told. You cannot sit over there and judge me for handling this in the only way that I can. It’s just me over here, glued into enemy lines, dealing with all of this alone. Not you.

Yeonjun

Oh, but it’s okay to risk your fucking life for the same dude that you’re supposed to be killing and burying right now?

I never said that! Why are you being such an asshole?

Yeonjun

Because you’re acting like an oblivious fucking moron. Why do I always have to point shit out to you? Why can you never just do your job, no questions asked? Why are you always worrying about the smaller details when there’s a bigger picture to take care of?

Go fuck yourself, Yeonjun. Seriously?! After a week, plus me mentioning that I nearly DIED, you’re seriously going to sit here and reprimand me for being silent?

Yeonjun

At this point, I don’t care. I don’t know who you are anymore. You’re acting like a child. You’re not the Wooyoung I knew back in our training days, the Wooyoung who risked life and limb for his comrades, not some random fucking people you’ve met barely a month prior.

You don’t know what any of this is like, Yeonjun. Stop pretending to be so high and mighty.

Yeonjun

Well, whatever it is that you’re doing, I don’t care anymore. Have fun fucking around and fucking San, because by the looks of it, you’d rather protect that asshole than anyone else here at the agency or in Seoul.

Why do you automatically jump into cheating? Do you truly think I’d ever do that to you?!

Yeonjun

You’ve been absent for a week Wooyoung, what else am I supposed to think?

I don’t even know who you are anymore. You’re acting like an insecure child, Yeonjun. I’m not going to sit here and listen to this shit anymore. Go fuck yourself.

Yeonjun

At least someone will fuck me, because you sure as hell haven’t in the last six months.

I’m done.

Impulsively, Wooyoung shuts his phone off, squeezing the device in his hand, taking it and tossing it as hard as he possibly could towards the wall. He hears the device smack the wall, followed by a thud as it landed on the floor, truly placing space between himself and whoever the fuck he was speaking with over text.

Yeonjun had never been so angry with him, let alone manipulative, but whoever that was, Wooyoung wanted no part of it. As of right now, until they could truly chat face-to-face, they were done. They were over.

He would see to the end of his mission, go through with his duties, all in a mere reaction to prove Yeonjun wrong. Maybe he was being callous, or a bit rash, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care anymore. Caring is what got him into this position to begin with. So, he thinks. I just won’t care anymore. I’m alone in this, just like I always have been.

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

“Do you really think he’ll be upset with me?” Wooyoung asks, sitting on the edge of his bed as Changbin settles at his desk, holding his laptop open on his lap.

“I mean–” Changbin shrugs. “He’s been upset, I don’t think there’s any changing that.”

“Is everyone mad at me?” Wooyoung glances at Changbin, his hands fidgeting with one another as the male sighs, looking down at his laptop.

“Mad isn’t the correct term. I think confused fits better,” Changbin explains, though Wooyoung feels even more puzzled than he had before. “No one really knows you, Wooyoung. I don’t think anyone really has a reason to be pissed about it all, especially when San’s safety was in question. You just acted; we can’t fault you for that.”

“But had you been there, would you have done that?” Wooyoung questions, but Changbin doesn’t provide an immediate answer. He stays quiet, fingers hovering over his keyboard before he shrugs again, his jaw slightly tight.

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “I’m not usually on mission detail. I oversee all of San’s communication data, transfers, bank accounts and all of his meetings. But, yeah. . . maybe. It’s our job to work beneath him, to protect one another, but most importantly, to protect him. He’s the one who runs this operation, and without him, what are we?”

“Nothing, I’d assume.” Wooyoung glances down, his legs swinging slightly as he sits on the edge of his bed, aimlessly moving to try and distract himself.

It wasn’t that he was overly concerned about his place within the cartel, but rather worried about San’s reaction. He hadn’t yet seen a negative side of San, moreso an indifferent, curious side. His protectiveness knew no bounds, and yet, Wooyoung was treading over every single boundary that was apparently set in place the moment he signed his life away to this group, dancing across it with little thought placed into the consequences that were sure to follow.

Changbin, who had been visiting Wooyoung in his room almost every day at this point, had proved to be a comfort in all of this chaos, especially with the falling out with Yeonjun. Changbin, of course, didn’t know about any of that, nor would Wooyoung ever confess, but to have someone to talk to, even about anything and nothing at all in particular, made his healing all that much more tolerable. At this point, Wooyoung had been removed from Chan’s strict regime, fully weaned off of his medications and healed after the impact of the car accident. His shoulder was still stiff from time to time, but it wasn’t anything that a few stretches and a bag of ice couldn’t soothe.

It had been about two weeks since he had properly been in the accident, marking his time within this cartel at just under a month. He hadn’t turned his personal phone on once since the incident with his now-ex, nor did he wish to. He knew Mingyu would be cursing and swearing, sending orders, demanding updates; it was all things he didn’t wish to hear. Right now, Changbin was his comfort, even if he had to hide everything about the true root of his problems from his friend.

“You’re right. We’d be nothing. San really motivates and dictates every action that we take, and without him, I don’t think a single person could rule the underworld of Seoul in the way that he does.”

“Can you imagine Seoul any other way? Run the way the rest of the world is? Without a ringleader that is hiding beneath the cover of a casino, without the mask of power fueled by billions?”

Changbin pauses, confusion causing his brows to pinch. “You really think the rest of the world isn’t corrupted?”

“Didn’t say that, just. . . hypothetical.”

“You and I both know that Seoul isn’t even the tip of the iceberg,” Changbin replies, keeping his tone low and even, though Wooyoung can sense the undercurrent of curiosity resting just beneath. “Incheon, Busan, Gwangju, Daegu–” Changbin pauses, “–they’re all connected because of San.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened a fraction, but not enough for Changbin to notice. That detail was not known by Mingyu, nor had he realized just how far San’s grip had reached.

“This underground business, this entire empire, relies on San’s intimidation. No one bends the rules beneath him, and no one dares to trip over his boundaries. He sets the tone for this entire business, and because of that, everyone you think holds power within Seoul, fears the true power that San actually has.” Changbin glances at his laptop, then leans back into the chair, gesturing slightly with his free hand while the other balances his laptop. “Politicians, the police, lawyers– they’re all chess pieces in San’s game. He just moves them in the way he sees fit, balancing his assets while he waits for his enemies to make their own moves. They never see it coming, though.”

“See what coming?” Wooyoung asks, watching as Changbin smiles, adjusting his glasses.

“Have you ever heard about what they say in regards to sharks?” Changbin asks, his head turned to eye Wooyoung more directly. Wooyoung shakes his head, raising a brow. “They lurk beneath the shadow of the tide, and when the moment’s right, they strike. San’s always been like a shark, everyone else. . . they’re just fish in an ocean of his creation.”

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

Wooyoung, lazily, listened to Changbin complain and work through his paperwork that San had gifted to him at midnight the night previous, typing loudly while muttering things beneath his breath at other times. Wooyoung, on the other hand, laid on his bed, staring at his ceiling, twirling his ring around his finger absentmindedly. His thoughts felt like a rapture of things, all entangled in a fuss of feelings that felt somewhat difficult to decipher.

He had to go and meet San in a few moments, not that he particularly cared all that much, but he knew San wanted to get his point across. Reckless, idiot, impulsive; blah, blah, blah. It was the same shit Yeonjun would spew in this same exact manner, leaving Wooyoung to truly dread every single moment of this meeting. Changbin was trying to be supportive, giving Wooyoung a pat on the shoulder, followed by some charming, teasing remarks that somewhat grew a smile on his lips, but nothing more. Wooyoung was thankful, truly, but it wasn’t enough to dismantle the worry that was tightening in his chest.

Now, he was walking down the hall, casting his gaze side to side as he eyed the familiar surroundings of the long, intimidating corridor, spotting the familiar drag of wooden doors that seemed way too grand for their own stature. He reaches for the handle, briefly hesitating before allowing himself to walk through, listening as the door clicks behind him the moment he closes it. He turns, spotting the lingering, overwhelming stare from San as he sits at his desk, twirling a cigar between his fingers. It was lit, smoke lightly twisting around the room as he leaned into his chair, his eyes nearly burning into Wooyoung’s skin. Wooyoung hated him.

He looked overly powerful, demanding and overwhelmingly stoic in the worst, smoke-filtered way. His crisp white shirt was slightly unbuttoned, his hair slick, eyes sharp as he watched Wooyoung’s every single move, anticipating something; anything.

“You wanted to see me?” Wooyoung asks, trying to remain nonchalant, though they both knew what this was entirely about.

“We’ve got things to discuss,” San says lowly, leaning towards his desk just enough to set his cigar down, leaning on an ashtray. “Sit.”

Wooyoung tightens his jaw subtly, following San’s command as he lingers closer, moving to sit down in one of the chairs placed at the front of San’s rather large, wooden desk. He folds his left leg over the other, hands in his lap, looking up at San as the male shuffles a few folders around, setting them aside, straightening his posture before he speaks.

“The mission,” San begins. “We had a clear motive in mind. Steal the cars, take back what was mine, send a message. You did what was asked of you; causing a scene, forcing a distraction, giving us enough time to sneak past their security in order for us to take those cars.”

Wooyoung remains quiet, watching as San continues to speak, his expression stilled, revealing little to nothing, giving Wooyoung nothing to read into.

“You put yourself at risk. You saw a threat, you communicated what you saw, and you acted.”

For a moment, Wooyoung expects partial, subtle praise, but he’d be incredibly wrong.

“It was reckless and idiotic. You could’ve been killed, and you could’ve seriously injured or killed Yeosang at the cost of your foolishness.”

“Seriously?” Wooyoung replies, raising a brow. His words bit harder than he truthfully intended for them to, but after a repeat scolding from Yeonjun, hearing the word idiotic really pushed his buttons. “I save your ass, save the mission as a whole, and this is the word of thanks that I get?”

San’s brow raises, a flicker of intrigue passing over his feature before it melts into something darker, something more sinister.

“Watch your tone,” he mutters in a sneer, though his tone was completely, and unnervingly, calm. “I’ve sat and I’ve thought about it for some time, considering your recovery. It was reckless and it was incredibly impulsive. You yourself have even said that you’re impulsive, have you not?”

Wooyoung digresses. He did say that. He didn’t regret that he said that so honestly, but now hearing it, watching as San used the term against him, all seemed to ignite an irritant that must’ve been rooted somewhere unseen.

“I know I’m impulsive, I don’t need you to point it out to me. But I did what I had to in order to protect you. Nothing more, nothing less. I know how to drive, and I knew how to absorb that impact. Risking your safety was not in the mission debrief. As far as I’m concerned, like I’ve been trained, protecting the one in charge is typically the most important thing one could do.” Wooyoung folds his arms against his chest, listening as San chuckles deeply, something that was enough to spark another layer of irritation within Wooyoung’s chest.

“Don’t forget who you’re talking to,” San mutters, leaning back in his chair, watching Wooyoung with a smug smile. “You may work for me, receive payment beneath my deposits, live under my roof, but you will never be able to win an argument against me. There is a code we live by, a work of ethics that keeps us all safe. I cannot sit here and let you walk away thinking that what you did was any semblance of okay.”

Wooyoung bites his tongue, but just as he motions to quiet himself, he watches as San’s smirk grows, his intrigue only growing further.

“Cat got your tongue?” He asks, causing Wooyoung to squint his eyes slightly, trying to filter the words spilling off of his tongue. San smirks, his eyes flicking down towards something before trailing back upwards, causing Wooyoung to nearly squirm in his seat. He isn’t uncomfortable, but he’s rather uneasy. He can feel San’s eyes on him, trailing across his skin, the line of his tailored clothing, the jut of his jaw and the flutter of his eyelashes, and yet, he does nothing to stop him. It was. . . flattering. Oddly, Wooyoung allows San’s eyes to linger, turning his head, taking a subtle breath inwards as he listens to San’s husky hum trail off of his tongue, finding amusement in something.

“You see, Wooyoung–” he begins, the chair creaking beneath his every movement with a quiet shift of leather, drawing the younger’s focus back towards the male, listening to his every word curl in the space between them. “What you did really fucking pissed me off, I’ll be honest. I could sit here, have you killed without even raising a finger, and yet, I have zero trail on who you really are.”

Wooyoung raises a brow, lips parting to speak, but San raises his hand.

“You’re like a ghost, and for some fucking reason, I like that about you, even though you piss me off with every impulse and rash decision that you make. You’re like an unkempt fire that’s bound to unravel into a wildfire, to burn freely, to escape everything and everyone, destroying everything in its path. Many have run from you, have they not? They’ve seen this destructive behavior, this impulse and this child-like thought process that you maintain, and they run for the hills.” San leans closer, dropping his tone. “Don’t they?”

Wooyoung tries to remain as unphased as he can, but the growing frown of disapproval was likely more stark than he realized.

“You’re unkempt. Untamed. Untouched.” San reaches for his cigar again, letting his lips wrap around it before inhaling, letting the cigar burn before he releases it, allowing a slow breath to part from his lips along with a noticeable trail of cigar smoke. “I respect that you have ideals to maintain, a certain. . . code to live by, per se. But listen to me when I say this, Wooyoung–” San turns, his free hand raising, pointing in a manner that sends a twinge of anger to spiral through his veins. “I will fucking kill you if you step on my toes again. Stay in line and do as you’re told. No more gallivanting, no more impulsive decisions. You’re in my mafia. You’re surrounded by my men. You’ll be dead before you can even blink if you try that shit again.”

Wooyoung, after a moment, curtly nods. His jaw is tight, eyes alight with a fire that he was sure San could sense or rather see, but he didn’t care. He was angry, downright pissed, listening as the male sat across from him as if he were completely untouchable. What was stopping Wooyoung from leaping over the desk and ending all of this now? What was preventing him from sneaking into San’s room at the dead of night, killing him while he sleeps, then escaping through the door without notice?

Nothing, apparently. Yet, he chooses not to.

Wooyoung bit back his words, carefully entwining his hands together so tightly he nearly was white-knuckled, sitting in his seat with the utmost elegance that he could dare to portray. San was overly infuriating and demeaning, settled on his leather throne of arrogance and lies. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing him crack, nor did he really want San to see any reaction out of him, but by the time he registers San’s voice speaking again, his grasp lessens, feeling a subtle numbness beginning to creep in.

“Do you understand me?” San asks, narrowing his eyes, using his closest elbow to lean against his desk, closing the distance with an obvious taunt, lowering his tone as he speaks once more. “I said, do you understand me, Wooyoung?”

“Yes,” Wooyoung mutters back, keeping his eyes locked onto San’s, which somehow began to portray the very eyes of the one he laid in bed with every night. The same eyes that demeaned him, that threatened him, that expressed lies of love and lust and yet treated him like complete shit.

San and Yeonjun were so irritatingly similar, and Wooyoung couldn’t stand it.

“Go,” San dismisses casually, pulling his cigar back towards his lips. “I’m done talking.”

Wooyoung rises out of his chair, straightening his shirt before he turns on his heel, leaving with an unrelenting, burning anger that only seems to deepen with every echoed step that he took. He could hear the faint growl of San’s dog somewhere from within the room, followed by the scent of cigar smoke and San’s husky cologne, which all made Wooyoung’s stomach twirl with uneasiness.

He steps through the doors, closing them behind him, allowing his feet to carry him back towards the quiet den of his own room. An involuntary chill of sudden coldness settles along his spine, causing him to flinch, taking in a breath, a hand fleeing up towards the back of his neck as he rubs the skin there, closing his eyes as he pauses, listening as his heart races against his chest.

Was he angry? Was he getting sick? Was San really having this much of an effect on him after one measly meeting?

Wooyoung didn’t know, but what he did know was that he could feel San’s eyes on him that entire time he walked back towards the doors, almost as if they were glued into his back, burning holes through his clothes and skin, trying to break him apart in any single way he could manage. That, and that alone, sent an unnerving chill to settle along his skin in a manner that he couldn’t easily shake. He knew he needed to end this mission as soon as possible, or maybe, just maybe, would San figure him out before he could even begin to unravel this entire cartel.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

The night drags on uncomfortably, but Wooyoung doesn’t mind. He’s three bottles of soju deep, laughing in the living space as he watches Changbin make an absolute ass of himself in front of the two males he assumed were Minho and Jisung, who had been watching with amused smiles. Changbin had been trying to balance a bottle on his head for the last twenty minutes, yet nearly dropped it every single time, somehow avoiding letting it crash down to the floor. He likely was drunk too, doing shots with Minho to gain courage, or so he explained, to confront his ex. He never did text anyone, now that Wooyoung was thinking about it, but he didn’t care. He was slightly drunk, unable to feel anything except the fleeting, floating feeling of being free of the anger that once consumed him.

“Bin’ah,” Minho scolds, his one arm draped around Jisung’s shoulders in a casual manner. “Stop pussy-footing around it. Just walk. The bottle will stay as long as you walk in a straight line.”

“I don’t think he’s capable of that,” Wooyoung says, taking another drink from his glass that was currently full of whiskey on ice.

“Am too!” Changbin argues, turning slightly to point at Wooyoung. “You’re just a hater, Young’ah. Watch the magic happen!”

“Magic?” Wooyoung questions, listening as Jisung laughs from the opposite sofa. “More like a circus act.”

Changbin pouts, but he continues on, focusing on the task at hand. He places his arms straight out, moving one foot in front of the other as he begins to walk in a slightly-steady straight line. It’s not entirely graceful, but Wooyoung can hear Minho and Jisung’s laughter from where he was sitting, and by their laughter alone, he could only begin to guess at what face Changbin was making. He couldn’t tell, as Changbin’s back was to him, but the moment Changbin half-steps on his own shoe, he wobbles, a slight, drunken-squeal emerging from his lips as he trips fully, the bottle falling until it crashes against the floor. Minho and Jisung were beside themselves, laughing loudly as Changbin stared at the wreckage in defeat, blinking several times as if he was trying to understand what had just happened.

Wooyoung stifles his laughter with his hand, unable to contain the flurry of giggles as Changbin raises a hand before completely face-palming himself.

“Do I even need to say, I told you so?” Wooyoung asks between giggles, watching as Changbin allows a smile to creep onto his lips.

Wooyoung shakes his head, watching Changbin as the male moves to sit on the edge of the sofa, looking down at the scattered pieces of his empty bottle, only to be interrupted by a familiar voice striking a chord of fear within him.

“Dropping bottles, are we?” San asks, looking down at the mess.

“Not on purpose–”

“It was on purpose,” Minho interrupts Changbin, earning a glare in return, which only was met with another flurry of laughter.

Wooyoung glances up, finding that San’s eyes had also risen, meeting his own with an electric current that hadn’t yet dimmed. Wooyoung was still angry, even if it was buried deep beneath the haze of soju and the burn of whiskey. He didn’t like how arrogant San was, how he seemed to be untouchable in his little throne room. He was just another person, sitting beyond a desk, calling the shots while everyone else did his dirty work. Just like Yeonjun had been.

Yeonjun wasn’t like Mingyu, of course. He didn’t oversee all of the missions and hear directly from the government, however, he was a specialist, which ranked him higher than Wooyoung. Yeonjun was never nice about the orders he gave to Wooyoung, and Wooyoung never expected him to be, however, every single time there was something mentioned about a detail or drop point, Yeonjun spoke down to him, almost as if he held no comprehension skills. San, in some manner, spoke with the exact fucking same dictation. And in that, Wooyoung feels the fire quell stronger, burning from either the sting of liquor, or from a familiar fire that had been ignited weeks ago.

“I’ll be in my office. Clean up the mess, Changbin,” San demands casually, not quite putting a stop to their fun, nor really encouraging it. Wooyoung raises a brow, almost seething in his damn seat. He fucking hated him.

“Buzz kill,” Wooyoung mutters as San turns the corner, watching as Minho and Jisung eye him curiously, yet stay wordless.

“He’s just. . . bleh,” Changbin tries to explain, though not really providing an explanation for anything.

“Bleh?” Wooyoung asks. “The fuck does that mean?”

“He’s not one to sit and drink with us,” Minho continues, trying to cover up for whatever drunken slur of words were about to leave Changin’s lips. “He prefers his solitude. He’s always been a bit quiet.”

“He calls you guys family, but he won’t have a drink with you all?”

Minho shakes his head. “Never has.”

“What an ass,” Wooyoung mutters to himself, taking another drink from his glass.

Yet again, another similarity to Yeonjun. Isolating himself, drinking in the lone of night, withholding secrets and plans, sharing nothing, closing the door to who he truly was, and for what? Privacy? Fear? The inability to trust a single fucking person on this planet?

Wooyoung rises out of his seat, strolling over to the liquor cart that had been nearby, wrapping his fingers around the neck of a rather expensive-looking brand of whiskey.

“What are you doing?” Jisung asks, turning to glance over the edge of the sofa.

“He’s going to come and drink with us, whether he likes it or not.”

“You’re awfully determined,” Changbin mutters, smirking lightly. “Got a soft spot for the boss?”

“Soft spot?” Wooyoung spats. “Fuck no. I just hate it when people isolate themselves and pretend to be high and mighty afterwards. We’re in this hellish shitshow together, and it’s about time he starts acting like it.”

“He won’t like that–” Minho tries to warn, But Wooyoung waves him off with a drunken smile.

“He’s going to have to,” Wooyoung replies, beginning to walk away. “I’m rather. . . persuasive.”

With measured, careful steps, Wooyoung marches himself towards San’s office. He was fueled by irritation, along with the burn of liquor and something else. Something more. . . brazen.

Lazily, Wooyoung swings the door open, a bottle of whiskey hanging in his palm as he waltzes forward, a daring smile fading across his lips. He didn’t know what he was doing, nor did he feel a specific way about any of this. He was pissed off, drunk, and maybe a little vengeful, but sue him.

Fueled by the burn of soju and whiskey alight in his veins, his eyes find San’s from across the room, watching as the male raises an unamused brow, settled back in his chair with his black button-up partially opened at the top. Wooyoung wets his lips, taking a step further into the room, letting the door slowly click shut.

“You need to let loose,” Wooyoung chides, his smile inescapable.

“I’m plenty relaxed right now, Wooyoung. Go join your friends. I’m busy.”

“Busy doing what? Being arrogant? Talking all high and mighty as if I’m the only one who brings you any trouble.” Wooyoung saunters closer, swirling the amber liquid around in the glass bottle, listening to the slight swish as a consequence of his rotating wrist. “I don’t like to do as I’m told, San. And yet– you push my buttons, all the time. Do you realize that?”

“I thought you played well with others?” San questions, now somewhat intrigued by whatever game Wooyoung was playing.

“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t,” Wooyoung mutters, tilting his head, stopping right before San’s desk, setting the bottle of whiskey down with a soft thud. “You, as a matter of fact, drive me fucking insane. All of these orders, all of these expectations, all because you’re– what? Intimidating? Cold? Brooding?”

Wooyoung leans closer, pressing a hand flat on San’s desk, towering over the length of the oak. “I don’t fear you, Choi San. I fear nothing.”

San smirks, furthering his amusement, leaning back into his chair. Wooyoung watches him, feeling an impulsive string of words settle at the base of his tongue, watching as San’s smirk only deepens, his eyes somewhat alight with amusement and humor as this conversation only continues further.

“You don’t fear me?” San asks, tilting his head, his eyes sharp with something Wooyoung hadn’t seen before. He was acting arrogant again, almost as if he knew everything, or as if he held every single answer for every single altercation he’d come across. He was used to getting whatever he wanted, without consequence, all at the flick of his wrist or snap of his fingers, which made Wooyoung’s stomach curl. He could feel the irritation boiling beneath his skin, causing his eyes to narrow, the flush from his drunken haze only growing further as San sat forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the darkened oak.

“Tell me–” he says lowly, his eyes tracing a delicate, vulnerable line across Wooyoung’s jawline and features. “Why is it that you think you can undermine me? You act as if you’re so smart, so unruly, yet the moment you’ve stepped foot through that door, you’ve done as you’ve been told, without a single word of rebuttal. You may not be scared of me, Wooyoung, but you have to admit, I do own you.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened, taken aback slightly, which must’ve been the exact reaction San sought to draw out from him. San chuckles, reaching upwards, pressing a finger beneath Wooyoung’s chin as he tilts the male’s head, forcing their eye contact to withhold laser focus.

“You can’t even tell me that I’m wrong. You’re calculated, impulsive, reckless, and you’re such a fucking pain in my ass that it drives me insane,” San breathes out, almost as if he had been holding such irritating words from within himself for much too long. “You think you can waltz into my dealings, raise hell, act rashly and behave however you wish to? Well, you’d be very fucking wrong, Wooyoung.”

“Prove it.” Wooyoung watches as San’s smile falters, if only for the flash of a second, but it still struck a chord in the fashion Wooyoung had hoped for it to. “You can be intimidating, cold, and arrogant all you want to those who serve you loyally, without question. But I see right through you, San. I see the pain. I see the anger. I see the little boy who hates his parents for what they did to him. You’re weak, just like me–” Wooyoung smiles, driven brazenly once more by the burn of souring liquor. “Admit it, San. You need me. Otherwise, if I irritate you so fucking badly, why am I still here?”

Steadily, San retracts his hand, his jaw tightening, the admission acting like a spark between the two as their standoff only deepened. One wrong move, and it seemed like the entire office would be cast up in flames from the light of a simple match.

“I challenge you– is that what it is? Is that what you’re into?” Wooyoung asks, smiling wildly. “I bring out a side of you that you wish you could contain, and yet, here we are, talking in throes of power, thinking that you’re in control, but just know that the moment I leave this room, I will have won. You want something I won’t give you, and that in itself is more powerful than whatever power you claim to withhold.”

“You think you can just walk out of here?” San asks, his hand reaching, fingers tapping against his desk before he stands up. “You truly believe that you can talk to me like this without a single shed of consequence?”

“I don’t think, San,” Wooyoung mutters, smirking as he speaks. “I know.”

San stands there, his chest slightly heaving from the anger simmering beneath the surface, but Wooyoung just remains still, smiling and watching the effect of his presence slowly begin to unravel every single asset of San’s facade.

San was callous, manipulative and irrational. Wooyoung hated him, or maybe he hated how he thought that he could just control every single aspect of everyone’s lives. He and Yeonjun, both hateful, spiteful and hard-headed, made Wooyoung’s blood boil. They were both so arrogant, thinking that the world owed them something, yet they did nothing to truly deserve said power. Wooyoung wanted to prove something, to prove that he was more than all of this, yet, for some reason unbeknownst to him, the alcohol burning his stomach causes him to reach out, wrapping his fingers around the golden chain that was once resting against San’s exposed chest. He pulls him closer, their faces inches apart, breaths warm against unkissed lips.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Wooyoung mutters, brows furrowing, fingers tightening around the cold golden jewelry, struggling not to simply rip it off of his neck. “You’re a dick to everyone. You’re cold and you’re fucking obsessed with destroying everything within Seoul–”

“Don’t act like you know me,” San protests, staring at Wooyoung with eyes so dark, Wooyoung couldn’t tell if the male withheld a soul any longer. It was like he was possessed, riddled with darkness, overrun by a demon that was starting to slowly crawl out from his inner, poisoned-self.

“I do fucking know you. You’re just like every piece of shit man that I’ve ever met. Spiteful, entitled, thinking that they're bigger than everyone else because of what? Money in your pockets? Mommy and daddy’s fortune feeding your entire fucking empire? Admit it to me San! You’re just a fucking coward!”

“Fuck you,” San retorts, reaching up to grab Wooyoung’s wrist, squeezing with a force that was nearly vice-like. “You’re an impulsive, annoying, careless idiot who knows nothing except how to drive a fucking car.”

“Well this impulsive, annoying and careless idiot saved your fucking lazy ass two weeks ago!”

For a moment, Wooyoung watches as San’s face twists further in anger, and for a fraction of a second, he regrets the drunken, hateful words spewing from his tongue. But, the moment Wooyoung’s lips part to speak, San shakes his head, chuckling lowly, his hand moving away from Wooyoung’s wrist and down to his shirt, grabbing a hold of his lowered collar.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” San muses huskily, though the faint trace of a smile breaks through, causing Wooyoung to pause, questioning the entire conversation before he feels himself be pulled closer, his lips brushing up against San’s. “I own you, Wooyoung. Your life, your heart, your blood– you signed it all over. You just won’t admit it because you’re too caught up in the idea that you hate me.”

Wooyoung’s breath hitches, almost in pure reaction to the sudden lust clouded in San’s dark eyes, suddenly causing him to reel back in the throes of reality that felt to be slipping away from his fingers. The alcohol may have been enticing him to further this encounter, but he didn’t mean for this to turn into. . . this, whatever this was.

But, before he can even speak in protest, San’s opposite hand snaps Wooyoung’s away before curling into his shirt, keeping him still as their lips collide in a messy, battling kiss. Wooyoung wants to resist, wants to pull away and scream obscenities, but the sensation of San’s lips moving against his, riddled with the lingering taste of whiskey and soju, urged on by the share of warm breaths, only made his resolve crumble into a million, fruitless pieces. He was melting into it, but not passively, rather stroked by the same fire that curled the same anger just moments ago.

He was pissed, not wanting to let San take control, refusing to let the male hold any type of power over him, regardless of how any of this were to turn out. He swallows his whimpers, gasps and whines, pressing into San, feeling as the male ripped and tugged at his shirt, scrambling to pull him closer, nearly on top of the desk. Wooyoung follows, not wanting to be seen as weak for running from this or backing down, but rather fighting against it, raising a knee onto San’s desk before the other followed, now sitting on San’s desk, his hands finding purchase on San’s shoulders as he forcibly tried pushing him backwards towards his chair. San wasn’t easily swayed, standing put, demanding his own space, curling his hands around Wooyoung’s waist as he drew him closer and closer, impulsively dragging Wooyoung to the edge of the desk until his legs were split, welcoming him in between.

Wooyoung doesn’t fight him; not now, not yet, playing it out, listening to the rumbles and growls settled at the back of San’s tongue, waiting for his own moment to display whatever dominant, arrogant behavior that he could manage. Wooyoung, though, wasn’t having it. In a rash move, Wooyoung grabs a hold of San’s shirt, struggling with the first button before he forcibly rips it open, thread by thread, listening as the buttons scatter across the floor and onto the desk, but San didn’t seem to care. Wooyoung’s motions are mirrored by San, clothing now being scattered and ripped off of one another, followed by the unbuckling of belts and tossing of pants and underwear, leaving them utterly nude and pressed against one another with a fervent energy so powerful, it made Wooyoung feel like he was drowning.

“God, I can’t fucking stand you,” San rasps out, taking a moment to breathe, curling his fingers into Wooyoung’s hips.

“I can’t stand you either,” Wooyoung breathes back, pressing a hand to San’s chest, trying to control the moment, but San didn’t give in. He grabs Wooyoung’s wrist, forcing his hand back down. San tilts his head, inching closer, dragging his lips and teeth along Wooyoung’s jaw, refusing to give the male a moment to catch his breath. Wooyoung tilts his head back, biting his lip, withholding and suppressing his noises, trying not to give the male the slightest bit of satisfaction, but it began to feel like a battle he was slowly losing.

San’s teeth find his jugular, sinking in and sucking, surely leaving a purpling bruise, laving over it with his tongue and lips, causing Wooyoung to involuntarily gasp, hand flying upwards to curl into the back of San’s ebony tresses. San wraps his hands around Wooyoung’s hips, pulling him off of the desk and turning him around, pressing against his lower back as he bends him over forcibly. Wooyoung glances over his shoulder, watching as San leans over him, curling his fingers into his hair, tilting his head back, lips brushing up against his ear as his words escape in a husky mumble.

“I own you, just like I own this city. You’ll be reminded, each and every single time that you test me, that I will bend you over as a reminder of just how much I own you, just like this.”

It’s hateful. In every single movement, every single dance of fingers and pull of hair, every single press of skin against skin; it’s utterly hateful. Wooyoung doesn’t care as to how San treats him, as this feels to be the most freeing thing he’s felt in the last month. Even when he feels San roughly push into him, ravaging his insides, staking a claim to whatever the fuck this was going to end up being labeled as, he’d never felt more freed than this.

Maybe it was the severed ties to Yeonjun, maybe it was finally being able to breathe in a society where his opinion mattered, where he was heard and listened to, where the lives they affected somewhat accounted for something. The agency was ripping him apart, limb by limb, sucking him dry and feasting on his insides, and for what? Another paycheck? Another glorified badge and a promise of secrecy? Protecting his deviant past from leaking out into the streets of Seoul just to disturb those who look at the agency to protect them from people just like Wooyoung? Or even better, from people like San?

He didn’t care. In this moment, with his hands curled around the edge of the desk, pressing his hips back into San, letting loose a mantra of sounds he can barely comprehend, nothing else mattered. He hated San. He hated Yeonjun. He hated Mingyu, and more importantly, he hated this fucking messy, disgusting web he got himself tangled up into.

“God, I hate you–” Wooyoung forces out, followed by a rushed intake of air, feeling as San’s hand holds his hips still, keeping him pressed between the desk and the onslaught of San’s thrusting hips.

“Hate me all you want,” San mutters back, his voice breathy, but no less dominating. “But right now? You’re all mine.”

Wooyoung gasps out, gripping the desk tighter, biting his tongue as a slaughter of moans threaten to spill over, struggling to remain quiet, feeling as San becomes nearly unrelenting. He was fueled by his will to dominate, to prove a point, to show Wooyoung at just how much power he still had, and yet, Wooyoung still smiled, taking everything that San was giving him without bothering to break.

He could feel San’s grip tightening, he could hear his breaths hollow before rushing out, but he could also feel that vulnerable chase to please, hidden somewhere beneath the urge to simply prove a point. Sensing this, Wooyoung moved his hand, forcing it beneath him as he tried to push himself upward before finding the confidence to shove San off of him. Taken aback, San raised a brow, simply just staring at him, but Wooyoung wasn’t done.

Laying a hand on San’s chest, he pushed him back into his leather chair, listening as it shifted to accommodate San’s weight toppling into it, followed by another added weight as Wooyoung moved to straddle his waist. Wooyoung placed a hand on San’s shoulder, looking down at him through lidded eyes, smirking all the while, finally feeling a sense of power through his every move as his hand wrapped around San, teasing him with the sensation of his palm.

“You’re such a fucking dick,” Wooyoung mutters, raising his hips, leaning closer as he brushes a kiss against the corner of San’s lips.

“And you seem to like it–” San retorts, only to be forced into silence by the feeling of Wooyoung sinking back down onto him, shifting his hips inch by inch, welcoming the surge of pleasure coursing through him.

“Just shut the fuck up,” Wooyoung hisses, pressing his lips to San’s, allowing San to wrap his hands around the thick of his thighs, hesitantly guiding each and every rising motion, encouraging Wooyoung to match the pace of their beating, and feverish hearts.

San, however, wasn’t undeterred. His hand reaches up, wrapping around his neck, fingers stroking against his jaw, tilting Wooyoung’s head down forcibly as his tongue seeks refuge past the male’s teeth, battling for dominance in their pleasurable, hateful dance. Wooyoung can’t help but moan into San’s mouth, wrapping an arm around San’s shoulders, digging his fingers into his skin, leaving marks that would surely leave a lasting reminder of just how sinful their drunken acts had become.

Wooyoung feels his stomach tighten, his pleasure reaching an insurmountable peak that he felt rather fruitful. He was chasing after it, sinking his nails into San’s skin, messily kissing his lips, dragging his teeth against San’s bottom lip and rolling his hips to try and urge San deeper, to encourage his rapture into oblivion. San seemed just as desperate, thrusting his hips upwards, his lips moving to trail a path on Wooyoung’s neck, teeth sinking in and biting, leaving lingering marks that would surely bruise over in just a matter of minutes.

“God, fuck you–” Wooyoung breathes out, strands of his sweat-coated hair dangling in front of his eyes as he tilted his head forwards, then back, arching his spine and pressing his chest against San’s, fingers curling deepering into San’s skin. “Fuck everything about you– fuck–”

“Can you stop talking?” San asks breathily, wrapping his arm around Wooyoung’s lower back.

“Can you stop–?” Wooyoung trails off, swallowing a moan.

“Stop what?” San smirks, bringing Wooyoung’s attention back down towards him, murmuring his words against Wooyoung’s lips. “It doesn’t seem like you want me to stop.”

“You’re arrogant if you think I’m enjoying this,” Wooyoung retorts, subtly watching as San inches closer, melding their lips together in a languid, barely-there kiss.

“You’re an idiot if you think I’ll treat you any differently after this,” San murmurs, gripping Wooyoung’s jaw tighter as he kisses him again.

Abruptly, San sharply thrusts upwards, causing a guttural moan to slip past Wooyoung’s lips, sending him hurtling towards that desirable ascent into oblivion.

“You’re a dick,” Wooyoung rasps out, his hand flying up to thread into San’s hair, grinding his hips down in a sloppy, hurried manner, feeling as San’s hands move, gripping into his waist, bringing Wooyoung miles and miles closer into chasing the fleeting feeling that was dancing around at the edge of his fingertips.

Wooyoung wants to say something else, to reinstate his feelings into the matter, but he can’t. He’s wordless, his breaths are heavy, laden with ecstatic, drunken pleasure, alight by the whiskey in his veins and simmering to a pleasurable boil.

Wooyoung clings to San, skin pressing to sweaty skin, fingers curling into hair, breaths sharpening before they cut off; leaving Wooyoung to exhale the moment he sinks into pure bliss. His release is utterly euphoric, though the dread of what he had just done sinks right into his core, a fluttering reminder of what he had just done, along with who he had just done it with.

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

His eyes flutter open with a slight wince. His hangover was already brazingly apparent, throbbing against the frame of his skull, dancing along his skin, causing him to nearly groan in protest. There was no light within the room, leaving it cast in complete darkness, though he didn’t mind that. With a breath inwards, Wooyoung tilts his head to the left, letting his eyes flutter shut again, sinking back into a state of peace that seemed to rush towards him. It was almost as if the exhaustion had caught up to him, the weight of his insomnia followed by the dreadful demands placed onto his shoulders by his agency, all came crashing to a halt, causing him to seek out more peace, more sleep, if only for a moment longer.

And then he felt movement in the bed beside him.

His eyes snapped open, his head turning, spotting the slightly familiar contours of a bare back facing him. His brows pinch together, eyes narrowing, piecing back the remnants of his drunken escapades just as it all hits him in a wave. He closes his eyes, a hand raising to cover them and dragging down, mirrored by the internal thought of what the actual fuck?

He slept with San. Though he remembered most of it now, he couldn’t remember the details of how he wound up bent over his desk and on his lap, speaking in curses and pleas, only to end up in a bed that isn’t his own. He rolls his eyes at himself, looking up at the ceiling as his hand falls away, fidgeting with the edge of the duvet as San sleeps deeply next to him. San, very easily, could’ve taken him to his own room, and yet, he didn’t. He brought him here, to his abode, to his place of comfort away from the chaos of his own life, choosing to allow Wooyoung a step closer than he ever truly imagined he’d be in this entangled web.

Truthfully, it was a ploy to rile San up, to earn some sort of leverage that he could use against him, but. . . he didn’t expect this. He didn’t expect to feel his heart confused, nor did he expect to find himself not wanting to leave San’s bed. He was still mad at him, partially, but he supposes a grudge wouldn’t help his situation, either. So, for now, he lets it go, choosing to argue with the brute another time, one where they both weren’t drunk and apparently lustful.

He knew what was asked of him. He knew of the job he still entertained, even besides his cracked, and momentarily, shut off phone. Though he longed to ignore it all, he knew he couldn’t. Sleeping with San intimately wasn’t a part of his plan, but it did help quicken the pace of his facade, making it easier to slip into the hornet’s nest, simply undetected.

He didn’t know what the morning would bring, nor the coming days, unaware of how truly entangled he had gotten himself. San’s reign over the city wasn’t anything to take lightly, especially with the men he deemed as his family down here, which made the stakes all that more monumental. It wasn’t every day that a kingpin lowered his guard, showing a softer, more vulnerable mirror into his soul, allowing the figure of a stranger into his bed, into his mind, and into the folds of his deeply rooted family. Wooyoung didn’t know what he was doing in all pure honesty, feeling as if a part of him became deeply ensnared in the routine he had so helplessly made while here, all in an effort to hopefully try and get himself to sleep more frequently. But, the sleep never came, regardless of how much he tried to familiarize himself with the confines of this underground base, the people here, the weight of San’s words and his stare; all of it was familiar and alien in the same notion.

Maybe he was thinking too much into it. Maybe he was entertaining the idea of San’s feelings too much. After all, Wooyoung was here to kill him. Why was he so concerned with San’s feelings on the matter? Why did Wooyoung think of anything besides his mission? Wasn’t that the entire point of why he was here?

He groans. This shit was way too complicated now, and he couldn’t be fucked to care, anymore. He knew Mingyu would be pissed, Yeonjun too for that matter, as well as everyone else, most likely. Yet, he didn’t care. The rational part of him knew that going back to his regular life after this simply wouldn’t be as easy as it had before. All of his previous missions over the years never spanned in a scene like this, causing him to plant himself within the tangled web of a different life for more than a few days. He was here, for weeks, familiarizing himself with the men down here and their roles within the mafia, while also studying San’s every move and learning his behaviors. It was almost second-nature now, especially with the way Wooyoung had begun to see San. He wasn’t the heartless, cold and merciless kingpin that he once pictured, but rather someone who is pained by his past, seeking vengeance in the only way he was raised to know. His family was cruel, his past even more so for that matter, leaving him fractured and struggling to piece his parts back together. Wooyoung could see him for exactly who he was, all from the simple utterance of a few words and a broken, dusty old photo, wondering if there was more to the story than San led to believe.

His parents did something heinous, something that resulted in this complete fracture between himself and the rest of his family, causing him to lash out and seek isolation, controlling the city in every single asset that he could reach. His parents, from what Wooyoung saw above ground, looked the part that every notorious and rich family played. Poised, arrogant, politically correct; the usual bullshit that Wooyoung never believed. Yet, San was none of those things– well, maybe arrogant. But poised? Politically correct? No. He was the far opposite. He was cynical, composed, collected, calculated, keen and eager, but more than anything else was he ravenous. He was hungry for more of anything; power, money, gain, people. Anything he could grab, he wanted, likely in a move to hold more figures over his parent’s head before enacting on his promised strike that he kept referring to. He needed the data chip, the one that Mingyu talked so highly of, which would give him access to every single network available to do. . . well, whatever he wanted to, really. He wouldn’t have a limit, and the world, as it seemed, would be available at his fingertips.

Wooyoung watches San’s sides rise and recede, his deepening breaths soothing the tide of slumber he seemed overly entrapped within. For a moment, he debates on waking the male, on asking about why he was in his bed, but he chooses not to. San needed to sleep, and he needed to get the hell out of here. Especially before anyone could dare to ask questions about any of this.

Carefully, Wooyoung sits upright, keeping his movements slow, pressing his hands against the sheets and mattress, propping himself up as he glances at San again, who hadn’t moved an inch. Assured, Wooyoung moves to toss the blanket off of his legs, feeling as the room’s cool air strikes against his bare skin, leaving him flushed and confused, wondering why San had let him sleep in just his boxers, in his bed, especially after claiming to hate one another so passionately.

With a subtle breath outwards, Wooyoung glances around the room, eyeing the floor, the nearby chair, the dresser, trying to search for any sign of his clothes, yet remaining unsuccessful. There seemed to be no sign of his personal clothes, which meant they were either still in San’s office, scattered around the desk, or he had placed them elsewhere. With an internal groan, Wooyoung tosses his legs over the side of the bed, listening as San shifts around, moving to lay on his back, but yet not quite waking. Carefully, he rises from the bed, reaching for his phone that had been delicately placed on the nightstand nearby, slowly beginning to walk away from the bed where San slept. He glances around the opposite side of the bed, spotting yet again, no clothes, before looking in the nearby closet, whose doors had been left slightly ajar and open.

He rolls his eyes, clutching onto his phone as he turns, spotting San still sleeping, his chest rising and falling with a content rhythm, something that made him seem a lot more peaceful than he normally ever was. Curious, Wooyoung walks closer again, hovering near the edge of the bed, his eyes trailing over every single curl of San’s tattoos, raking his eyes across the sight of his broad chest and chiseled figure, feeling as he unconsciously bites his lip. Why was he so infuriatingly attractive?

It was only then that he took a true moment to spot the scars laden across his body, almost as if he had been marred from a previous battle, ravaged by a pack of wolves and left to die, alone and without the support of his crew. Wooyoung’s brows pinch, curiosity controlling his movements as he lingers closer, knowing all too well the shapes of these scars and their afflictions. He had two scars from two bullets, meaning he had been shot some time ago, but for circumstances Wooyoung couldn’t picture. San wasn’t one to really put himself into harm’s way, but in seeing this, a wave of confusing concern melts over his core, making him wonder why San, of all people, would risk his ass for someone else?

Changbin admitted to him yesterday that this place, this group, would be nothing without San. So why would San risk everything? Why would he dare to risk the entire molding of his empire to crumble at the seams, all for what? Saving someone else? It didn’t make sense to Wooyoung, especially when San had been described as ruthless, careless, selfish; everything that Mingyu oddly was.

But, he drags his eyes away, rounding the bed again, settling down on the edge of it where he had previously laid. Part of him really didn’t wish to leave, especially at this early hour, but not having any clothes to protect him from any prying eyes left him nearly helpless.

He could hear San’s breaths deepening before suddenly hitching, his body and arms moving, the faintest of groans escaping from his parted lips. Wooyoung turns over his shoulder, spotting San’s eyes now fluttering awake, adjusting to whatever ailment had caused him to groan so quietly, glancing around the room until he stumbles across Wooyoung.

At first, neither of them said anything. Wooyoung shies away from San’s glance, too afraid to face the truth of what was laden beneath, turning to glance at his phone that held no notifications of a single kind. He didn’t know what to say as hateful, vengeful one night stands weren’t typically his thing. Should he apologize? Should they talk about it? Should he leave? He didn’t know. This was unfamiliar territory.

But, after a moment, San speaks, his voice a low, husky murmur that sends a trill through Wooyoung’s core. “Hey, you okay?”

Wooyoung glances over his shoulder again, searching San’s expression before he nods, trying to figure out the best words to express. “Fine, just– tired.”

“Seems to be more than that,” San replies, adjusting the way he had been laying until he sits upright, brushing a hand through his hair. “You can tell me, Wooyoung. It’s not going to hurt my feelings if you hated everything that we did.”

Wooyoung raises a brow, contemplating internally, weighing the options and the truth behind his every urge last night. Truthfully, he didn’t know if being intimate with San was something he wanted or not, but in the aftermath, he can’t find himself to hate it. Though, he wishes he wasn’t completely drunk, as he would’ve rather been rational and sober for something like that, but he supposes there was a first time for everything.

“Hated it?” Wooyoung says, turning slightly to face San better. “No, I didn’t. I just. . . didn’t expect it.”

San nods, glancing down at his lap, allowing the silence to briefly engulf them. “We were both too drunk to be thinking rationally.”

“Were you drunk?” Wooyoung asks, watching as San meets his gaze, a flicker of uncertainty flashing across his eyes. But, eventually, San relents.

“I guess not to the extent that you were. You drank more than I did.”

“So, you wanted to do all of that?”

“There’s no easy way to answer that, Wooyoung–”

“But I need you to,” Wooyoung responds, turning fully now, facing San as he reaches for the blanket, covering his bare legs, watching as San’s gaze begins to falter, a sudden vulnerability crashing over his usually steely demeanor.

“We just hooked up, Wooyoung–” he begins to say, but he shakes his head. “Even if I wanted to place feelings into it, I don’t think that either of us should. Getting involved with me, especially right now, only places a target on your back.”

“As if being a part of your mafia hasn’t?” Wooyoung contests, watching as San lets a sigh bleed through his lips, rolling his eyes.

“You’re not hearing me. People want me dead, Wooyoung. I’m not an idiot. I know there’s a bounty on my head, and there’s a reason I don’t keep someone close to me like this. Their life will be in danger from the moment anyone spots us together, or somehow knows that my heart cares for someone in an intimate means. Their life suddenly becomes more endangered than mine ever would be, because people aim to hurt me. The only way to hurt me anymore is to take someone from me, someone that means something to me.”

Wooyoung nods, partially expecting an answer like that while also feeling unsure if he really wanted more with San to begin with. Yeonjun wasn’t really his priority anymore, especially after his last words, but this, whatever this was, caused a slight twist in his heart that he hadn’t felt before.

He was conflicted, and in the most painful way possible.

“It can mean nothing,” Wooyoung says abruptly, causing San’s eyes to shift towards his own again. “No one has to know, you know. We’re adults, we can just– I don’t know, pretend it didn’t even happen.”

San raises a brow, but he doesn’t look away this time. “Are you sure? Is that something you want?”

“What else can we do, San?” Wooyoung says with a breath, almost exasperated by the mere idea of entertaining anything more suddenly, truly knowing the outcome of what would happen if they became even more familiar with one another. He wasn’t even here to be with San, he was here to kill him. He just couldn’t draw the line between the two ideas; not now, not yet.

“I don’t know, that’s why I don’t really do this kind of thing,” San admits, his hand messing with the duvet before stilling, letting another deep breath pass through his lungs. “I’m not one to just sleep around, Wooyoung. It did mean something, even if neither of us are going to admit it. But if that’s what you want, we can pretend it didn’t even happen.”

Wooyoung, in a weird quirk, smiles, letting the words roll off of his tongue before he could even dare to stop them. “Are you calling me special, Choi San?”

Surprised, San’s eyes widened, completely caught off-guard. “Special–? No, why the hell would I say that?”

“You just said you don’t sleep around,” Wooyoung quips, his smirk never failing. “So why’d you choose me?”

San’s usual demeanor falters, and for once, Wooyoung feels slightly victorious. He was getting too used to seeing San like this, and being this close with him.

“Wooyoung–”

“It’s alright, you don’t have to admit it,” Wooyoung says teasingly, leaning closer, carefully pressing a finger against San’s chest, unable to miss how San’s breath hitches. “I secretly know why, anyway.”

“You’re annoying,” San says with a roll of his eyes, but his true humor was belayed by the slight twitch of his lips, causing a smile to linger at the faint edges, giving Wooyoung the clear signal to keep going.

“Yet, I’m here, in your room, and not in my own. Why’s that?”

“I just couldn't. . . I don’t know. It felt wrong to leave you alone in your room, sobering up– I just. . . didn’t have a clear conscience about leaving you alone when you were drunk like that.”

“You’re such a soft mafia boss,” Wooyoung says, leaning away, moving to toss the covers off of his legs once more. “You can’t fool me, San. You can act all tough outside that door, but after tonight, you’re all mush to me.”

“Remember that I’m still your boss beyond all of this,” San says in a mock-warning, which results in Wooyoung smiling even more, tossing a playful glare in San’s direction.

“I know. You made it very clear how much you like to be in control last night,” Wooyoung says, lowering his tone just enough to elicit a subtle flush to creep across San’s neck.

“Wooyoung–”

“I need to shower,” Wooyoung interrupts, not allowing San to speak anymore into their previous escapades. “How am I supposed to get back to my room?”

“By walking.”

Wooyoung arches a brow, unamused. “Funny. I don’t have clothes on, genius. How are we supposed to hide this from everyone if I’m practically naked?”

“Take some of my clothes,” San suggests, gesturing to the closet. “I think I left yours in my office, anyway.”

Wooyoung blinks, twice, nodding soon after, trying to grapple with what San had just said. Take some of my clothes, as if it was just casual to say that?

“O-kay, fine, but. . . how did you bring me in here, anyway? I don’t. . . remember much.”

“You helped me clean a bit before you sat down in my chair, claiming to need a minute to gather yourself, and when I looked over after fixing a stack of papers, you passed out in my chair.”

Almost embarrassingly, Wooyoung shakes his head, feeling a flush crawl over his cheeks. “My God, don’t tell me you had to dress me too?”

“No, you can still have some dignity there. You put your boxers back on before becoming sleeping beauty in my chair.”

With a roll of his eyes, Wooyoung rises from the bed, running a hand through his hair. “Fair enough. At least I can walk away with some dignity.”

“You owe me a new shirt, by the way,” San teases lightly, watching Wooyoung’s every move as the male saunters over to the male’s open closet.

“Do I?” Wooyoung asks, pushing one of the doors open. “I don’t think you minded when I ripped it open.”

San chuckles, and though Wooyoung can’t see it, he was sure there was a smirk of some sort plastered across the male’s expression.

“That was an expensive shirt, Wooyoung. All those buttons came right off.”

“Oops,” Wooyoung says with a shrug, glancing over his shoulder. “Considering the size of this closet, I think you’ll live.”

“I mean it, though. Take whatever you want. I’m sure you can hand them back over to me another day. I clearly won’t miss them, considering the fact that you’re making fun of how much clothing I have, anyway.”

Wooyoung pulls a sweatshirt out of San’s closet, distressed and intentionally ripped in some places, hued in a deep gray. He raises a brow, turning around, raising the item by the hanger. “Even this? You won’t miss it?”

“I hardly wear it anymore, anyway. Take it,” San mutters, running his hand through his hair again, almost absently.

Wooyoung, somehow assured, pulls the sweatshirt off of the hanger, tugging it over his head carefully, feeling the item become baggier than it seemed, nearly pooling over his arms and sinking well past his waist, nearly drowning him in it. Wooyoung feels his face flush, somehow unaware of how San fit into a shirt of this size because of his stature and muscles, which made his flush only deepen. Moving on, he quickly discarded the hanger, moving over to the dresser in an attempt to find shorts, sweatpants, joggers; something.

After searching through two drawers, Wooyoung finally finds a pair of black joggers, pulling them over his legs and waist, tying the drawstring tighter to sinch on his waist, only in a move to keep them from falling straight down. He didn’t anticipate for San’s clothes to be this different in comparison to his own, but the mere thought of it was slightly attractive.

“You sure you want to do this?” San asks, still sitting on his bed, watching Wooyoung curiously.

“We have to, remember?” Wooyoung adjusts the jumper before walking back towards the bed, snagging his phone that he had left lying on the mattress. “You’re concerned for my well-being, even if you won’t admit it. That’s fine. I’m okay with being a rational adult, San. I work for you, and that’s all that this can be, if anything, anymore. I’m not a teenager, I won’t cry over not having sex with you again.”

San nods, and for a moment, Wooyoung can sense a flicker of guilt passing over his features. It was subtle, almost passed over, but he could see it nonetheless.

“Right, well–” he sighs. “Go on. I’ll be out in a bit. We’ve got a debrief this evening about another shipment, so I need you rested.”

Wooyoung smiles, offering a faux-salute, slipping his phone into the pocket of San’s joggers. “You got it, boss.”

With that, he turns, heading for the door, reaching for the handle, nearly hesitating, wanting to look back and cast San some sort of a smile or expression of assurance, but he doesn’t. That’s not what he was here for, not at all. He needed to stick to his mission, to communicate with his true boss and partners, to stay on track. His feelings could wait, even if it pained him to do so.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

After a shower, Wooyoung found himself at his desk, plugging his shattered phone into his laptop, hoping to extract the data so he could continue to communicate with Mingyu in the only way he had left, considering that his device was no longer usable. The screen flashed with a few messages and codes before switching over to the messaging application, leaving a sigh of relief to flood Wooyoung’s system.

Mingyu had sent a myriad of messages, as had Yeonjun, but Wooyoung wasn’t concerned about the latter. He clicks on the messages with Mingyu, reading them carefully, taking in every word before shaking his head, knowing that Mingyu was coming from a place of responsibility rather than empathy.

Mingyu

I need you to remain in contact, Wooyoung, no matter what happens in your personal life. Yeonjun told me the details of what had happened, and though it is not my duty to interfere, I need you to remain focused on where you are. Yeonjun has received specific orders to refrain from contacting you, and you are to do the same.

San needs to be dealt with, and you know it. I know you see how awful he is, how corrupt and monstrous he’s become. Don’t fail me, Wooyoung. Don’t fail this country. Do as you’re told and get the job done. I’m growing impatient.

[sent seven hours ago.]

Wooyoung rolls his eyes, chewing on his lip, debating on a response, yet choosing against it. Though, curiosity belays his interest. He backs out of his messages with Mingyu, clicking on Yeonjun’s contact. Messages flood the screen in a flurry, leaving him to nearly gasp at the notification bubble that reads 99+.

He scrolls through most of them, half-reading some while skipping over others, that is, until he eyes the most recent.

Yeonjun

You can’t just leave me, Wooyoung. We’re a team. We’re partners.

It’s always been you and I, remember? Us against the world, no matter the price.

Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for San’s fucking charm and his seemingly perfect appearance. Don’t tell me that you’ve fallen victim for his pitiful game.

You’re better than this. Better than that. Better than him.

I know you’re reading these, Wooyoung. I know you miss me. I miss you too. I miss you so much that I can’t stand it. It’s been nearly three weeks and I feel like I’m losing myself over how much I truly miss you, Woo.

Don’t leave me abandoned. Don’t ignore me forever, Wooyoung. Please.

Fine. If you want to fucking ignore me, I’ll come there myself. I’ll come and put a bullet between his eyes so he can’t take you from me.

Is that what you want? Is that what it's going to take so I can have you back? You need me to prove my loyalty to you? You want me to prove that I love you?

Fine, Wooyoung. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

[delivered two hours ago.]

Wooyoung feels his jaw tighten, hesitantly closing his laptop and unplugging his broken phone, searching the space ahead of him for answers blankly, almost as if the wall ahead of him could provide him with such.

Mingyu explicitly told Yeonjun not to contact him, and yet he had, several times over, and almost a bit obsessively? Wooyoung hasn’t ever seen Yeonjun behave like this, especially in a manner that seemed so out of control, so possessive and. . . crazed. Was something deeper happening behind the scenes? Was there something more that he couldn’t see? Was Yeonjun always this ill-behaved?

He shakes his head, pushing himself out of his chair before marching over to his side table, tossing the phone inside and messily hiding it, closing the drawer with a definitive sound that felt like shutting the door on his relationship with Yeonjun.

He didn’t care about being loved anymore, as that wasn’t something he readily felt in the last few weeks. Yeonjun was behaving like a toddler, screaming and throwing a tantrum, freaking out over something he refused to name. This wasn’t the man Wooyoung fell for all those months ago, nor was he even a fraction of the person he had met years ago. Yeonjun was someone else, someone darker, someone more sinister.

In this moment, he truly questioned if Yeonjun had been talking about San in using those words, words like evil and heinous, or if he was simply talking about himself without admitting it. He’d have no way to ask, nor did he care to, stirring his attention towards his door as he walked out into the corridor, leaving all of that information behind him.

He could smell the familiar scent of pancakes and eggs, which somehow brought a smile to his face. All of his conflicted and turbulent emotions melted away, leaving him to peak around the corner, spotting Seonghwa and Hongjoong preparing a feast, mumbling a conversation between the two of them without bothering to spare a glance.

“Wooyoung–!” Changbin calls from the island counter, a plate of pancakes ahead of him. “How’s the hangover?”

“Fine,” Wooyoung says with a smile, walking a bit closer. “Are you hanging on? You were pretty wasted when I saw you last.”

“Fine now, thanks to Seonghwa’s expertly prepared hangover pancakes,” Changbin says with a lilt, gesturing to the large plate ahead of him. “It helps a lot, I promise. You should have some.”

Seonghwa, who had been busy cooking, then looks up, offering a subtle smile at Wooyoung. “Take whatever you want. There’s still more to cook.”

Wooyoung bows his head slightly, offering a smile back. “Thank you, genuinely.”

Seonghwa pauses, his eyes squinting carefully as he looks at Wooyoung, looking at something. Wooyoung didn’t know what, nor was he really sure of what could’ve been wrong. He changed out of San’s clothes a near-hour ago, which left him seemingly normal, or at least he hoped so. His hair was fine, piercings intact, clothes as they usually appeared to be– oh, shit.

“Someone had fun last night,” Seonghwa says, raising a brow with a smirk.

Wooyoung’s hand flies up to his neck, covering the spot he knew damn well had a hickey imprinted into his skin. San, for some fucking reason, was quite the biter, and couldn’t seem to help himself with making his control clear last night.

“I, uh–” Wooyoung stammers, only for the sound of footsteps to break through the moment, causing him to turn and glance over his shoulder. He finds San standing there, watching him with intrigue before he looks away, saying something to Changbin and the other male that had been sitting there, who he presumed to be Hyunjin, who never visited a lot because of his role in security within the casino itself.

But, Wooyoung can’t take his eyes off of San now. He, very obviously, had just gotten out of the shower, allowing the damp strands of his hair to dangle in an unkempt manner, sweeping over his eyes and his features with a tighter black tee against his frame, matched with a dark-colored pant, which made Wooyoung’s heart race. He could see San’s figure outlined from the shirt, hiding the delicate secrets just beneath, all of which Wooyoung found himself eager to unravel.

“Sannie, our boy finally came out of his shell–!” Seonghwa says in a teasing tone, gesturing to Wooyoung. “Someone has a hickey.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened, feeling every single pair of eyes dawn over him, sending a flush to curl over his cheeks. “I– what? No–!”

“Everyone is allowed to have their fun,” San comments, his eyes suddenly warm, alight with something new. “Even you, greenie.”

Wooyoung’s lips part to speak, but he can’t, earning a quiet laugh from Seonghwa and Changbin both. Wooyoung shakes his head, reaching for an empty, clean plate, preparing to energize himself with Seonghwa’s infamous pancakes.

He didn’t know why he felt so at ease right now, even when everyone seemed to be laughing at his expense. Maybe it was the company, the domestic nature behind this morning, or perhaps the sudden levity he felt in leaving all of his transgressions behind. But, for some reason that he can’t quite name, he feels at peace, no longer wondering if the world was going to swallow him whole.

Yeonjun, Mingyu, the agency– it could all wait. For now, before he was to ruin everything, he wanted to enjoy this, for as long as he could.

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

The compound was quiet. It was a contrast to the usual bustle that had become most of their mornings, but as of today, something shifted. The casino was closed for maintenance, or so San claimed for it to be, but in reality, the entire mafia was staking out his parent’s house, watching and taking note of their behaviors, marking down new cars as well as vehicles that had come and gone into the premises. San seemed overly convinced that they were meeting someone with a lot of power, or wealth, or perhaps both; he just didn’t know. There had been a lot of internet traffic leading up to today, which all revolved around the headline beginning with the word election.

Once again, San’s parents had been making moves to delegate more opportunities for themselves, staking out the competition while also making their voices overly apparent. San, for the most part, was composed and kept beneath the radar, but Wooyoung could sense otherwise. He was fuming, agitated and on the edge of tilting over, losing his facade the moment his door clicked shut. His eyes, normally sharp and poised with a darkness that Wooyoung couldn’t tame, now held something different. He was angry, bitter, and ravenous. He wanted more. More power, more men, more money, more details, more of it all. Yet, he didn’t quite have it.

The data chip, a forever missing piece in their extravagant puzzle, remained just out of reach, safely behind the cusp of a government building, hiding away in a glass box, protected by cameras and security guards, fully prepared to slaughter anyone who dared to come close. San wasn’t scared though, he never was. He wanted that chip, and Wooyoung knew he’d do just about anything to get his hands on it.

As of now, with most of the compound empty, he found himself busy with paperwork that Yeosang wanted completed to relay better mounds of information to San. Being the only technological genius in the entire mafia, Yeosang was glued to his desk, eyes flicking between his six monitors, typing away through an array of code before shifting through cameras, trying to create a new backdoor system that would infiltrate anything it fought against. Ideally, from what Wooyoung understood, Yeosang wanted to hack into the corporate office, drawing out legal paperwork and schematics, using them against San’s parents in a ploy to get them to finally bend the knee. Though, Wooyoung wasn’t convinced that San’s parents would easily do so. They seemed arrogant enough, at least, from what little San had revealed, they seemed conniving and utterly callous, making their moves and thought-process all that much harder to understand, or even predict. Yeosang was determined, nonetheless, working tirelessly on his nth cup of coffee, powering through every single tremble of exhaustion, keeping his eyes open, and his mind sharp.

Coffee, in Wooyoung’s eyes, wasn’t his ideal way of remaining awake, though he has his insomnia to thank for that. But, if it got the job done, then so be it. This paperwork, however, was grueling. He assumed that Yeosang usually handed this stuff off to Yunho or Seonghwa, maybe even Hongjoong, but with everyone missing in action, the boring office work was handed down to the only person left. He was scribbling information down, signing things while highlighting others, trying to assess the work with every ounce of detail he could manage, though he wasn’t completely sure if this was the exact thing San was looking for. The schematics in particular felt to be a horrible mix of things, ranging from blueprints, both older and newer, followed by previous seller alignments for different workers like electricians and plumbers, all while covering the entire first level, yet not revealing anything worth noting. These papers, as helpful as they might be to the naked eye, just gave nothing away. Wooyoung knew that San would want more, but if this was all Yeosang could pick up through the mass amount of internet security, who was he to question the work of someone who was clearly trained in his profession?

With a shake of his head, he continues to work through the mound of papers, chewing on his lip as he reads each and every line, absorbing every detail, trying to find a small crack within the government’s plans. Yet, everything seemed more concise than Wooyoung would’ve liked. It was overly meticulous, but this had been nothing in comparison to the work he had done for the agency.

There, he had to deep dive into the complexity of his missions, listing casualties, reasonings, personal relationships to the affected, all while sending a recap of the mission and its outcome. He would be questioned on the deceased, forced to explain if there was a better route, or if things were left better the way they had been. Of course, he always answered honestly, but his words hardly ever changed.

I performed to the best of my ability, in the way that serves not only myself, but that of my country.

It was a partial lie, because he of course knew that there was a better way to handle everything that they had done. Drug dealers, assassins, kingpins, political leaders, traffickers– they all seemed to meet the same fate. Personally, he hadn’t pulled the trigger while beneath Mingyu’s rule, but he sat by and watched as everyone else had. He didn’t bother to step in the way, even if the victim was pleading for jail time or something else, anything but a bullet in their chest. Yeonjun, Scoups, Jeonghan– they just didn’t care. Their missions were never complete unless there was a trail of bodies behind them, staining their names with more and more crimson liquid that only seemed to grow thicker the longer they performed such tasks. Wooyoung couldn’t bear witness to it any longer, turning his head before any of his friends pulled the trigger, listening to the thump of their lifeless body followed by an acknowledging statement, something that had always been cold and calculated.

“Drinks on me,” Jeonghan always said, patting Yeonjun on the back. “We get to celebrate tonight, boys.”

Wooyoung didn’t understand it, at least, not anymore than he bothered to try to. At first, being with Yeonjun romantically, he found himself witnessing a lot more than just murder at the hands of his coworkers, but he never let a word of hesitance leave his lips. Yeonjun had said to him before that his stupidity and empathy would get him killed one day, which then marked a place in Wooyoung’s life where he simply remained silent, watching from a distance away, holstering his gun and turning his cheek, praying that the sound of the firing gun wouldn’t linger for too long. Maybe this job was finally beginning to haunt him, swirling around him like a specter that simply wouldn’t rid itself from Wooyoung’s shoulders, or maybe he was just tired. He was fighting the same battle, listening to the same belittling remarks, finding no source of comfort in his own bed, in his own home, in his own relationship, waging a bloodier war at his own job, watching the life fade from the eyes of the men he was supposed to be tracking down for one reason or another. Though, he never expected those lifeless eyes to mirror his own, making him wonder if the battle he was facing at home was ripping him apart more than the battle at his own workplace.

He loved Yeonjun. He truly did. But now, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Love was a fickle thing, and though Wooyoung found himself cursed as a romantic, Yeonjun was the opposite. He seemed perfectly content without a partner, completely sane and utterly joyful, almost as if the idea of being a single bachelor in a city as large as theirs never bothered him. Though now, Wooyoung began to feel the opposite. Yeonjun was gripping onto him like a caged tiger, clawing his way back into Wooyoung’s life, terrified of the moment that Wooyoung would truly walk away, leaving him to fend for himself behind the bars he created of his own volition.

Yeonjun was a source of comfort, a place where Wooyoung harbored his feelings, but somewhere in the midst of their relationship did all of that shift. He was volatile, spitting words in a manner that made Wooyoung turn his cheek, almost in a repetitive manner that mirrored his actions in his line of duty, becoming more of a habit than he’d prefer for them to be. Turning his cheek, ignoring the words and sounds of reality before him, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, controlling everything from within; it was habitual. A routine, regardless of how forced it was, became the only grounding thing he held onto. He could ignore the world, pretend it wasn’t happening, swallow the weight of everything and move on, latching onto Yeonjun and whispering murmurs of love and affection towards him, even as he downed another bottle of scotch and pushed Wooyoung away.

Even through the pleas and the tears, Wooyoung continued to pretend as if nothing was wrong, because pretending seemed to be the only way he could keep himself safe from scrutiny. He didn’t want to be seen as weak, nor did he want to be called stupid, which sparked an insecurity that he desperately wanted to avoid speaking about. His response to Yeonjun all those nights ago before tossing his phone away, breaking the screen with an anger that was unlike him, had all been sparked by a trigger that Yeonjun knew all too well on how to push.

Stupid. Idiotic. Dumb. Careless.

Things Wooyoung wasn’t, yet Yeonjun was adamant that he was.

With a breath, Wooyoung pushed the paperwork away, wetting his lips, leaning back in his chair as a hand weaved through his locks of hair, unsettling the waves of umber and highlights of blonde. He looked down at his desk, staring at the paperwork, gliding his eyes along the line of every detail, almost as if it were mocking him. He rolls his eyes after a moment, pulling his gaze towards yet another distraction: his phone. It was a bit stupid to be entertaining his device right now, especially given San’s quiet rampage and Yeosang’s insistent babbles of needing these pieces of papers signed correctly, almost as if he had been working in a corporate office instead of an illegal, powerful mafia. But, he indulges, if just momentarily. He hadn’t spoken to Mingyu in a few days, once again, following the rules and buying himself time as he tried to ponder the balance between what he was supposed to accomplish versus what he wanted to avoid.

So, he connects his old phone to his laptop once more, clicking through the data and unlocking it, watching as a flurry of messages breach through his screen in an unkempt manner. Once again, Yeonjun had sent an influx of messages, making his heart crumble. This distance wasn’t easy for him, surely, but Wooyoung wanted space, and he was rather demanding it with his silent treatment. He doesn’t dare read the messages, as he knew that the moment he had, all of his thoughts would consume him, causing him to act impulsively. So, he moves on, clicking on Mingyu’s contact name, watching as a single message floods his screen.

Mingyu

I’m done waiting. You have one more week, Wooyoung. It’s been almost a month, and I need this poisonous rat dealt with and done. The elections are coming up, and I cannot have him meddling in the results of it. End it, or I will come in myself and end everyone in there, including you.

He arches a brow at the last statement, eyes narrowing as he ponders on if his own boss was being truthful. End me? Wooyoung thinks, letting a low chuckle breeze through his lips. Sure, Mingyu, sure.

Closing his laptop, Wooyoung pushes all of the evidence away, clearing his desk, opening drawers as he places his pencils and pens away, tucking the phone somewhere safe before reaching for the paperwork, rising out of his chair with a quiet sigh. His mind was racing with a million thoughts, but one remained stark against the rest, causing him to pause, staring at the electronic clock settled ahead of him.

Was Mingyu serious?

He didn’t know. Truthfully, based upon Mingyu’s behaviors of late, he had no idea if the male would act so rashly or not. Would he risk the entire operation over a little impatience? Sure, maybe he would, or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe it was all an act, a show to bring forth the results that he truly wanted, trying to scare Wooyoung into submission just like he had everyone else. Wooyoung didn’t care, though. He wasn’t much phased by Mingyu’s electronic threat in the way Jeonghan might’ve been, even though he knew better than to call Mingyu a liar. His threats were usually fulfilled, but never at the cost of one of his own private, secret missions. Wooyoung can’t remember if this mission was even approved by the government themselves, which only settled his confusion and slight unease further.

But he moves on, papers in hand, trekking away from his desk as he moves out of his own bedroom and into the hall, closing his bedroom door behind him with a subtle click. The halls were eerily still at this hour, quiet and without the murmur of a word, left to echo Wooyoung’s footsteps as he moved through the space, walking closer and closer to San’s office. The doors were closed, per usual, but there seemed to be something. . . off.

Opening the door, he peeked inwards to find the office devoid of San’s usual presence. There was no cigar smoke meandering through the air, nor was Daemon’s cushion tended to with the dog’s usual grace. San’s chair wasn’t moved either, left to sit at the center, poised and intimidating all at once. With a breath, Wooyoung stepped out, knowing better than to linger, closing the door behind him. He knew that San kept secrets within that room, but he didn’t bother to stick around to find them, especially not with cameras hidden all over the place.

He reroutes himself, moving through the hall and towards the left, finding the corridor that led to San’s bedroom, smiling faintly at the quiet murmurs of soft music thudding against the thick of the wooden door. He wants to raise a hand to knock, or maybe just slide the paperwork beneath the door, but at this point, it all felt too formal, too clinical. He and San had crossed that border a long time ago, and now he wasn’t entirely sure if he could ever place himself on San’s bad side. So, perhaps a bit brazenly, he opens the door, welcoming a sight of a room that had been occupied by the man in question. He was resting on a large chaise lounge, framed in gold, matched with a dark, black velvet, a glass of something dark in his glass; perhaps whiskey, just like the male preferred. His shirt was completely undone, hanging loosely off of his shoulders, exposing his chiseled chest and abs, glistening beneath the light that shone down in a warm, gentle cast, not completely brightening the room while also not leaving it dark enough to engulf the room into an abyss. Daemon, as any loyal canine would, rested in his bed with a bone between his paws, momentarily discarded as he chased after sleep.

San’s brow raised as he met Wooyoung’s gaze, his intimidating stature subdued with something lazy, almost as if the alcohol had settled deeply into his bones, pulling his guard down into something more subtle. His eyes were still sharp, but there was something else alight within his deeply-colored hues, something that he’s seen before. Something that made him feel like a mere prey item beneath the gaze of a starving predator.

“Yeosang wanted me to give these to you,” Wooyoung says, keeping his tone low, almost too professional. “You weren’t in your office, so I figured that I’d come to find you.”

“Find me, huh?” San asks, tilting his head, his arm stretched out, resting against the back of the lounge. His tone was playful, very obviously loose with the effort of the alcohol clouding his senses, but his sense of authority was completely obvious. He hadn’t lost all coherence just yet, but he was tipsy enough to lose most of his edge.

“Yes,” Wooyoung replies. “These papers are important, remember. The schematics for the government buildings–?”

“Ah,” San says, turning slightly, setting his glass down with a clink. Wooyoung watches him closely, trying to ignore the surging feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

“Do you want me to leave them somewhere?”

San shakes his head, adjusting the way he was sitting until he allowed himself to man-spread, leaning back, lowering his voice in a way that sent immediate chills up Wooyoung’s spine. “Come here.”

Complying, Wooyoung takes timid steps as he crosses the room, the door closing behind him as he leaves the comfort of the doorway, moving across the large room with the papers slightly moving in his hand as he adjusts his grip, pausing half of a pace away. San eyes him carefully, almost as if he was undressing him with his eyes, drinking up everything that Wooyoung was, pulling him apart, piece by delicate piece. Wooyoung wanted to melt right then, but he remained still, extending a hand out, offering the papers.

“Sit.”

Wooyoung parts his lips to speak, but he finds himself unable to. San was looking at him, his gaze unwavering, the delicate, sleek folds of his black shirt hanging loosely off of his frame with subtle elegance, causing Wooyoung’s gaze to shift. He could see the shimmering gold of San’s necklace glaring back at him, the etches of jet black tattoos, the firm, slightly-flushed skin of San’s torso glimmering back at him beneath the warm cast of light, almost sending him a half-step backwards. Sit? Sit where?!

“San–”

“I said sit, Wooyoung.”

He swallows hoarsely, leaning carefully to set the papers down on the table where the glass of barren whiskey lay before moving to sit down next to San, that is, until he felt the male’s hand grip his hip.

“Not there–” he comments, pulling Wooyoung closer, tapping his thigh. “Here.”

God, was he bold right now, and though previous Wooyoung would’ve hated it, this Wooyoung, this very sober and coherent Wooyoung, couldn’t help but think one simple thing: San was effortlessly attractive right now.

So, he indulges. Carefully, he sits down, feeling as San helps him adjust on his lap before humming huskily, his eyes raking down every single piece of Wooyoung’s bare skin, which just so happened to be the vulnerable skin adorning his neck and jaw. Otherwise, he was covered in a hoodie and joggers, the least attractive things he could’ve possibly picked out for himself, but San didn’t seem to care. His eyes were elsewhere, tracing the line of Wooyoung’s jaw, down his throat, all the way down to where his collarbones disappeared beneath the hem of his hoodie.

“San–”

“I don’t feel like working, Wooyoung,” San admits, his expression shifting to something softer, more contemplative. “I don’t want to think. I’ve been thinking too fucking much and frankly, I’m sick of it.”

Wooyoung nods, unsure of what to say.

“Can you do something for me?”

Wooyoung raises a brow, but he nods, feeling as San shifts closer, his proximity closing in, the distance fading suddenly. He could feel San’s breath warm against his cheek and jaw, hesitating just a mere few inches away, though his words felt to be pressed right against his ear.

“Just be with me,” he whispers, using his free hand to wrap around Wooyoung’s thigh, dragging further upwards. “I’m not a begging man, Wooyoung. But please, for one night, just be with me until the thoughts go quiet.”

“I don’t know what you’re asking of me, San–”

“Yes you do,” San mumbles, pressing closer, brushing his lips against Wooyoung’s jaw. “I can see it in the way your breath hitches, the way your cheeks warm, and the way your hands tighten around the sleeves of your hoodie. You want me as much as I want you right now, even if every part of you wants to resist.”

Wooyoung absently tilts his head, baring his neck, feeling as San’s grip on his hip tightens in return.

“What about what we agreed on?” Wooyoung asks, feeling San’s eyes on him. “It was just a one time thing, San.”

“Was it?” He asks, raising his free hand, cupping the opposite side of Wooyoung’s jaw until his hand falls away, leaving his finger to trace against the jut of his jaw. “You can say that all you want, Wooyoung, but your body is saying otherwise.”

“Maybe,” Wooyoung replies, turning his head slightly, leaving their lips to daringly remain inches apart. “But you always seem to draw a reaction out of me, San.”

“I mean it,” San mutters, wrapping his hand around the back of Wooyoung’s neck, trying to decrease the distance. “Fuck the rules, Wooyoung. Just be with me.”

Wooyoung pauses, glancing up, meeting the insatiable, lidded gaze of San’s own eyes, watching as the male pleads wordlessly with a desire that he felt himself beginning to completely mirror. He wanted to avoid this, knowing all too well of what his duties were, but his body was betraying him. His breaths were short and heavy, heart thumping away against his chest, his cheeks hot with flush, lips parting to speak; he was entranced, listening as San’s every word pulled him deeper, just like a siren’s song.

Nodding, Wooyoung leans closer, finally meshing their lips together in a kiss that was hesitant at first, testing the waters as they melted into one another before allowing the pace of their thudding hearts to guide them further. Wooyoung feels his hands fly up to San’s jaw, cupping the skin there, leaning into him, allowing the kisses to rapidly deepen. He was swept up by San’s desire, too content in swallowing the male’s sighs and subtle grumbles of satisfaction, never bothering to pull away as he sat there and drank all of it in, relishing in the attention he was getting from the one male that made him feel something that none of his other partners ever had.

He felt seen. If just for a moment, a brief lapse in time where he’d give San every asset of himself, but even in those minutes, there was something different about the way San treated him and held him, almost as if he was a royal treasure, too sacred to be worshiped by anyone else. So, he gives in, threading a hand through San’s hair, tugging him closer, feeling as San’s tongue breaks through the barrier, wrestling and controlling his own, spurring their once-hesitant kiss into a feverish battle for the usual dominance that Wooyoung felt slipping through his fingers.

San shifts carefully, pulling Wooyoung further onto his lap as the male’s thighs completely straddle him, hands now finding purchase on his hips as he daringly drags his fingertips beneath the hem of Wooyoung’s joggers, slowly beginning to pull them down. Wooyoung’s hands don’t remain idle, brushing San’s shirt lower down his arms, allowing the fabric to begin falling away, exposing more and more of his tattooed and scarred chest, making their intentions overly clear.

San removes the shirt from his torso, tossing it away before curling his fingers beneath Wooyoung’s hoodie, pulling the fabric free, throwing it to the floor carelessly as their skin presses together, lips still content in their feverish dance, unable to stand the distance that clothing seemed to bring anymore. Wrapping an arm around the younger’s waist, San carefully lifts him almost effortlessly, securely holding him in his arms as he walks through his room, trekking towards his bed with a slow-paced, even walk. Wooyoung littered the male’s chest, jaw, face and lips with kisses, holding his face still between his palms, allowing San to pull away before tossing Wooyoung onto the bed, hovering over him, hands planted on either side of his head as he leaned down, capturing his lips again. Wooyoung gasps into the kiss as he feels San’s hand drift to his joggers, pulling them further and further until the fabric is kicked away, abandoned to the floor. Parting away, Wooyoung glances down, hands frantically searching for San’s belt, deftly undoing the leather and golden buckle before sliding it through the loops of his trousers, listening as the leather clashes against the floor with a thud, the fabric of San’s pants now falling away as Wooyoung tugs them down, removing any remaining barriers that kept them apart.

Climbing onto the bed, San settles himself between Wooyoung’s legs as he presses himself against him, lips leaving a sloppy, messy trail of kisses up the male’s neck, hands bracketing his head as they sit in the center of the large bed, surrounded by satin sheets and an askew duvet. San doesn’t seem to waste any time, however, as he reaches his hand down and aligns himself, urging Wooyoung to wrap his legs around the male’s waist, bringing them insatiably closer and closer together. San eases himself inside, both males letting a groan slip past their lips, unable to contain the moans creeping through as San’s hips slowly thrust inwards and out, rocking the bed with every single shift.

Wooyoung threads a hand through San’s hair as he pulls him closer, his other arm wrapped around the male’s neck, his back arching into San, craving more of the delicious feeling that San was giving him. He didn’t care about anything else, anymore. He just wanted this. He wanted San.

“Fuck–” San groans, deepening his every thrust, reaching his hand up to grip Wooyoung’s hip. Wooyoung moans in return, keeping himself close, meeting San’s every thrust with a move of his own, trying to urge the male deeper, feeling as his eyes roll before closing completely.

This was incredibly different from their first intimate encounter, one that was met with the surge of alcohol and utter distaste for the other. Now, they wanted one another, clinging to one another and chasing after shared passion, indulging in an affair that both of them knew better than to entertain. But Wooyoung didn’t care.

He pulls San down towards him, moaning into his mouth, feeling his body shift upwards with every forceful thrust that San snaps his hips into, quickening his pace, following the surge of desire that was pooling in his veins. Wooyoung drags his teeth along San’s bottom lip, listening as San groans, snapping his hips harder, muttering curses and Wooyoung’s name beneath his breath.

Wooyoung clung to him tighter, biting his lip as San parted away, his face buried in the crook of Wooyoung’s neck, pulling the male’s hips back into his every thrust, building up to the familiar throes of a crescendo that felt rather inevitable. Every thrust, every breath, every single press of lips against lips felt to be a turning point, bringing a feeling that Wooyoung hadn’t felt in a long time to surge to the forefront.

He’s confused, more than he ever has been, wondering if he should truly end this, or chase after it. He wants to feel close to San, to cling to him and to melt into his touch, but what of the life he once entertained? What of his job and his home? What then? The agency surely would come after him if he were to turn their back on them for this. . . whatever this situation with San was considered at this point, and beyond all of that, San would have an even bigger target on his back because of this.

He had to end it. He had to. There didn’t feel to be a different route than this.

San continues his relentless movements, burying himself deeper, teeth grazing along the line of Wooyoung’s collarbones and throat, hands smoothing up the male’s sides before curling one behind the back of Wooyoung’s neck, forcing their gazes to cross paths.

San’s eyes were hazy and colored over, driven by a lust that was all too familiar. But, beneath the haze of lust and desire was something that Wooyoung found himself mirroring all the same, something similar that felt like a plea for peace. San was harboring so much, and though Wooyoung knew nothing of it, he could see it. San was dealing with something heavy, and he was shouldering it alone in the only way a kingpin could. He didn’t know how to make him feel better, but he had to hope that all of this would allow the worries to melt away, left to drift elsewhere but here.

So, he pulls San down to him again, connecting their lips in a languid, fiery kiss. San’s thrusts slow, if just for a moment before they quicken once more, an imminent rush belayed by the feverish dance their lips had entangled themselves into. Wooyoung gasps, hands searching, grabbing onto San’s shoulders as he feels his stomach twist and pull taut, feeling as San’s pace only quickened in response, likely sensing Wooyoung’s impending ascent into euphorics. He was drawing closer and closer, the nerves in his stomach twirling and binding until they pulled even tighter, causing the male to gasp before his breaths cut short, nails curling into San’s shoulders just as the line snaps suddenly, causing him to moan in response, settling into the euphoric pull of his release. San follows a moment later, stilling his hips, resting his forehead down on Wooyoung’s shoulder.

Wooyoung wants to kiss him, wants to soothe his worries, to wipe the strands of hair from his forehead, but he doesn’t. It was too intimate. San wasn’t his. This was just a means of letting go for San, another way of releasing the tension built into his core. Wooyoung knew better than to get his hopes up, but what for? He had just broken up with Yeonjun, and now he was here with San, at the mercy of his hips, kissing the breath from his lungs and entertaining a beneficial situation with his boss, who seemed to want him just as much as Wooyoung wanted him.

He was confused, and this encounter didn’t make it any better.

But, as San leans away, he rustles about to plant himself on the edge of the bed, taking in a deep breath. Wooyoung watches him, leaning up on his elbows, chest still heaving from the after effects as he lingers there, wondering what could’ve possibly been running through San’s mind at that time. But, he doesn’t get the chance to ask. San gets off of the bed, heads back towards the lounge, bending down and grabbing their discarded clothes that had been left in a near-trail before walking back towards the bed, handing Wooyoung his own. Wooyoung follows San’s actions, almost in a mimicking manner as he pulls his clothes back on, layer after layer, running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair before he turns, watching as San settles into bed almost wordlessly, allowing a breath to move past his lips. He stands there at the edge of the bed, brows pinched together, torn on leaving completely or staying, even when he shouldn’t.

Then, before he could even murmur a word, San turns, looking at him with an expression that spoke of his fatigue. “You can stay.”

Hesitantly, Wooyoung nods, wanting to protest, yet his heart, his goddamn heart, spoke for him. He moved to the other side of the bed, settling in, shifting around on the blankets and sheets before allowing his head to settle into the pillow, chewing on his lip as he stared off at the ceiling. He didn’t know why he was staying. He didn’t know why he didn’t just walk away. But, here he was, cheating on Yeonjun, feeling his heart pulling him in a direction that wasn’t healthy nor sane.

Yeonjun didn’t love him like this. Yeonjun didn’t make him feel this way. Yeonjun didn’t fluster him and make him want to lose himself in the throes of his own desire.

Yeonjun yelled. Yeonjun drank. Yeonjun got what he wanted; time and time again.

So, why was he crying? Why did all of his emotions come tumbling out? Why was he lying here, in San’s bed, muffling his cries because he was growing attached in a way that he can’t explain?

“Hey,” San’s voice breaks through the quiet, a shuffling on the bed that Wooyoung hadn’t noticed before becoming overly apparent. “Everything okay?”

No. No it wasn’t. It was all falling apart. He needed to kill San, he had to kill San, he couldn’t betray the people that he thought loved and supported him. He couldn’t let his country down and betray the oath he had taken. He couldn’t give up on everything he fought so hard to hold for himself. He couldn’t lose anyone else, not anymore. Not again.

“Yeah, just–” Wooyoung sniffles, swallowing his tears. “Thinking a lot. That’s all.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” San mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. “Just be here, Wooyoung. Be here with me.”

Wooyoung turns his head, looking at San, who had now been facing him, watching as the male’s eyes drifted shut, his breaths evening out, a hand placed on the bed between them, almost like a wordless invitation to remain close, to cherish this, to simply just stay.

Wooyoung bites down on his lip, turning his gaze back to the ceiling, allowing the minutes to fall away. He doesn’t know how long he lays there, nor does he bother to look at the clock. He knew he couldn’t stay. He knew better than to entertain this anymore, but he relents. He remains selfish, he indulges in his fragile heart, wanting nothing more than to cater to a part of himself that he thought he had lost well before enlistment.

Even as an hour shoots past, Wooyoung finds himself glued to the bed, listening and counting San’s every breath, torturing himself with an internal monologue that screams to just leave. He needed to comply, to follow through with Mingyu’s orders, even if it tore his heart in half to do so.

So, he gets out of bed, carefully and slowly, unable to miss the way San’s hand moves over to his side of the bed, almost in search of him even in the depths of sleep. He glances to his right, eyeing the time, spotting that it had ticked well past midnight by now, but not able to miss the familiar curves of a pocket knife tucked away in the open slot of San’s bedside table.

This was it. Wooyoung takes a breath, reaching his hand down, wrapping his fingers around the small leather handle. He could end it. He could make Mingyu proud. He could go home and complete his mission. He could finally just be done with this.

He looks at San again, searching the male’s face, tracing over the contours of an expression that finally seemed so peaceful after being so slurred with a haze of alcohol and obvious tension. Even as he slides the button upwards, pushing the blade to free itself from the sheath, Wooyoung can’t bear to look at him.

He turns his cheek, like he has, time and time again, gripping the handle tighter and tighter, hoping that reality will simply just fall away.  

He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to ruin him. He. . . doesn’t want to kill him.

He grips the knife tighter, leaning closer to the bed, opening his eyes just enough to allow his hand to hover carefully over San’s exposed neck, but he hesitates. It should be so incredibly easy right now, left with a perfect moment of San defenseless and vulnerable, but he can’t do it. Tears stream down his cheeks, cascading down in a flood of emotion that seemed to unravel him completely. He shakes his head, turning away, an uneasy breath passing through his lips as he lets his arm fall away, the knife now cast down at his side, completely abandoned.

He slides the blade back down, hidden beneath the handle, carefully putting it back in the place he had found it, unable to miss the subtle shift of San’s body as he moved closer to the space Wooyoung had now vacated. His heart clenches painfully, eyes swelling with tears that were unlike him as he turns away, moving through the space of San’s bedroom with rushed steps, quietly opening the door before he halts. He swallows deeply, turning over his shoulder, watching as San’s slumped form continues to rest, unabated, but all he can do is turn his cheek, ignoring every single emotion that wracked over every facet of his emotions.

Maybe he was weak. Maybe Yeonjun was right. He was stupid. A fool, even.

But even as he left that room and stormed back to his room in a rush, his confusion only wove itself deeper, masking over the reality where he now knew that he’d never be able to kill Choi San.

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

The days after Mingyu’s text seemed to blur together. Time felt distant, almost like a glimpse of all the minutes and hours he was wasting in prolonging the inevitable. He didn’t have the heart to respond to Mingyu about his request, knowing that the moment he did, he would place himself further inside of a pit he knew he couldn’t crawl out of. Was he avoiding it? Truthfully, yes. He was. At this point, he wasn’t entirely sure that he cared anymore.

It had been six days since Mingyu’s text, now bringing forth the week that he threatened before acting himself, but Wooyoung had blocked it all out. He was ignoring Yeonjun still, watching as messages piled and piled and piled onto his broken device, causing him to close his laptop and never look at it again. There were over a hundred messages left by Yeonjun, but Wooyoung didn’t read a single one. He ignored them all, choosing to isolate himself even further, especially as his heart got more and more confused by the actions he was committing to.

Something changed in San ever since that night, bringing him to convince Wooyoung into staying in his room, pulling him into his bed at the cusp of midnight, lavishing him in kisses and intimacy, spurring a feeling that Wooyoung had long since tried to ignore from the moment that he had met San, that now felt difficult to push away.

Five times in a row he spent the evening in San’s room, staying with him in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep while his mind ran rampant with a myriad of thoughts that felt too hard to dismiss. But what could he do? Confess? Reveal the truth? He couldn’t. Not now, or hardly ever. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, as he knew he needed to leave The Velvet’s underground compound, retreating back to the life he once entertained for the sake of San’s safety. Partially, he knew that Mingyu wasn’t lying. He’d come and raid the base, taking out everyone within these walls before ending San himself, but as to how far he’d get, Wooyoung wasn’t sure.

Ever since the mission they had embarked on to steal luxury cars, security had been tripled, leaving San’s compound more fortified than Wooyoung has ever seen it. He had been here a month, and in that time he had come to realize two things: there were cameras everywhere, and nothing, and he meant nothing, ever went past San.

He knew how formidable San was, especially with these people surrounding him and protecting him at every turn. But Mingyu was unwavering, persistent; if he wanted someone dead, he’d have their head. Wooyoung wanted to be truthful, but he also wanted to flee, to protect San and pretend that everything had been handled. He didn’t want to be in the middle anymore. He just wanted peace and quiet, to run away from just how difficult this entire scheme had become.

His heart, a misguided and abused organ, had tossed and turned over the last week, coming to terms with the idea that he was growing overly fond of San, and not in a way that he could just brush off. He liked him, genuinely liked him, but it wasn’t even just about the sex. It was more than that. The intimacy, the way San cared about his health, the care he took to ensure Wooyoung was comfortable and sure of every decision; there was a level of respect behind his every move, something that hadn’t been mirrored by Yeonjun. Now, in having been with San multiple times, Wooyoung began to question what being loved truly felt like. Had Yeonjun really shown him what it felt to be cherished? To be adored? To be trusted and loved unconditionally?

The lines were blurred, and now more than ever was he confused, teetering on the edge, slowly beginning to tilt towards a side he would’ve never guessed he’d fall into. He wanted this, and everything that came with it. The consequences, though dire, didn’t seem to matter. At least, not at this moment, they didn’t.

He was still laying in San’s bed, looking up at the ceiling like he usually had, listening and counting to every breath that San took. It was late into the evening at this point, the room itself dark yet warmed by the duvet and askew sheets. Even as Wooyoung turned his head to glance at San, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of relief in just being near him. Maybe it was the fact that he was showing him something that he had been missing for the last few months, or maybe it was just the fact that San was holding a different place in his heart than Yeonjun once did. He isn’t entirely sure what all of this means, and even if he did, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to ignore it.

San had been different towards him as of late, and not in just a means at craving intimacy in the depth of night. He’d been warmer, unable to keep his hands to himself when the eyes of the other members weren’t around, and unlike their usual not-talking-about-it arrangement, one that seemed to be wordlessly agreed upon, San said something last night that has been bouncing in between Wooyoung’s ears, wrapping around his mind and causing him more confusion than he could bother to understand.

“At this point you should just stay in here,” San said, almost half asleep, laying on his back with an arm resting over his eyes. All Wooyoung could do was look at him, trying to slow his breathing, adjusting the blanket that he hastily pulled over his waist. “I’ve grown used to you lying next to me.”

San was growing attached too, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Wooyoung could see it in his every action, in the way he looked at him, in the way he expressed just how much he needed this. Maybe it was a delusional thought, or maybe they were both taking something from one another. San needed a reprieve from the weight of everything he was dealing with, while Wooyoung needed someone to mend his internal wounds, the ones that afflicted pain on his heart. He didn’t truly mourn his relationship with Yeonjun, placing on a brave face and swallowing the sadness that usually came with a break-up, but in being with San, he was inadvertently healing the wounds that Yeonjun had caused.

They hadn’t clarified on what they were considered, perhaps something purely beneficial for both parties. They didn’t have to be anything to enjoy any of this, at least, that’s what Wooyoung believed. However, he wasn’t entirely sure on what San thought about all of this. Maybe he’d ask? Maybe he’d just stay quiet? Maybe. . . ending all of this was for the best? He didn’t know how much time he had left, considering Mingyu’s warning and Yeonjun’s apparent threats. Even still, he found himself wanting to cling on to what he could, regardless of how much time remained. Yet, he knew better than to get his hopes up, even if he tried not to care.

Even if he could ignore the threats and the cruel reality he’d be faced with, it all came down to one realization: San wasn’t his. Wooyoung had a feeling he never would be. So, leaving all of this behind should be easy, right?

He could pretend that it would be, just like he had pretended with everything else.

Carefully, Wooyoung uses his elbows to prop himself upright, knowing better than to linger in here for longer than necessary. San was already asleep, and it was unlikely that he’d wake up as he usually slept like a rock throughout the night. But, as Wooyoung shifted to reach for his phone, he eyed the time and allowed his screen to illuminate the area around him, taking a deep breath in as he contemplated his excuse for leaving this time.

Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t feel well. Needed something to eat. Had something on my mind. Forgot to take my meds.

But at this point, he was tired of lying.

Either way, he carefully removes the blanket from his waist, allowing his legs to swing over the edge of the bed, bending over to reach for his boxers and shorts, feeling the cool air of the room breeze against his skin. He stands up, quietly pulling his clothes back on before reaching for his shirt, tugging it over his head and shoulders as the fabric smoothes over his skin. As he turns to pull the blanket back over the spot he now vacated, San stirred, a breath passing through his lips before his eyes fluttered open, awake and turning to look at Wooyoung, his brows slightly pinched.

“Leaving?” San asks, his voice raspy and thick with sleep.

Wooyoung’s lips part to speak, almost prepared to admit a lie once more, but he relents. A sigh passes through, his gaze looking down at the bed, fingers curling into the duvet that he was still holding.

“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” Wooyoung admits, unable to meet San’s gaze. “I feel a bit restless. I can’t sleep and I can’t clear the thoughts in my head. I was gonna–. . . I don’t know, actually. I don’t know what I was going to do.”

“I kind of figured something was wrong last night,” San admits, using an elbow to prop himself up partially. “I just didn’t want to press you about it, especially if you didn’t want to talk in the first place.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, anyway,” Wooyoung says, watching as San raises a brow, almost as if he didn’t believe him. “Okay– well, there is stuff to talk about but. . . it’s not something you need to worry about. You already have enough going on, and I just. . . it’s stupid.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” San replies, sitting upright fully. “If you need to get it off of your chest, then tell me.”

“San, you’re not obligated to listen to my issues. We’re not even together, and frankly, I don’t even know what we’re doing.”

San nods, though he doesn’t move to deny it.

“I don’t know either,” he says quietly. “But I’m here, aren’t I?”

“But why are you?” Wooyoung asks, slowly beginning to move to sit himself back down on the bed. He runs a hand through his hair, searching San’s gaze, only lit by the dim light from his phone’s screen. “You said it yourself– I’m a stranger. You don’t know me, but why are you choosing me? Out of everyone, you keep pulling me back in here.”

“I can’t say that I have all the answers right now, as all of this isn’t really my strong suit. I’m not the relationship type, Wooyoung, but there’s this–” San idly gestures to the space between them, glancing down, his voice dropping a cent softer, “–pull between us, and I’m having a hard time ignoring it.”

“You said yourself that you don’t trust me,” Wooyoung says, tapping his phone screen to keep the device from turning off. “But then you go and wrap me up into all of this. You do realize that I haven’t been in my own bed for almost the last week, right?”

“I do know that,” San replies before he turns, reaching for the lamp on the nightstand, turning it on with a quiet click. Wooyoung then turns his phone off, turning it face-down, watching as San turns back to face him. “I’m. . . sorry that I’m confusing. Like I said, I’m not. . . I really don’t do this type of thing, and I really haven’t been with anyone in years. I keep to myself, handle things on my own, because like I told you, anyone who loves me plants themselves in danger.”

Wooyoung shakes his head, looking down as he takes a breath. San was right; he was confusing. But, at the same time, Wooyoung was confusing too. This entire situation was completely confusing in itself, but San didn’t know why it was truly so difficult to just melt into the throes of everything they began to share, and Wooyoung wasn’t ever sure that he’d uncover the truth. He didn’t want to lie, but how could he explain everything? Surely the moment he expressed that he worked for the government and had been sent on a mission to kill San, he’d either be killed, thrown out, or nearly beaten to death. He deserved it, at least, Wooyoung thought he did. He was manipulating San, like he was supposed to, even if he didn’t want to anymore.

But the sex, the kisses and the intimacy; it was all real to him, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

“I. . . don’t expect you to love me, San.” Wooyoung takes in an uneasy breath, trying to choose his words carefully. “I just want to know what this means to you. If we’re just fucking around and whatever, then that’s fine, but I just–”

“It’s more than just fucking around, Wooyoung,” San interjects, his voice the slightest bit more firm, but gentle nonetheless. “The first time was a bit impulsive of us, and I thought it would just be what most situations end up being, almost like a one night stand. That’s just not it, though.”

Wooyoung glances up, his brows furrowing ever-so-slightly. “Then what is it?”

“You’re more than that. . . to me–” San’s voice trails off, a hand coming up as he rubs the back of his neck. He was clearly out of his comfort zone, but Wooyoung didn’t push any further. “I don’t want to label you as just someone I use to get off, that’s not fair to you.”

“But, if that’s what it is, then–?”

“It’s not like that, Wooyoung. Can you just–” he sighs. “Can you please let me talk?”

Wooyoung nods, albeit sheepishly, giving San the space to say whatever it is that he felt the need to.

“Yeah, I mean–” San sighs again, messing with the comforter before gluing his eyes to his lap, struggling to plant his emotions somewhere. “That night, in my office–? I thought we were fueled by the alcohol we drank, and another part of me tried to rationalize it with how pissed off we were at one another. But. . . a small fraction of me couldn’t deny that pull I felt towards you. I didn’t mean the words I said to you, maybe in the moment, but the day after, I didn’t mean them at all.”

Wooyoung arched a brow subtly, thinking back to the evening in question. What they did he classified as hate sex, or maybe just drunken escapades, but for whatever it truly was, the words they said to one another weren’t exactly nice. Sure, they brushed it off and never really spoke about it again, but with everything else seemingly unraveling in the small space settled between them, Wooyoung felt the nagging pull to be honest.

“I didn’t mean them either.” Wooyoung glances at San before moving to look at his hands, messing with the ring on his finger. “I get. . . a bit hostile when I’m drunk. It’s a learned behavior from my ex.”

“We both said stupid shit,” San replies, reaching over hesitantly, delicately placing his hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder. “But now, with everything else between us. . . labeling it sounds too difficult for the both of us. Why don’t we just. . . test it out?”

“Test it?” Wooyoung asks skeptically, searching San’s tired gaze. “Test it how?”

“Let’s just exist,” San suggests, keeping his tone light, contemplative. “I don’t think either of us are prepared to fully step into something committed, but we can stay like this, no ties and no rules, just. . . as we are.”

Wooyoung’s heart clenches. He should say no. He should walk away from all of this to prevent ruining not only his own heart, but that of San’s too. He should stop the conversation and walk out of the room, but he doesn’t.

He’s selfish, oblivious and delirious, looking at San as if the mere scape of his presence would provide him with all of the answers. San was quiet, waiting for Wooyoung to answer, his expression softened by the remnants of his exhaustion though sharpened by the curiosity to Wooyoung’s reaction. Even if he knew what the right answer was, the only thing he knew was that he didn’t care. Mingyu, Yeonjun, Jeonghan, Scoups– what was the point?

He could go back eventually. He could mislead Mingyu, he could tie loose ends and backtrack everything he had done. He could get away with it. He could be here, like he longed to be, to be with San and to leave his previous life behind–. . . but all his thoughts came crashing to a halt as he leaned closer to San without even realizing it.

His hand lifts up, cupping the male’s jaw, leaning close enough until their noses touch. His eyelashes flutter, causing his eyes to lull, mind racing with a million thoughts that all plea for silence. San doesn’t move and he doesn’t say anything, letting Wooyoung drift as close as he wanted by tilting into his touch. Wooyoung’s breath hitches, feeling the warmth of San’s exhales press against his lips until something inside of him just snaps.

He hesitates, seconds ticking away as he teeters over the boundary of work and reality, feeling as the line only blurs and blurs and blurs. His past, his memories, his job and his duty; it all came crashing down in a haze of smoke and fire, left to burn as embers until it disappeared into the fog. Wooyoung knew he had a choice to make, to draw the line and appease the one he worked for, or to finally just give in to the screams of his aching, broken heart. So, he makes it.

He presses a delicate, chaste kiss against San’s lips, pulling away, afraid to teeter too far, pushing against boundaries that lay unknown. But San shakes his head, his hand rising to rest on the back of Wooyoung’s neck, pulling him closer, breaching across the distance that completely broke the line in half. The kisses weren’t rough and feverish as they usually were, the ones that typically ended up with Wooyoung’s legs wrapped around San’s hips, hands tangled in one another’s hair with slick skin pressed against one another. No, this was the opposite. It was tender, a slow affirmation of what they both had been dancing around from the moment their eyes saw one another. It was a reaction, a test to see if the spark would truly alight, brightening the fire that they had tried to snub out time and time again.

But they weren’t just members of the same mafia anymore. They weren’t just people working in the same compound around familiar stretches of walls beneath the facade of a golden casino. They were real, and Wooyoung knew the longer he allowed these kisses to deepen, the more he’d truly never leave.

Just as Wooyoung was seeking more, San delicately parted away, his thumb soothing a small circle against Wooyoung’s neck as his eyes raised, seeking to connect with the younger’s gaze. Wooyoung feels his heart drop into his stomach, worried that he allowed his own mind to be consumed into his own desires, blind and completely disregarding anything that San could possibly want.

“Better?”

Wooyoung sheepishly smiles, lowering his hand down from San’s jaw and to the side of his neck, feeling his pulse beat beneath his touch. “Yeah, I just. . . needed a bit of clarity on something.”

“Kissing me gave you clarity?”

Wooyoung’s face floods with color, eyes forcibly flicking down as a smile curls on the edge of his lips, tilting his head as he looks up again, finding some sort of satisfaction in San’s reaction. “A bit, yeah. Is that okay?”

“More than okay,” San says with a small smile. “It’s nice to see you let your walls down a little.”

“Says you, Mr. Mafia,” Wooyoung teases, leaning a little closer, his eyes flicking down to glance at San’s lips. “I cracked you, maybe inadvertently, but I still found my way to your softer side.”

“Not completely,” San says with a lilt, tilting his head back as Wooyoung closes in. “Maybe I just want you to be soft with me too.”

Biting his lip, Wooyoung moves his legs, shuffling around before throwing his leg over San’s lap, sitting himself down, watching as San leaned back against the headboard. Wooyoung leaned down, hands resting on the elder’s shoulders, his lips curled into a teasing smile, letting his words warm the few inches between them.

“You make me want to let go of everything,” he confesses. “You have a way of making my thoughts disappear.”

“Then tell me,” San begins. “Why were you really trying to leave earlier?”

Wooyoung shifts slightly, his fingers pressing against San’s bare shoulders, biting back the words of a truth that he wasn’t sure this. . . relationship, or whatever it was to be considered as, would survive. He wouldn’t only break San’s trust, he’d sure as hell break his heart.

“It’s complicated, San,” Wooyoung says quietly. “Yes, I can’t sleep, and I can’t. . . my thoughts are a bit distracting right now–”

“Want me to silence them?”

Wooyoung feels his breath hitch, his heart leading the decision as he slowly nods, pleading in a way that words simply couldn’t. San, having caught the message, placed his hands on Wooyoung’s hips, pulling him closer before letting his hands drift beneath Wooyoung’s shirt, soothing circles against his hips.

“Be with me,” San whispers, the distance decreasing as Wooyoung’s forehead came to rest against San’s, sharing the same air, allowing the warmth of their breaths to collide and dance between them. “Let it go. Just be with me, Wooyoung.”

He nods once more, allowing his thoughts to drift away, settling into the peace that San brought him. The moment their lips connect, Wooyoung feels himself abandon all reasoning, melting into the blur of realities that felt too blissful to ignore.

San only pulled Wooyoung closer, swallowing his sighs and tightening his grip, giving in to everything that Wooyoung seemed to have needed. Wooyoung took and took and took, letting the feeling of San’s lips against his blur out everything else, sending his thoughts to pause and his heart to calm, reminding him of just how difficult leaving would be.

But he’d cherish it for as long as he could before plotting against the life he once knew, focusing on getting Mingyu to place his attention elsewhere in an effort to keep San safe.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

The morning came quickly after their nightly discussion, met with kisses and smiles that seemed to dispel the darkness for a moment longer. Now, Wooyoung had since left San’s room, heading back into his own to take a shower, change his clothes, take his medication, all before sitting down at his desk, staring at his laptop, trying to figure out just what he could say to Mingyu in order to deter him.

He was chewing on his lip, watching the cursor blink back at him as he struggled to convey the correct words. He hadn’t typed anything, but Mingyu’s previous message was staring right back at him, mocking and taunting, threatening in all of its digital glory even if it didn’t scare Wooyoung in the slightest.

Mingyu– I know this last month has been difficult, but I’ve made significant steps towards progress. I’ve unveiled some things, but I am still in the process of uncovering others. While I can assure you that the problem will be taken care of, there is a bigger problem at hand. |

He pauses, taking a moment to breathe before leaning back in his chair, contemplating on if Mingyu would even believe any of this.

San’s parents are deeply invested into a scheme that involves more than just political gain. I’m working on finding the root of the cause, but I need to ask for more time.

Would it be enough? Maybe. He’d just have to hope it would be.

So, he sends it. The message turns blue as it sends, entering with a delivered message just beneath. He leans back, searching the wall ahead of him for any type of distraction, that is, until his eyes land on the mound of notifications from Yeonjun’s contact name. He moves his cursor, clicking on the contact, watching as a flood of messages blur across ahead of him, but he can’t bring himself to read all of them. They were confusing, back and forth between length and friendliness, but beyond that, the later in the night that the messages were sent, the more angry and violent they turned.

Wooyoung couldn’t bother to read through most of them, eyes looking past each message with a tinge of disinterest before moving his cursor towards the top, clicking on the icon to the right, bringing up Yeonjun’s contact details. He scrolls down, all the way to the bottom, hovering his cursor over the block caller button. He feels his teeth sink into the interior of his cheek, heart racing with the mere idea of just getting rid of the one person who was a source of his stress, even if it made his heart hurt all the same. But he clicks it, watching as Yeonjun’s number faded and the entire contact went blank, now titled as Blocked Caller.

He felt free in a weird way, but that did nothing to solve the anxiety that came with Mingyu’s message notification. He clicks on it, pulling up the previous chat history, only to find a message he hadn’t expected.

Mingyu

You have one more day, Wooyoung. If I don’t hear from you that you’re going to our drop point by tomorrow evening, I’ll take care of it myself.

Kill him, Wooyoung.

Don’t test your luck.

Wooyoung stared in awe as he watched the very nature of his plan fall apart at the seams. He thought he had it figured out, that he found a solution to his problem, but Mingyu relented. He was still stuck, entangled into his own mess, caught in a web of threats and lies, trying to escape for the sake of his own sanity. He wanted San. He wanted this. But now. . . he’d simply have to let all of it go.

“Shit–” he curses under his breath, hovering his hands over his keyboard before he types something simple, allowing another plan, the one he had made just in case, to take precedence.

I’ll take care of it.

Closing his laptop, Wooyoung moves out of his chair, threading a hand through his hair before he makes a quick decision to leave his room before he’d feel himself explode. He was upset and angry, clutching his fake phone with a vice grip, trying to keep it all contained. But even as he rounded the corner, trekking down the hall and submerging himself into the living space, he found no one there. Well, except for San.

He was dressed casually, his hair slightly unkempt with glasses perched on his nose, a mug of steaming coffee sat on the kitchen island before him as he looked at something on his phone. Wooyoung paused, debating on turning around before deciding against it, staying put, slipping his phone into his pocket. San’s gaze travels upwards, meeting Wooyoung’s, hesitating before putting his phone down.

“Where is everyone?” Wooyoung asks, taking a step closer, reaching a hand out as he leans against the island counter.

“Surveillance,” San replies, reaching for his mug of coffee. “Just you and me here, plus Yeosang, but I doubt we’ll see him because he’s watching over the CCTV footage.”

Wooyoung nods, taking a soft breath inwards. “He’s in his lair, huh?”

“As usual,” San mutters before taking a sip of coffee, proceeding to then set the mug down. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No, no, not yet, but I will,” Wooyoung says, trying to dismiss the male’s worry.

“I was just about to make breakfast for myself, I was handling a phone call with Seonghwa, but if you’re hungry–?”

“No, San, you don’t have to,” Wooyoung tries to plead, but San seemed to have other plans.

“Well, that’s too bad. I’ve already decided,” San says, an almost smug-looking grin plastered against his lips. Wooyoung rolls his eyes before he nods, giving in without even bothering to argue.

So, he chooses to rather settle down at the island, planting himself on one of the stool as he watched San turn around and open some cabinets, getting out a pan and utensils before preparing to make their breakfast. Wooyoung sat by, propping his elbow on the countertop while his chin found refuge in his palm, watching San with an amused stare that he hadn’t seemed privy to yet.

“What’s on the menu, Chef San?” Wooyoung asks.

He chuckles, glancing over his shoulder. “Omelets?”

Wooyoung hums, almost appreciatively, unsure of if he was admiring the thought of breakfast, or just admiring the view ahead of him. San’s shoulders were broad, his muscles slightly defined beneath the press of his shirt. Each flex, each movement, somehow shone by the overhead lights as the male seamlessly went about a cooking routine he was overly familiar with. Wooyoung didn’t mind what they ate, nor if they really ate at all.

Suddenly, his phone starts vibrating. He chooses to ignore the first notification, but the momentary peace is distracted by another. And another. And another.

“You’re popular,” San comments without turning around.

“Maybe,” Wooyoung mutters, furrowing his brow as he pulls his phone free, tapping on the screen as he spots several messages from an unknown number.

Unknown

You think you can block me?

You really think that you can bury your past?

I will find you, Wooyoung. I know what you’re up to.

You blocked me because you’re fucking him, and I’m going to make you watch when I put a bullet in his head.

His heart thumps away in his throat, fingers growing lax as he barely finds the support to hold onto his phone. It buzzes, again and again and again as the messages continue to flash through, his head slowly shaking with his eyes wide, wondering how he could’ve missed the warning signs of getting himself entangled with a psychopath.

“Hey–” San says, turning around and facing Wooyoung after possibly hearing the rapid succession of each text, curious and now-concerned. “Something bothering you?”

“Uhm–” Wooyoung lets his words melt against his tongue, unsure of how to even explain anything of what he was seeing.

“Talk to me,” San says, putting down the spatula that he was holding. “If someone is bothering you, Wooyoung–”

“It’s my ex,” Wooyoung blurts out, putting his phone down on the counter as messages continue to trickle through. “He’s. . . obsessive.”

San nods, listening quietly, allowing Wooyoung the space to talk, or simply not to.

“He’s been harassing me for some time, and I blocked his number but he keeps sending messages and I can’t. . . I’m not used to this.” Wooyoung turns his phone face-down, trying to ignore the onslaught of threats breezing past his screen. “He wasn’t always like this, you know? He used to be kind and considerate, someone who loved me and tried his hardest everyday, but now. . . I don’t even know who the hell is texting me.”

“Was he. . . mean to you?” San asks, watching as Wooyoung’s head tilts down, averting his gaze.

“The last couple of months that we were together were hard. He was stressed, I was stressed, and he just snapped. He drank a lot, spoke unknown truths to me when he was beyond incoherent, blabbing out hate and slurs when he thought I was too drunk or too stupid to remember. Maybe I was too stupid because I stayed, and I kept going back, clinging on to the one person I thought wouldn’t ever leave me.” Wooyoung chews on his lip, holding his emotions at bay, just in the way he was trained to, watching his phone vibrate once more. “But, I was wrong. I let him abuse my heart, shout at me, drink himself into oblivion, and just. . . do whatever it was he wanted, even if that meant ignoring my words and committing murder.”

“Wooyoung–”

“He’s an asshole, you know?” Wooyoung looks up, searching San’s gaze. “I’m just his punching bag.”

“Hey,” San interjects, turning around to turn off the burners before rounding the island, reaching to place a hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder. “Don’t belittle yourself down to that. You’re more than anything he’s ever said to you.”

“But he’s always been right.” Wooyoung swallows sharply, trying to push his emotions away. “I’m an idiot. Especially now, especially after everything–”

“You do realize who I am, right?” San asks, leaning down slightly to catch Wooyoung’s gaze with his own. “Whoever he is, I can deal with it.”

Wooyoung should’ve been put off by San’s offer, but instead, he smiles, shaking his head, leaning back slightly. “Okay, Mr. Mafia. Maybe one day I’ll let you take care of it for me.”

“One day?”

“One day,” Wooyoung smiles, letting a breath flee through his lips. “But for now, can you do something for me?”

He nods, his gaze softening. “Of course.”

“Just be with me,” he mutters, reaching a hand up, delicately threading his hand through San’s hair. “Please.”

San smiles, leaning closer, pressing a delicate kiss to Wooyoung’s forehead.

“Okay, Wooyoung,” he breathes out. “Whatever you want.”

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

The night came faster than Wooyoung could’ve hoped. He spent the day lounging with San, leaning into him, watching the world pass, shutting his mind off until everything fell numb. Mingyu’s text lingered like an ominous cloud, threatening and overly tumultuous in its grandeur as Wooyoung waited, watching the clock as if it were a timer to the end of this life.

San didn’t pry anymore than he already had, apparently gathering enough information to keep him sated. Wooyoung would rather leave everything else unsaid, giving San permission to silence his thoughts until everything else bled away. This last day, these final moments, were things Wooyoung wouldn’t easily let go of. He wasn’t sure how he’d ever come back to this, but now, faced with the consequences of the agency that he’s more than betrayed, along with the downfall that Yeonjun created, the idea of leaving the safety of the Velvet Mirage felt to be more intimidating than he’d ever let on.

He’d have a few tasks to complete before he’d leave, however. He’d have to shut off the security cameras, gather his things, clean his room and sneak past Mingi, who was likely sitting by the door that led upstairs. Either way, he couldn’t linger anymore than he already had. He didn’t want Mingyu to come and bring the entire agency here, because regardless of what happened to himself, Wooyoung would never want harm to come to San.

Lying in bed, Wooyoung tilted his head towards San, who had been laying on his back, head tilted away from him, a hand laid against his chest as he breathed deeply. Wooyoung had followed him back here, stealing the breath from his lungs before joining him beneath the warmth of the shower, half-expecting intimacy, but getting something else in return.

San took care of him.

He washed his hair, helped lather his body, placing delicate kisses against his shoulders and the nape of his neck, rinsing the soap from his hair before turning Wooyoung around and kissing the breath from his lungs. Wooyoung didn’t want to feel this way, nor did he want to harbor these emotions for San and feel this deeply, but he did. His heart was aching at just the idea of leaving all of this behind, let alone someone who seemed to care for him. But he had to do it. The risks, mainly tainted with the idea of San’s potential harm, wasn’t worth it. He’d protect San with everything, even if that meant sentencing himself to consequences that the government would bestow onto him.

Carefully, Wooyoung slips himself out of bed, mindful to remain as silent as he could in a hope to not disturb San’s slumber. He reaches for his phone before bending at the waist, reaching for his trousers and shirt, slowly beginning to put them back on. His skin was riddled in marks, darkening swells where San’s mouth had ravaged him, dappling along the curve of his neck, under the jut of his jaw, dotted along the bare press of his collarbones and chest. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d hide any of this, especially from Yeonjun, but he’d just have to hope that a hoodie would be enough beneath the howl of the moon.

With everything secured, Wooyoung made his way towards San’s door, tightening his jaw as he briefly hesitated, hand hovering over top of the handle as he internally fought with the idea of turning to look at him, one more time. But he relents, turning the handle down and exiting the room, closing the door as silently as he could manage. The moment the door clicks shut, he takes a breath, turning down the hall after a brief glance around, moving through the corridor nimbly, eyes scanning past the cameras that lined the hall.

Eventual steps lead him to San’s office, opening the doors discreetly, closing them behind him with a subtle click. With a breath, he walks across the space, reaching San’s desk, scanning the area for any sign of access to San’s computer. Dragging his fingertips along the surface of the desk, Wooyoung kneels down, opening drawers and eyeing the contents inside, chewing on his lip before he finds a button, pushing it inwards before the hum breaks out from behind him.

He turns, watching as the wall begins to lower, bringing forth a view of several monitors, all wearing the sights from the compound, all presented by the feed from the cameras. Raising a brow, Wooyoung scoffs, almost in a jealous, unexpecting way, scanning over each view before finding a control panel residing nearby. The cameras seemed to give San the edge he needed, watching over every single inch of his compound, seeing more than Wooyoung could’ve ever imagined. He knew that Yeosang had access to these cameras as well, if not slightly less, but in seeing this, in realizing that San observed this compound from the comfort of his own desk, albeit secretly, caused him to have more questions than answers.

What was he watching for? Who was he watching? Did he not trust someone inside of his self-proclaimed family?

Reaching forward, Wooyoung eyes the control panel with a curious eye, looking at the power buttons and different selections of keys on the keypad, inquisitively wondering which switch would turn the cameras off. The power button, it seemed, only controlled the monitors themselves, but the other switches, backlit by LEDs, made him question which one would exactly cut the feed.

But, running low on time, Wooyoung swipes his finger across all of them, watching as not only the monitors flicker, but as the feeds completely pause, remaining still, acting like a brief window in time where Wooyoung could leave without San knowing where he had gone. Assured, Wooyoung shuffled back out of San’s office, closing the doors behind him as he trailed towards his own room, continuously glancing over his shoulders to make sure that any prying eyes had been kept tucked away or seemingly elsewhere, leaving him alone in the middle of the night, plotting his escape from a world that he didn’t wish to leave behind.

He moves about his space, gathering his duffle bag, opening it on top of his bed as he moves towards the dresser, unpacking every single item of clothing that he had bothered to bring. He tucks it all away, not bothering to fold it or pack it nicely, shoving it all inside until he moves towards his stack of books, his laptop, his electronic chargers and his actual phone, storing it all away inside of the duffle bag without care.

The sting of it, the act of erasing his every memory here, was painful in a way he couldn’t describe. He wanted to scream, to confront Mingyu and to ask why he had even bothered to evoke these plans, especially when the government likely hadn’t approved of it. This felt personal in a way that Wooyoung couldn’t ignore, laden with something deeper, something darker. Mingyu was up to something, hiding beneath the guise of what had been morally right in comparison to what he had actually been flirting with. He was delving into the dark web, dipping his feet into pools of abysmal water, hoping that the promise of money would hide the scandalous world he was climbing into, even with a government badge glued with his name engraved within it.

It wasn’t sitting right with Wooyooung, especially not after realizing that San’s business, along with the way he had done things, wasn’t entirely all that bad. Maybe he was oblivious, perhaps diluted by everything that he had now shared with San, but that didn’t sway his opinion. The government was up to something criminal, and for the first time in a long time, Wooyoung began to question the ideals of an agency that he used to look up to and respect. Though, now, the lines felt more than just blurred. It was stark, a complete shift of tectonic plates that felt as electric as someone touching a live shock wire. Wooyoung’s heart wasn’t in it anymore, and it never had been.

He was stuck hoping that everything he witnessed would simply grow to be better, hidden beneath a wave of blood and gunpowder. But it never had. They continued to kill for the sake of it, drinking to celebrate, being congratulated with a pat on the shoulder and a round of catered goods, all while Wooyoung sat back and watched, wondering how he could’ve ever trusted the very males that seemed to turn their back on him now?

He didn’t know how Scoups, Jeonghan or even Mingyu’s husband, Wonwoo, felt, not that his opinion mattered much anyway. But they were all working together, along with Yeonjun, conspiring to either extract Wooyoung by force and kill everyone within this compound, or to arrest Wooyoung the moment they saw him.

But it didn’t matter. He had to walk away. He couldn’t risk San getting hurt just because of his own stupid, delusional feelings. Maybe San felt the same way, maybe he didn’t. Maybe they were just a fling, a series of one-night-stands all for the sake of something mutual. Wooyoung didn’t know what San felt, and it was likely left better that way. Knowing might only make all of this harder, and Wooyoung knew he might never leave if San spoke from a single utterance of his own secret, personal feelings.

With everything packed away, Wooyoung reached for the discarded hoodie that lay on his desk chair, tugging it over his torso before slinging his bag over his shoulder, taking a breath inwards as he looked around the room. There was no trace of him left.

The bed was made, the drawers closed, the dresser cleaned; everything was packed away and missing, removing any remnants of the life he once shared here. Without wasting one more second, Wooyoung made his way out of the bedroom, closing the door with what felt like a definitive, final click, beginning to separate himself from the world he had to forget.

The corridor was still; sterile, almost. It was hard to fathom how a compound such as this could be so quiet in the depth of night, even with an array of elitists and delinquents, ranging from wet workers and drivers, all the way down to security and hackers. It felt like home, in some weird way, not the same intimidating, cryptic facade that Wooyoung had once thought of it to be.

Each and every step was lonely, filled with a long line of regret that he couldn’t shake. It was heavy, worn like a cloak, a heavy cast that dampened the ache of determination that wove itself deep. He wanted to abandon this plan, to tell San the truth, to expose himself and everything that he’s been keeping locked away on his devices, but he knew that San would kick him out anyway. Either way, to tell the truth and stay, or to leave and spare San the heartbreak, it all ended with negative consequences. So in Wooyoung’s mind, keeping the details out and leaving, was easier than everything else.

Though, as he crosses the doorway to San’s bedroom, he pauses, his jaw tightening, heart breaking in an unfamiliar way. He looks at the wood of the door, tracing his eyes along the rim of the doorframe all the way down to the handle of the door, feeling an urge pass over his skin in a way he couldn’t name. So, he sets his bag down, curling his fingers around the handle, turning it down until he pulls the door towards him, peering inside with the door slowly pulled ajar.

The light shone into the room subtly, cast across his bed and blankets, just barely missing the pillows where San’s head lay. He looked at peace, calm and lost in an abyss of sleep that seemed to cradle him delicately. Though, as Wooyoung looked at him, he only then noticed that San’s hand was extended out, palm face-down, resting on the spot that Wooyoung had abandoned minutes ago. It was almost as if he was silently reaching for him, seeking the warmth that had been once pooled on the right side of the mattress, though there wasn’t anything there. It was just an empty space, cold and devoid of someone he apparently was searching for.

Stepping closer, Wooyoung stopped on San’s side of the bed, tracing his eyes over the bare skin that wasn’t quite hidden beneath the warmth of the duvet. His bare chest, covered in scars and tattoos, all parts of a body that Wooyoung had come to know so graciously. San was more than just a ruthless kingpin, a monster created by greed and blood. He was softer than that, caring and considerate in a way that not every man was. He was genuine, protective and warm, things that Yeonjun had never been. Wooyoung couldn’t help but feel deeper things for San, things that evolved into a word that he really didn’t wish to name. San had specifically said that he was terrified of anyone growing close to him again, weighed down by the idea that his enemies would capture the one he loved most before murdering them, wounding him in a way that no bullet could truly penetrate. Wooyoung knew that San wouldn’t ever love him because of that simple idea, that simple fear that seemed to take San’s desires by the throat and squeeze, leaving him breathless and aching for air. Wooyoung wouldn’t say anything, nor would he move to make the male realize that he could protect him too, to blend into a force that couldn’t only just tackle his parents, but possibly the entire government.

It was a distant dream, a fickle hope that Wooyoung let swirl down the drain beneath the steam of his shower, washing away everything he ever wanted or even remotely entertained the idea of, all for the sake of his lonely, bleeding heart. But, seeing San now, quiet and enhanced by the cusp of sleep, he finds himself wondering why he even did this to himself.

Why would he allow this man to work his way into his heart? Why would he feed into it? Why would he even bother to entertain the feelings that began to drive him crazy?

But, he was leaning down before he knew it. He used the tip of his finger to brush San’s hair away from his eyes before leaning closer, holding his breath as he listened to each deep exhale escape San’s lips. His head was turned to the side, one hand on his chest, the other searching for a missing partner in his bed, leaving Wooyoung to give in to his emotions one more time.

He closes his eyes, feeling his jaw tighten as the threat of tears loom ever closer, letting his lips grace the delicate skin of San’s temple. He lingers, softly and carefully pulling away, the warm press of San’s skin against his lips a ghastly reminder of everything he had done, and everything he was leaving behind.

He turns, standing up straight, nearly about to leave before he feels a warm wrap of fingers curl around his wrist. He pauses, eyes widening as he turns back around, watching as San blinks away the haze of sleep that had once held him hostage.

“Woo–?” He asks huskily, turning slightly as he tries to look up at the male that was still standing at the side of his bed. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

Wooyoung bites his tongue, watching as San blearily tries to wake up, though seems rather unable to. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Assured, San rests back down, letting a deep breath roll through his lungs as he relents, letting his eyes close once more.

“Okay,” he mutters, his fingers still wrapped around Wooyoung’s wrist, though growing more and more lax as time bleeds on. “Just. . . take care of yourself, okay?”

“I’m fine, San–”

“No, you’re not,” San comments, taking another smaller, though deep breath. “You need to rest. . . I worry about you.”

Wooyoung looks away, biting his lip, his opposite hand clenched into a fist with his nails digging into his palm as he tried to push his tears away, but he felt them curl over anyway.

“You’re not taking care of yourself, Wooyoung,” San says, his voice growing more quiet. “And that scares me.”

Turning back around, Wooyoung finds himself staring at San as the male slowly begins to tumble back into the throes of sleep, clearly losing the battle against fighting for coherency. But Wooyoung didn’t want him to wake up, not completely, anyway. He wanted him to sleep, to forget about all of this, to find peace in the comfort of his own room once more before Wooyoung would go and destroy everything above ground. But San didn’t have to know that. San could remain oblivious and wondering, just as long as he was safe. Truly, that was all that mattered.

But San cared, so genuinely and apparently brazenly, admitting to how worried he was over Wooyoung’s insomnia that the words seamlessly breezed past his lips in an utterance that was unlike him. Yet, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

So, Wooyoung gives in, one more time.

He leans back down, pulling his wrist free of San’s grasp to delicately frame the side of San’s face, brushing his thumb across his cheek. The tears that marred Wooyoung’s cheeks now paused, eyes focusing on the male that he so deeply cared for, yet could never have. But he relents, giving in to a kiss that felt like an ending. He poured everything into it, everything that he had and would have said, blurred between the lines of a kiss that would truly end everything they had shared. No more intimacy, no more shared conversations and longing glances across the room. No more escapades and secret showers together. No more them. No more comfort.

San, albeit sleepily, returned the kiss, waking up just enough to wrap his hand around the back of Wooyoung’s neck, returning the unknown affirmations in a way that made Wooyoung’s heart crack and melt all at once. He was in pain, giving away this part of himself, abandoning this piece of his heart in the hope that it’d keep San safe. And it’d be worth it, if that were the case.

Wooyoung didn’t care about what would happen to him, just as long as San could escape the clutches of a corrupt government agency.

Breaking apart, Wooyoung listened for the faintest trace of sound from San’s lips, half-expecting him to say something, rather anything, but instead, all he finds is the slight curl of a sleepy smile against the male’s lips. San’s hand retreats, his head sinking back down into the pillow as he tilts back over into dreamland, incoherent, yet seemingly now at peace.

Wooyoung argues with himself internally, biting his lips as he avoids saying the things he wished to before turning, not once bothering to look back over his shoulder. He knew that if he had, he’d give in, and find himself wrapped up in the comfort of San’s bed, aching to be a part of his warmth. So he leaves, even if it hurts to do so.

Making his way out of San’s room, Wooyoung grabbed his bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder, glancing both ways before walking down the hall. He reached a hand up, brushing his tears away with the back of his hand as he carefully creeped around the corner, hearing the subtle hums of quiet laughter and mumbled conversation.

Yunho and Mingi, both head positions of security and gun control, seemed overly lax with a bottle of whiskey between them, cuddled close on the sofa, apparently too pleased with the giggles and comments they made towards one another. Wooyoung observed them for a moment, unabashed and proud, smothering one another in a display of affection that Wooyoung hadn’t noticed between them before. Maybe they were too tipsy to care, or maybe Wooyoung just hadn’t paid enough attention. But as they were, they seemed overly pleased, happy and content, finding a moment of levity even amidst the life they shared.

Turning away, Wooyoung quietly strolled towards the staircase, his hand gripping the railing, listening to the hum of the compound, swallowed by the giggles and teasing sound of Yunho’s voice, muffling out his desire to turn around and get into bed with San. He heads up, one step at a time, racing to the top before he pauses, his chest heaving as his heart aches with betrayal. But he opens the door, exiting the compound, closing the door behind him before searching the space around him, eyeing the familiar walls and boxes that laid nearby, unsure if he’d ever see this part of the Velvet Mirage ever again.

He walks back through the storage space, through the vacant rooms until he found his way back outside. He knew that the cameras were on outside, as he’d have no control over the ones Hyunjin, the casino’s security guard, watched over like a hawk. But he’d have to risk it, because there was no choice anymore. He had to leave. He had to return to the agency, to his home, and to the people he wasn’t sure he could trust anymore.

So, he heads outside, pushing the door open and allowing his steps to quickly rush him through the parking lot. It was the depth of night, overcast by the haze of clouds that hid the howling moon, the parking lot lights flooding the puddled asphalt beneath Wooyoung’s converse. Every step echoed as he walked faster, approaching the gate that led to the private part of the parking lot, tossing his bag over before hoisting himself up, climbing over top and landing with a muffled grunt, reaching for his bag as he continued to walk through a slightly crowded parking lot.

People passed by, laughing and inebriated, carrying money or crying about losing it all, betting on red or black in a game of fifty-fifty, rolling the dice in a chance for a dream to make millions. Wooyoung wished for his life to be as simple as that, to gamble away his money and cry about the outcome, whether happy or sad, but instead, here he was, crying over a man he wasn’t even supposed to love.

He buried it all down either way, forcing the stoic, professional, numb-like expression over his face as he walked, brushing past everyone before he tugged his hood over his head, feeling the strands of his messy hair move beneath the shove of his hood. Wooyoung folded his arms against his chest, strolling down the sidewalk as he leaves the Velvet Mirage behind, looking down at the pavement as cars and cabs moved about on the road to his left, the hums of engines somehow overpowering the chaos erupting inside of his mind.

His heart was hurting, but he didn’t wish to acknowledge it. He could walk away, force it all down, practiced and poised just as he had been taught, looming back into the state of mind that he adopted all those years ago.

Abandon all feelings, avoid all emotions, stick to everything that you know, and once you do, everything else will align into focus. Your desires and intentions, mingled with duty and respect; it will all come to the forefront.

It didn’t feel that way, though. It was a lot more hollow, holding on to the hope that these memories, all of those kisses and touches, the words and murmurs of promises; that they’d simply disappear. They wouldn’t. Not by a long shot. But he’d have to pretend that they had. Yeonjun would be suspicious and questioning, searching for a reason to accuse Wooyoung of anything and everything, even though he had all the right to. But, as far as Wooyoung was concerned, he’d gather his belongings, put in his immediate notice at the agency, and leave Seoul behind without bothering to blink. He didn’t want his relationship anymore, nor did he want his job and his friends; he just wanted peace and freedom, space away from everything that made this city as suffocating as it felt.

But just as he sought to clear his mind of every single burrowing thought, his phone vibrates, causing his heart to nearly seize and drop out of his chest. He reaches for it, pulling it free, hesitating on the notification for a moment before looking down.

Mingyu

Green light?

Wooyoung sighs, almost in relief, worrying that San or someone else from the cartel had been texting him, but it was just his boss. Per usual.

Green light.

Wooyoung puts his phone away, sliding the device into his pocket as he quickly walks through the city’s streets, allowing the gentle breeze of the night to guide him towards the location of his extraction. He’d go back home, get away from all of these messy, slaughtering feelings, and finally just be. No more worrying, no more longing, and most importantly, no more pressure laying atop his shoulders.

The familiar gas station appeared before he could react, the green and yellow logo beaming brightly from the neon sign that loomed over the city, coloring the asphalt in an array of colors that seemed to bleed into the puddles. Wooyoung hesitated, placing his hands into his pockets before relenting again, looking both ways before crossing the street, jogging across the road as he reached the perimeter of the gas station’s inner convenience store. The parking lot was empty, save for the hum of the ice machines outside and the lights keeping the entire facility lit. Cigarette butts lined the pavement, half-used and abandoned, near the trash cans or pooled near the crushed beer cans that laid adjacent everywhere else. Wooyoung kicked a can with his shoe, listening to it rattling against the concrete, trailing his eyes upward until he turned the corner, heading towards the back alley. It was quiet, dark and completely void of anyone’s presence, leaving him alone with the thoughts that threatened to consume him.

Though, it wasn’t long before the beam of headlights broke his reverie. He turned, raising a brow as the car came to a halt, the engine still alive as the driver’s door swung open, revealing the face of someone he hadn’t expected. Yeonjun.

This wasn’t what they agreed to. Mingyu, all those weeks ago, said he’d be the one to come and get him, to make sure that the extraction went without issue. Yeonjun held a conflict of interests, though possibly reasonable, Mingyu didn’t want his feelings or their relationship to get in the way of any other details. However. . . Mingyu wasn’t anywhere in sight.

“Yeonjun–” Wooyoung breathed out, his guard dropping, fingers growing lax around the strap on his shoulder as he held onto it, almost as if the motion would ground him against every emotion that raged forth.

“Nice for you to finally come back,” Yeonjun greets, leaving his car door open, rounding the front of his vehicle before stopping, his posture completely defensive and not friendly at all. “Did he finally get tired of you? Throw you out, abandon you in the way that you abandoned me?”

“Yeonjun, that’s not what happened–”

“Then tell me what the fuck happened, Woo!” Yeonjun yelled, taking a half-step closer, raising his hand as he pointed a threatening finger towards his estranged partner. “We were together, in this shit for life, watching one another’s backs as if the entire world was against us. But you lied. You went on one fucking mission and came back like a heart-broken whore.”

Wooyoung parts his lips to speak, but Yeonjun shakes his head, a manic-sounding laugh ripping through his chest, his head dipping down as he turns, pacing in front of his car.

“I can’t fucking believe you, Wooyoung. You were the most intelligent person that I had ever known. I looked up to you, and more than that–” he stops, gazing at Wooyoung with a terrifyingly odd smirk, unraveling a chord of unease through every inch of Wooyoung’s spine. “I loved you. I love every part of you, and you just don’t give a single shit. I gave you everything, every single part of my heart and my home, I allowed you to harbor in a space that I had bought on my own, helped guide you through paperwork, stayed after hours for you all the time when I could’ve just gone home.”

“Yeonjun, I didn’t mean for all of this–”

“You didn’t?” Yeonjun asks, his brows slightly furrowing. “What the fuck are all of those bruises on your neck, Wooyoung? Why are you covered in fucking hickeys? I meant so much to you, right? So much that you’d go behind my back and fuck the enemy?”

“Yeonjun–”

“Just stop talking!” He yells, brushing a hand through his hair before he laughs again, almost dramatically, his voice tinged with frustration and anger, a palpable tension that made Wooyoung’s chest tighten. “You ruined us. Every single facet of us. And for what? That fucking monster of a human being that you were supposed to kill?!”

Wooyoung shook his head, eyes brimming with the tears he tried to avoid, but Yeonjun raised a brow, apparently unimpressed.

“You sit here and you cry, pretending that you cared about me, but all of that went away the moment that you stopped caring about our relationship and fucked him, Wooyoung. You cheated. You lied. You might be a master manipulator, but you’re a fucking coward.”

“Yeonjun–” Wooyoung began shakily, shaking his head, raising a hand in a plea. “It all got so complicated. It was so hard being by myself, to experience all of that and to be isolated. . . I just. . . I got confused and I–”

Yeonjun looked away, his jaw tightening.

“I did. I did cheat. But after the way you spoke to me, I broke it off with you, Yeonjun. You had no right to treat me like I was nothing, a piece of garbage that you could berate and toss away just because you were just as frustrated as I was. I was planted into a situation that I wasn’t prepared for, and I would bet so much fucking money that no one else could’ve dealt with it either.” Wooyoung looks down, biting his tongue, knowing that he was saying far too much. “But I’m here. I left. I came back because I had a duty, didn’t I?”

Yeonjun is quiet, his gaze, once avoidant, now trailed upwards to glare at Wooyoung. He was studying him, assessing his every word, brows slightly furrowed before pinching together, a sudden resolve melting into his skin. But before Wooyoung could react, Yeonjun reached behind him, pulling out a jet-black pistol, flicking off the safety as he pointed the gun at Wooyoung.

“Fuck you,” he sneers, his hand slightly trembling, though the look on his face was anything but forgiving. He was furious, completely gone into his state of hate, consumed by a rage that Wooyoung hadn’t quite grasped. “I hate you, Wooyoung. I can’t stand that I love you when I want to just fucking kill you–!”

“Yeonjun, please–” Wooyoung says, his eyes wide with sudden fear, holding his hands up. “You’re not thinking straight. I need you to listen to me–”

“So you can what? LIE TO ME AGAIN!?” Yeonjun’s voice was a roar, a complete nuclear meltdown of emotions that came as a consequence of Wooyoung’s actions. “I’m done listening to you talk, Wooyoung. In fact, I–” he pauses, adjusting his grip on the gun. “I never want to see your face again.”

“Yeonjun, don’t–!”

A loud crack of noise bounces off the wall in the alley, pulled from the trigger being slung back, allowing a bullet to erupt from the chamber as not only one bullet fires off, but another follows.

The alley grew quiet, met with the slight scent of gunpowder and freshly pooled blood. The moon was quiet now, hidden beneath the fog of clouds, whispering in a plea for someone to save him.

But Wooyoung was alone. He abandoned everyone that cared about him with an irrational fear, listening as the hum of a car fled the scene with screeching tires, leaving his vision to blur and his breaths to eventually slow.

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ꜱᴀɴ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

The room felt cold, barren; lacking the warmth that usually came with it. The lights were off, darkness consuming every single corner of the bedroom as San peeled his eyes open, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled. He turned to the left, inspecting the empty space next to him, lacking the presence of someone he hadn’t realized he grew attached to.

The sheets were askew, the duvet slightly unkempt, the pillows slightly indented from where Wooyoung once lay. San sighed, something deep and slightly hesitant, furrowing his brows as he contemplated internally, wondering why he was alone, yet again, while also questioning the early hour. Turning his head again, he spots the clock, reading the time before sitting upright with a muffled groan.

It was devastatingly early, enough for a pang of concern to pull at his heart. Had Wooyoung’s insomnia taken advantage of him once more, or was he avoiding the inevitable? He didn’t ask, nor was he even sure if he ever would. He worried, partially, knowing that Wooyoung could be running himself into the ground absently without really even realizing that he was doing it. He wanted Wooyoung to relax, to find a moment to truly sleep and rest his mind, but he wasn’t entirely sure if he could ever truly just do that. He seemed on edge, laden with secrets that San was eager to unravel, piece by piece, worshiping his body in the hope that Wooyoung would unveil everything that he had been harboring.

Sure, it wasn’t the greatest of ideas to sleep with the one person he didn’t trust, and he didn’t really expect the feelings that arose from all of those encounters to overtake him like a powerful current, yet here he was. Missing him, wondering where he had been, asking himself why he’d ever dare to get involved with someone he couldn’t bear to bother trusting.

The more the web untangled itself, the more San began to see Wooyoung for who he was, or for who he appeared to be. Beneath the mask of composure, there was something softer glistening there; a vulnerability, a need and a want to be freed of something. San could only see that because he felt himself begging for the same things in some ideals. Maybe, and likely not, in the same things, but for a moment, San felt himself connect more with Wooyoung than he had with anyone else. Any past hookup, any previous rendezvous with someone that he’d rather not name, didn’t feel like this. Wooyoung didn’t just feel different. His entire presence was exactly that; different. But in the best way possible.

Tossing his legs over the edge of the bed, San carefully pushed himself to stand, reaching haphazardly for his phone in the dim lighting allotted by the ajar door, likely left open by Wooyoung after he left. Walking across the space, San reached for his closet doors, sliding them open, running his fingers along the trim of a few shirts before pulling one from a hanger, a random short-sleeve that would suffice enough in simply just looking for the male who was supposed to be in bed at this time.

Tugging it over his head, San moves out into the hall, closing his door with a subtle click before turning, strolling down through the corridor to find that all lively chatter had suddenly halted. The compound was nearly silent, save for the air conditioning and the hum of the refrigerator. He flicks on the nearest switch, watching as the overhead lights shine downwards over the marble countertops and laminate floors, highlighting the crisp, modern decor of the space that stretched out in silence.

There was no sign of life within this room, well, save for the empty, dirty glasses within the sink, but otherwise, nothing seemed out of place. San takes a breath, moving off ahead of him, spotting the sofas and the coffee table, clean and without much disturbance. The blankets were folded, pillows slightly wrinkled, coasters tucked away and remotes placed near the center of the table. There just wasn’t a trace of anyone having been here, at least, not obviously.

So, San turns away, inspecting every inch of the room before sauntering towards the garage, curiously peeking beyond the door to find every single car in place. Keys weren’t missing, the door locked and shut, as it usually had been, leaving yet again, no trace of Wooyoung. He turns away, locking the door and moving past the kitchen and living space, turning back down the corridor to finally place himself at Wooyoung’s bedroom.

He wasn’t one to invade anyone’s space, as encroaching on something personal just hadn’t been his forte. However, given the suspicious act of Wooyoung’s phantom-like behaviors, he found no other choice but to barge in. He raises his hand, turning the handle down, swinging the door open to find something he hadn’t expected. The room was empty, dark and cleaned.

The bed was made, items missing, any trace of Wooyoung’s clothing or personal touches suddenly gone without a trace, removing any single essence of him from a room that was supposed to be his. San steps inwards, tracing a finger against the edge of the bed as he glances around, noting the odd perfection of everything in here. The chair was pushed in at the desk, drawers pushed in and completely empty, followed by the stack of pillows and carefully folded duvet, almost as if the space hadn’t ever been occupied to begin with.

The walls were barren, the wardrobe vacant and the room chilled, leaving San to turn back around, walking back towards the door from which he came. Wooyoung’s things were missing now too, which only wove his swell of concern to grow larger.

Moving down the hall with a slight haste to his every step, San turns until he impulsively twists the knob down and opens another door, revealing the sight of Yeosang sitting at his desk, looking between his monitors with glasses perched against his nose. San steps forward without thinking, placing a hand on the back of Yeosang’s chair as the male carefully looks up at him, the exhaustion in his gaze palpable.

“It’s early–”

“I know,” San interjects, furrowing his brow. “Wooyoung’s gone. I need you to check the cameras.”

Yeosang nods, turning his head back towards the monitors before typing away a few commands on his keyboard, bringing up a screen that should’ve flickered alive with the feed of nearly ten cameras, but all they showed was a black box for each individual feed.

“That’s. . . strange,” Yeosang mutters, leaning forward as he types again, clicking a few things with his mouse before pulling open another window, one that rewound the footage just enough to spot Wooyoung traveling through the halls of the compound unaided.

“Where is he going?” San asks, leaning closer to the monitor, watching as Yeosang flicks through each camera, following along with Wooyoung’s movements as he dips through the halls with subtle, quiet movements before crossing into San’s office. 

“He snuck in there,” Yeosang mumbles, leaning a fraction closer. “He’s clearly looking for something that he doesn’t want us to know about.”

San hummed, eyes slightly squinting as he observed Wooyoung’s every movement through the monitor, observing the way he walked right towards the desk, searching through things before stumbling across the hidden panel of monitors behind a fake wall. San’s eyes narrowed further, brows pinching, but before he could even react, the monitors went dark, all of the cameras disappearing into the abyss.

“He turned them all off,” Yeosang huffs, shaking his head. “What a fucking snake.”

“I told you to dig up things on him,” San said coldly, leaning away, folding his arms against his chest. “Did you find anything? Or is he still just a fucking ghost?”

“I found. . . things,” Yeosang begins with a breath, clicking off of the cameras to pull up a few files, laden with documents all labeled with the precursor of classified. San raises a brow, waiting quietly as Yeosang begins to speak. “I found all of his military records. Photos, even.”

“He briefly explained that to me before,” San admits, earning a hum from Yeosang.

“Well, he reached a pretty high ranking before being selected for a covert operation, but the files are corrupted from here on out. I was able to scrounge up that he had been removed from the mission because of mental instability and mental illness, to which he medically retired, though the paperwork never cleared. So, technically, he’s wanted in the eyes of the law for avoiding his duty. But. . . I couldn’t even find a record of his criminal history. Everything is a blank slate, or just. . . hidden from view. However–” Yeosang pauses, pulling up another screen. “I did find an electronic trail of where he went afterwards. It’s a bit dislodged, and some pieces are missing, but for the most part, I can tell the story of what happened the moment he left the special forces.”

“Interesting,” San notes, offering a slight nod. “Keep going.”

“So, there’s a path that leads him away from Busan and really, far away from any sub-city that could become a crime hub. He’s been stationed here, in Seoul, this entire time, just on the other side of it. He’s got a house, a car that isn’t the one we saw before he crashed it, and more than that. . . he’s got a different job in a taller, office-type building.”

San’s fingers tighten around the back of Yeosang’s chair as the male continues to speak, unveiling a truth that San knew he wasn’t ever privy to hear.

“There’s no history of drift racing here, especially in the underground market, where details of races and big names come to fruition. I hacked into a few different systems with an encrypted code, but I got kicked out after only a minute of being within their firewall. I grabbed as much as I could, and until I crack the code again, I’m locked out.”

“So,” San begins, trying to keep his voice even. “He lied?”

“You tell me–” Yeosang says, turning around to glance up at San. “Did he? You spent more time with him than anyone else.”

The truth was, he didn’t lie, not all that much. His military past, the comments about his parents and the murders he committed in an act of revenge; that all seemed too raw to be a lie. Those things were true, however, his upbringing, his past with racing and being in a different city. . . those were lies. And now, San truly can’t decipher what was reality, and what was fiction.

“He told me most of that,” San begins, his jaw slightly tight. “The military, something about his parents. . . but the drift racing, the ties to another city–”

“It’s a guise,” Yeosang comments, gesturing back to his computer. “That’s not all, San. I found something else. Something I don’t know what to make of.”

“Continue.”

“I found these,” Yeosang says, pulling up a large document, filled with message receipts, time stamps, phone numbers, and a name that San hadn’t seen before. Choi Yeonjun.

“What the hell is this?”

“Apparently, Wooyoung had another phone,” Yeosang continues, pulling up another log from the same phone, but with the list of contacts that lay within. “This was the phone he had with us. All of our names, our numbers, our chat logs. . . all of it. However, this other number appeared a few weeks ago, bombarding him with messages that make me believe they were romantically involved.”

“He did explain to me, briefly, that his ex was bothering him,” San says quietly, which causes Yeosang to turn around, raising a brow.

“What did he say?”

“Just that his ex was basically toxic, calling him names and not leaving him alone. I offered to take care of it, but he told me that it was fine. Clearly it wasn’t, based on reading these.”

“They’re a bit vague in their delivery, clearly not meant for our eyes, but there’s something to them that made me curious enough to trace the phone number.”

“You traced it?” San asks, a bit surprised as he leans towards the monitor, catching Yeosang’s subtle smirk in the process. “It wasn’t just a burner phone?”

“Hell no. Whoever Yeonjun is, he’s an idiot. His entire past was a digital download, though in a corrupted file that I had to spend hours extracting. Our little Wooyoung was involved with a government agent, which drove me to dig a little deeper.” Yeosang turns, looking at San before he mutters a sentence that shatters every facet of San’s reality. “That office building I mentioned, Yeonjun works there too, which could only mean one thing–”

“He’s a fucking agent,” San finishes, narrowing his gaze as the weight of everything tumbles down onto his shoulders, pressing down invasively, rooting itself like a worm. “He works for the fucking government, that fucking snake–”

“Relax,” Yeosang chides, pressing his index finger into San’s chest, though clothed, raising a brow as if he had more to say. “There could be more to this. We both know how corrupt the government is; that’s why we’re here, aren’t we?”

San nods, biting his tongue, though the anger that burns within him feels hard to truly dispel.

“So–” Yeosang proposes lightly. “We track him down again, find out what he knows, what he was trying to gain by being here.”

“You really think we can track him that easily?” San questions, almost unamused and riddled with disbelief.

Yeosang laughs, an overly confident, almost smug-sounding laugh, causing San’s chest to slightly tense. Yeosang always had thought a step or two further, which is part of the reason why San hired him for these things, but how he always just knew, irked him beyond belief.

“You think too lowly of me, Choi,” Yeosang quips, smiling broadly. “I placed a tracker in his phone well before all of this, while he was passed out from nearly busting his shoulder. I knew he was up to something, and I wanted to know more. Little did I realize that he’d actually grow the balls to up and leave, but he’s hiding something huge. I just wanted to find out what it was.”

“Track him,” San orders coldly, glancing at the monitor, eyes gazing across the messages. “If this Yeonjun person coaxed him out of the Velvet. . . I have a bad feeling.”

“Bad feeling?”

“These messages aren’t exactly nice, Yeosang. From what he told me, it seems like Yeonjun might be the narcissistic, gaslighting type. Maybe he’s. . . abusive, or something in that context. Wooyoung can handle himself fine, but if he’s going to meet with this guy, there could be something amiss.”

Yeosang shrugs, wetting his lips, turning in his chair to face his monitor again, lazily scrolling through the messages. San stares at every single one, reading every word, engraving the very phrases into his mind.

You’re pathetic. Fucking cheating piece of shit.

I’ll come in there and make you watch as I kill him right in front of you.

Is that what you want? You want me to come and make a fool out of you and do your job for you?

I knew you were a pussy. I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle this because of your fucking humanity. Lose the nice-guy act, Wooyoung. It doesn’t suit you. Just makes you seem more idiotic than I thought.

He was cruel. Every word was planted with a sincere bet that he’d harm Wooyoung in more ways than just one. Yeonjun was spiteful, arrogant, classless and apparently enraged by Wooyoung apparently cheating on him. San didn’t understand their dynamic, nor what their entire past held, but he couldn’t ignore the pang of worry that came with knowing that Wooyoung just up and left.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t leave a single trace of him behind; he just left. Of course, that kiss, the way he brushed hair out of San’s eyes and the way he spoke to San just before he must’ve left, remained permanent in the forefront of San’s mind, replaying on a loop that felt utterly chaotic. Internally, San knew that Wooyoung must’ve been saying goodbye, as his disappearance would confirm such thoughts, but rationally, Wooyoung knew something deeper. Either that he’d never see San again, or that the moment he stepped out of the compound, he’d be a dead man.

“We need to find him,” San comments lowly, leaning away from Yeosang’s chair and desk entirely, looking down at the ground. “Ping his phone, send it directly to mine. I need to know his location immediately.”

“What–? You’re going after him?”

“Of course I am, Yeosang!” San spits out, watching as the male shrinks in his seat slightly, though his defiance was clear. “He knows too much about everything we do down here! He was too involved, too close to me– that in itself is a fucking risk. He needs to be dealt with.”

Yeosang nods, likely wanting to say more, but he hesitates. San raises a brow, eyeing Yeosang with a cold demeanor, nodding slightly. “Go on. Say it.”

“Do you want to bring him back here because he’s too involved with us, or because he’s too involved with you?”

San clenches his jaw again, fists tightening at his sides as he stands there, weighing between the rational truth or a vague reply that could save him the embarrassment of his entire team knowing just how close he had gotten to Wooyoung.

“It doesn’t matter. Ping his phone, do as I said. I need to speak to Seonghwa before he gets too far away.”

Without waiting for another word, San up and leaves, the door slightly slamming behind him as he strolls further down the hall, towards a room that was adjacent from his own, barely knocking before whipping the door open, spotting a sight that he hadn’t really prepared himself for.

There Seonghwa was, sitting upright in bed, rubbing at his eyes, while the shirtless form of Hongjoong sat up next to him. He didn’t know his closest advisors were romantically involved, not that he’d truly mind it to begin with, but it only began to unsettle his stomach further. Just how much was going on, just beneath his nose, without him knowing?

“San–?” Seonghwa questions raspily, sleep coloring his tone. “It’s the middle of the night. What’s wrong?”

“Wooyoung,” San mutters, his hand holding the handle of the bedroom door, clutching it rather, trying to ground himself. “He left. Betrayed us. I need to go after him.”

“Shit, really?” Seonghwa pushes his duvet aside, reaching for his phone, rising from the bed as he approaches San. “After everything, he just. . . left?”

“There’s more to it,” San begins, averting his gaze in a manner that was unlike him. “There’s pieces to this puzzle that I’m not entirely sure how to put together. I have to bring him back here, to find out the answers to the questions I have tearing through me. I need you to remain here, lock down the base, to prepare for anything that might come after I bring him back here.”

Seonghwa nods, his gaze slightly softening as he listens. His arms rise up to fold against his chest, brushing a strand of hair out of his face, preparing his words delicately. “You really think there will be consequences to this?”

“Apparently–” San says with a sigh, furrowing his brows. “He worked for the government and was romantically involved with someone who is very obviously an agent. They could’ve sent him here to survey us, to take us down from the inside. . . but he didn’t.”

Seonghwa parts his lips to speak, but nothing ever comes out.

“I’m confused too. Hell, I’m fucking angry about all of this, but I have to bring him back here. He can’t leave here knowing everything that he does. He’s seen everyone’s faces, taken note of their interests and likely memorized personal details. He knows how to tear us apart, Seonghwa. I cannot, and will not, let him harm my family.”

“Do you think that he’d rip us all apart like that? He doesn’t seem like the type–”

“I thought I knew him,” San admits, turning his gaze upwards, finding Seonghwa’s once more. “But in reality. . .  I didn’t. Because of that, I can’t trust him. I can’t let him walk away from the cartel like that.”

“I understand,” Seonghwa says firmly. “I’ll handle everything down here, reconvene with Hyunjin, make sure he’s aware of security details in the casino. We won’t let anyone in the premises until you’re back here, San.”

“And, Hongjoong–” San begins, looking past Seonghwa to the dazed male that had just ruffled a hand through his hair. “Make sure everyone else is aware. You’re my right hand, and I trust that you’ll make sure everyone falls into line correctly per our protocol.”

He nods, albeit sleepily. “You got it.”

San glances at Seonghwa once more before stepping back, giving him a nod as he leaves completely. Assured steps lead him towards the garage, slipping on his shoes somewhere within the fray while grabbing his leather jacket, fitting a cap on his head to mask his face as much as he could before opening the underground garage door. He grabs his keys, clicking on the keyfob, watching as the headlights of his personal Dodge Challenger beam in crystal white, illuminating the concrete before it.

Hastily, San enters his car, starting the engine, listening to it purr and roar alive before he maneuvers it out of the compound, driving up the slanted drive that led to the outside world where darkness reigned supreme. Streetlights flooded the view as San left the safety of his compound, listening as the metallic gate closed behind his car, driving through the back of the parking lot as the second gate opened automatically, thanks to Hyunjin’s diligence.

San listens to his engine rumble like an uncaged dog, waiting for the press of the gas to race somewhere, ready to unleash the power that remains just beneath. But he’s cautious, inspecting the surrounding area of his casino before pulling out onto the street, allowing the quiet of the evening to guide him into a convincing focus. He grabbed his phone, resting it in its stand on the dashboard before clicking on the ping that Yeosang had sent him, following the signal down the street towards a gas station that had been known to traffic drugs.

It would be a twenty minute drive, leaving him alone with his thoughts, wondering back and forth as to why Wooyoung would truly leave everything they had behind. San began to think it was somewhat real, laid out on a truth that they saw something in one another that others just hadn’t noticed before.

Wooyoung was vulnerable in a way that San hadn’t expected, listening as he dealt with something most don’t deal with on a daily basis. Toxic partners, as common as they may be to some, didn’t mean everyone else could mentally prepare for the turmoil that came with it. Wooyoung was turning the other cheek, avoiding the situation and ignoring each blaring message, pretending as if it were all way too normal for him to even be concerned.

San, on the other hand, knew better than that. He’s had his fair share of romantic partners, especially of the toxic kind, leaving him fending for himself in a manner that isolated his heart, far from the warmth it once ached to harbor. He wasn’t always so isolating, so cold and demanding, but having been raised beneath the glare of his parent’s judgment and smothered in the chaotic, unfulfilling love from his ex, San didn’t know how else to act.

But Wooyoung wasn’t like that. He was understanding, maybe aggravating and defiant at times, but there was more to him than just that. His eyes, ever curious, somehow pulled San’s heart apart, picking out pieces and unfurling them in a way no one else ever had. He studied each scar, took in every tattoo, observed every facet of clothing and jewelry with a gaze that was anything but judgmental. He was observant, overly so, taking everything with a grain of salt before making his own opinions, even if he teased San about them.

The way he spoke, the way he laughed, the way his dimples softly showed when he smiled all began to radiate something different to San, making him believe that this wasn’t just a fling. It never could be. Not when Wooyoung touched him in a way no one else had, kissed him as if he was speaking in a language meant only for them and them alone. The way his body fit and aligned against San’s wasn’t a fact he’d ignore, either. Every curve and plane of his body, met with supple, flushed skin that came with its own imperfections, laden with a few scars or beauty marks, all of which San found himself kissing every single inch of. He wanted to leave marks and riddle him in bites, showering him in an affectionate slur of things that caused his mind to blur. He was ignoring his own rules, every single spoken word that he recited to himself in the fear that he’d grow this attached again.

But at the time, Wooyoung was worth it. He was angry at him when this all started, furious that he’d put his body on the line for him when he could’ve taken the impact of those hits himself, but Wooyoung prompted himself as the savior, taking every single hit and injury in an effort for San to remain unscathed. He was pissed, all because Wooyoung nearly got Yeosang killed, and himself, acting on impulse in a manner that caused San’s blood to boil. But in that, he realized how much he cared. Wooyoung was more than a pretty face with a bad rep. He was kind, considerate, smart and calculated, smothered in secrets that he couldn’t speak out loud. 

Wooyoung wasn’t just a face to San anymore. He was more than that, and he always would be. Knowing that he left without notice tugged at San’s heart in a way that felt completely foreign. He was concerned, that much was obvious, but as for why his heart ached to see a resolution to all of this felt wrong. He didn’t grow attached, for the fear of having the one person who could be his light within all this darkness be taken away from him heinously, in an act of vengeance to try and tear down his entire empire. All of that was part of the reason why he never married, never bothered to have kids, all while straying away from his parents in an act of defiance.

Was Wooyoung working for his parents? Trying to undermine him from the inside out? Did his parents have more of a role in all of this government-level scheme than he could’ve realized? Truthfully, San didn’t think so. His parents were cruel, but they were far too humble to rely on an agency to handle their own business. Sure, they never liked to get their own hands dirty, but they’d never turn to the government for the fear that they’d backpettle and betray them.

San knew his parents too well; well enough to realize that they very well could have a handle in parts of this, just not all of it. As far as Wooyoung was concerned, San wasn’t entirely sure how deep Wooyoung had rooted himself. With the government being as corrupted as it was, he couldn’t even be sure if Wooyoung knew the full extent of just how ill-ran the entire city was, let alone how manipulative the people in power were. Maybe he was blind, or maybe he just remained selectively oblivious all for the escape of a paycheck. San didn’t know what his motive was, nor why he was truly sent to the Velvet Mirage, but he needed answers.

Wooyoung knew too much, saw too much, heard too much; which made him the perfect target for anyone who was seeking just the slightest bout of information about the notorious and ominous Crimson Cartel. San was strict with his men, keeping everyone on a tight lock, avoiding people seeing them as often as they could, though chance encounters were practically inevitable sometimes, but for Wooyoung to waltz right in, take what he needed, and leave? It was unheard of. Obscene, even. San was furious, but instead of just wanting answers for his heart, he needed them for his entire crew. No one, and he meant no one, got away unscathed like this. Ever.

The drive led on aimlessly, met with quiet streets, dim lamps, puddled streets and the dash of litter against the pavement as this street went further towards a bad neighborhood. San slows the car down, letting off the gas, tapping on the brake gently, turning his head to the left, watching as a gas station rolls into view. It was well-lit, the neon signs bouncing off of the reflections of the puddles riddling the sidewalks and streets, met vacantly, though the distant sounds of another car filled the void. San rolled his window down, turning his car into the drive of the parking lot, slowly rolling up the curb and further towards the gas station’s overhang, riddled with abandoned and cheap-looking gas pumps. He could hear the murmurs of conversation, the rumbling of another engine, leading him curiously towards the alley that had been straight ahead of him. He stops the car, placing it into park, listening to the best of his abilities until he hears a familiar plea.

Wooyoung.

San hesitates, contemplating briefly on reaching for his gun, but before he could even dare to think, the sound of two bullets being fired draws his gaze immediately towards the noise. He slams his car back into drive, listening to the sound of a car door slamming followed by tires screeching, but even as he pulls around the corner to flood his headlights over the scene, he spots something that makes his heart drop.

There was Wooyoung, laying in the alley, turned away from San, a small pool of blood beginning to form beneath him.

“No–”

San rushes out of the car, running without even bothering to shut his car door, immediately dropping to his knees as he hovers over Wooyoung, turning him gently, eyes roaming over the male’s face before he barely glances up in time to catch the tail lights of the other car fleeing the scene.

“Wooyoung–” San breathes out, reaching up, tapping the male on the cheek. But there’s no response.

Panicked, San inspected his chest, looking as the male had one bullet hole just to the right of his heart. There had been two shots fired, but there was not another wound to be seen. His fingers press against Wooyoung’s neck, slightly shaking, though fighting to gain his own composure before feeling the faint thumps of a heartbeat just beneath the male’s skin. He knew he didn’t have much time, so without wasting another second, he picks Wooyoung up bridal-style, one arm propped beneath Wooyoung’s legs with the other wrapped around his back, walking him towards the car before opening the backdoor haphazardly, fingers slipping against the handle of the door before its ripped open forcefully, leading him into setting Wooyoung down, laid across his backseat, teetering on the edge of consciousness.

Closing the door, San rushes back into his own seat, slamming his own door, flicking his car into reverse before spinning his tires, pushing it back into gear as it shifts into drive, pressing on the gas without bothering to eye the streets for opposing traffic, speeding onto the road with his tires screeching against the asphalt. The car skids out from beneath him, turning with a drift that he easily controlled, though his eyes continually flicked from the windshield to the mirror, turning it downwards to watch Wooyoung in the rearview. For a faint moment, a heart-stopping one, he could’ve sworn that Wooyoung’s chest had stopped moving. His jaw tightens, fighting against stopping the car right now or continuing to speed through the streets to get back to the Velvet, but before he could properly make a decisive decision, the faint mumbles of a voice breaks him free of his own tortuous reverie.

“San–?”

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ꜱᴀɴ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

“San–?”

His heart drops. Wooyoung’s voice, once laden with sarcasm and dripping with intrigue, suddenly fell fragile, shaky, and just barely rose above the threshold of a whisper. It wasn’t like anything San has truly ever heard, listening to the vulnerability in Wooyoung’s voice and the concern that it carried, made something in San’s stomach twist.

“I’m here,” San replies, glancing up in the rearview mirror. Wooyoung’s expression was pained, shadowed with a grimace as he tried to shift himself around, pressing a hand to his chest.

“But–?” He rasps out. “Yeonjun–”

“Forget about him, Wooyoung. I’ll kill him with my bare hands if I have to. Right now, you need to sit still and stay awake.”

San’s eyes flickered down to the road, pressing on the gas harder before glancing back up in time to see Wooyoung nodding, though his breaths seemed pained, almost labored.

“Yeah,” he mutters out quietly, almost too quietly that San couldn’t quite catch it.

Reaching for his phone, San quickly clicks into his contacts, scrolling through the names until the one he was in search for appears, tapping on a name and pressing call, listening as the line rings and rings. He holds the phone to his ear, one hand gripping the steering wheel tightly, knuckles whitening beneath the grip until the line stops ringing, followed by the sound of a voice breaking through his phone’s speakers.

“San? Something wrong?”

“Seonghwa,” San begins, trying to keep his voice composed. “I have Wooyoung, but he’s been shot. I need you to get Chan there immediately. Do not let him hesitate.”

“Shit,” Seonghwa rasps. “Alright. I’ll handle things here. Just don’t drive like a maniac, okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, Seonghwa. Just call Chan.”

“You got it.”

The line hangs up abruptly as San tosses his phone into the passenger seat, his eyes immediately drifting upwards, looking at Wooyoung, who now draped an arm over his eyes, though his chest was still moving with painful, slow breaths.

“Still awake?” San asks, almost insistently.

“Yeah–” Wooyoung mutters quietly, his other hand clutching at his hoodie. “I’m good.”

San nods, taking a breath, turning his gaze away as he starts to drive even faster, keeping his hands on the wheel with a vice grip.

He was worried just based on the sight of Wooyoung alone. His breaths weren’t even, hardly regular and seemingly pained. He was likely bleeding out, but San didn’t have a choice. He had to drive him back to the Velvet, to get him to safety, as taking him to the hospital would become a prison sentence for the both of them.

But, he was angry.

Angry that Wooyoung left. Angry that Yeonjun shot him. Angry that Wooyoung betrayed him.

But more than that, he was worried. The blood loss, the wound, the shooting, what this meant, what they meant. . . he was conflicted beyond normal means. Being attached like this, in worrying about Wooyoung as more than just someone who worked for him, made his chest tighten in a way that San couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Relationships, love, sex– it was a world that San strayed away from for this exact reason. Sure, Yeonjun’s reasoning, whatever it may be, had very little to do with San and everything to do with Wooyoung. However, this worry, this gut-wrenching pull at his heart was the same type of pain he’d feel if someone tried to take his partner in a targeted attack against him. This is exactly what he wanted to avoid, for everything that it was. If something happened to Wooyoung, if he died. . . San wasn’t sure if he could live with himself.

So, he accelerates faster, pushing his car past every street light and every intersection, shifting the car just enough to reach the Velvet in a timing that wasn’t at all slow. He nearly cut their time in half, breezing past the city in a blur of things that he couldn’t even properly comprehend. The lights, the street signs, the traffic rushing past him; it didn’t mean anything anymore. He just wanted Wooyoung safe, for him to be okay.

Not only did San have questions that demanded answers, but he needed to figure out his own heart. Was he falling too deeply into this pit? Was he drowning in these feelings? Or was he just now beginning to understand just how entangled he had gotten himself?

Even with every shift of Wooyoung in the backseat, his eyes traveled up to the rearview, counting his breaths, flicking down towards the road after assuring himself that Wooyoung was still here, still coherent, still alive.

The car comes to a slow as he presses on the brake gently, turning off into the parking lot before maneuvering his vehicle towards the privacy gate. It opens automatically, leaving no time wasted as the car glides over the asphalt, driving off towards the underground garage that also opened the moment San drove into the backlot.

The engine roared as he followed the slight slope that led further underground, the noise echoing off the walls before a light beamed into frame, welcoming San’s car back into the bunker where not only he would be safe, but so would Wooyoung.

He pulls into his parking space, killing the engine and gathering his phone, exiting the car before he opens the backdoor, watching as Wooyoung forcefully sits himself upright.

“Hey, hey, take it easy–” San chides, shoving his phone into his pocket as he reaches for the younger. “Don’t jostle yourself around too much.”

“I’ve been shot before, San, I’m fine–”

“In your chest?!” San asks, his tone slightly raised. “I’m not playing around here, Wooyoung. Just trust me, okay?”

Wooyoung turns his head, his skin slightly pale, the light dimming in his eyes. He looked exhausted and weak, completely fragile to the world that tried to strangle him once more. San, in that brief moment, felt himself shatter. His entire guard, all of his anger, gone in the flash of an instant. But, as Wooyoung raises a hand shakily, extending it out, he allows San to help him in an act of trust that hadn’t been present before.

Carefully, San eases him out of the backseat, clinging to him as Wooyoung moves out of the car to the best of his ability. Wooyoung fumbles slightly, his legs nearly buckling the moment he meets solid ground, but San catches him before he could tumble any further. With a gentle hand, San steadies him, unable to miss the wince that crosses the male’s features, also taking note of the pallor of his skin, watching as his eyes catch the light from the garage overhead. Though, the usual glimmer that was within Wooyoung’s eyes, that spark of mischief, that shine of knowing better, his will to be defiant, was all growing dimmer by the minute.

So, San doesn’t bother to ask any questions. He kneels down, hooking an arm beneath Wooyoung’s legs while the other supports his back, carrying him bridal-style without the faintest sound of protest. He knew that if Wooyoung were able-bodied, he’d probably groan or whine about this, but given his state and how much blood he’s lost, Wooyoung seemed far too tired to even make a noise in protest.

Using a careful hand, San opens the door leading into the compound, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot as he quickly walks further into the bunker.

“Seonghwa!” San ushers, his hands gripping Wooyoung firmly, feeling as the male’s head leans further against his shoulder, heavier than previously, which only meant one thing in San’s mind. He was losing his will to fight in order to stay awake.

“He’s here, San!” Seonghwa says as he peers around the corner that leads towards the long corridor, waving to him urgently. “He’s prepped and up to date. Just get him in there.”

San doesn’t bother to respond as he turns the corner, being mindful enough to not jostle Wooyoung too much, while also trying to race his way towards the medical office.

Wooyoung felt heavier then, almost as if he was leaning his entire body weight into San, not really clinging to him anymore and just slouching against him, though San could feel his breaths, warm and soft against his skin, counting each one internally, hoping, praying that they don’t seize.

“Chan,” San rasps out, walking through the doorway, trying to catch his breath quietly. “He was shot at close range–”

“So I’ve been told,” Chan says quickly, gesturing to the table behind him. “Lay him down, then we need to cut this hoodie off of him.”

San follows as he’s been told, carefully laying the younger down on the sterile table, mindful of his head as his hand slips behind it, slowly slipping away before Wooyoung’s head then rests against the cold press of the table. Chan doesn’t waste any time, however, reaching for his scissors and beginning to cut through the hoodie, stripping away the fabric, piece by piece, through Wooyoung’s hoodie and through the shirt, pushing it all away as he eyed the wound in question.

“Was there an exit wound?” Chan asks, glancing at San before looking at Wooyoung again, pushing the fabric off of the table.

“No, I don’t– I don’t know, I didn’t look–”

“That’s fine, San, just help me look now,” Chan says calmly, his composure intact as he sets the scissors down and shifts to lay a hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder, glancing up once more, finding San’s gaze. “Ready?”

San offers a nod, his jaw tight, looking down, placing his hand on Wooyoung’s chest as Chan gently turns him just enough, letting a rapt breath loose as he inspects the other side of Wooyoung’s body.

“It’s lodged in there,” Chan mutters, slowly laying Wooyoung back down. “That means the bullet got fragmented and broke apart when it made contact with his skin. I’ll have to take all of it out, and I don’t know how well I can do that here–”

“You do it,” San says, a low belt of fire in his voice as he looks at Chan. “I don’t care what it costs, but if you need something, say it right now. He needs to live, Chan. No exceptions.”

Chan swallows, but he nods, blinking as he looks down at Wooyoung. “There’s no time to wait for you to go up to the hospital and grab everything there. I’ll just have to do what I can with what’s here, but that’s all I can promise you.”

San bites his tongue, keeping hurtful, angry words at bay, looking down at Wooyoung instead, who hadn’t woken back into coherence since he had left the car and laid in San’s arms. He looked peaceful, quietly breathing, still somewhat alive enough to hang on.

“I need you to save him, keep him alive,” San mutters, almost shakily. “He knows too much, and I need to find out what he was going to sell to the government. I need to handle him myself and I can’t–”

“I get it, San. But please, give me some space. I’ll do everything on my end, but I’m telling you, it might not be enough.”

San meets Chan’s gaze once more, swallowing thickly, realizing the weight of everything that was beginning to unfurl. He couldn’t change the outcome of this, he held no control over it, and that was the part that bothered him the most. There were no broken bones that could repair overtime, no bones to pop back into place, just the hope that Wooyoung would be strong enough to pull through whatever surgery Chan had in mind. He needed to extract the bullet fragments, all without the proper equipment to guide him in doing so. In that, San just had to give this over to the universe, hoping that it would guide Wooyoung back to him. Back to everything they were, even if he was angry and torn into a million pieces.

“Save him,” San mutters once more, turning on his heel and walking out of the room, closing the door behind him, forcing himself to walk further and further away. The moment he turns the corner, he finds the eyes of Hongjoong, Mingi and Seonghwa, all of which seemed concerned in a way that San wasn’t used to. He sighs, running a hand through his hair before looking down at his palms, finding them stained in traces of Wooyoung’s blood.

“Shit,” he breathes out, walking past his concerned members, strolling further and further down the corridor, turning into the kitchen, turning on the faucet and shoving his hands beneath the rush of running water. He could hear footsteps approaching, and he didn’t really need to look to know who it was.

“San,” Seonghwa began. “I know this is a lot–”

“A lot is a fucking understatement,” he sneers, trying to rinse the dried blood off of his palms. “You have no idea how bad this is, Seonghwa. This is bad. Really fucking bad.”

“Bad? Bad how?” Seonghwa pries, but San shakes his head, lowering his tone.

“Not here. I can’t say all of that here.”

“Why?” Seonghwa leans closer, folding his arms against his chest. “Everyone else is in bed. Hongjoong is only awake because I am, and Mingi stayed awake to watch the perimeter. After the debriefing, everyone went back to their rooms. So, if there’s something more we all need to know, now is the time to spit it out.”

“Last I checked, I’m your boss, so watch your tone with me,” San says, shutting off the sink, reaching for a towel to wipe his hands on. “Everything that just happened, including the shit with Wooyoung’s ex, paints a fucking target on everything we’re trying to do. The underground deals, the blackmarket, uprooting my parent’s empire– it’s all at risk. Does that make sense to you?”

Seonghwa nods, though he doesn’t say anything.

“Good. There’s more to be said, but for now, that’s enough. I need to go shower, go see Yeosang, handle some more fucking shit now because of this, make sure all of my loose ends are tied–”

“San,” Seonghwa interjects. “You’re exhausted. Let Hongjoong and I handle some of that.”

San pauses, initially keen on rejecting Seonghwa’s offer, though the moment his lips parted to speak, Seonghwa interrupted him again.

“I know that you’d rather handle it all yourself right now, but you’re only one man. We’re your family, aren’t we? Let us do something for you. Hongjoong and I can handle some background checks, talk to Yeosang, double up on security and secure some loose ends that you might worry about. You can just rest, and take a shower.”

“It’s more than just that, Seonghwa. I’m. . . I don’t even know what I am right now, in all honesty.”

San turns, tossing the towel down, wrapping his hands around the edge of the counter as he leans into it, lowering his head down. “I’m fucking confused, angry, worried and upset, and pissed off beyond reason–”

“What Wooyoung did was nothing more than pure betrayal, I know.” Seonghwa places a careful hand on San’s lower back, keeping his tone quiet. “But there was a reason for it. He doesn’t act without cause, that’s a fact we can’t refute. He protected you, San. He risked his life for you, and that means something.”

“I thought I knew who he was,” San mutters, closing his eyes, allowing them to flutter shut before he blinks open once more. “I thought we could slowly start to trust him, that I’d–” he sighs, “nevermind.”

“San, you can fool everyone else in this damn place, but never me. Just because I’m not your right hand anymore, doesn’t mean shit. I gave that up so I could run your full security detail down here in this bunker, but I’ve known you for a long ass time. I’ve seen you at your lowest, lost and drinking bottles of whiskey a day with a cigar between your fingers as if you were trying to kill yourself with pure poison.” Seonghwa turns, leaning his lower back against the counter, his gaze elsewhere, though his words seemed to stay within the space delicately hanging between them. “You’re running from this because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared–”

“Listen,” Seonghwa chides quietly, glancing down at San who had just now looked up at him. “I’ve seen you panicked, angry, sad– I’ve seen it all. But this, this level of concern, confusion and anger is unlike everything else. And you know why? Because you’re hurt. You’re hurt in a way that you can’t say in words because you don’t feel it physically, you feel it emotionally, right where it counts.”

San glances away, threading his fingers together as his knuckles slowly whiten, his jaw tensing the longer Seonghwa continues to talk.

“You care about him. You care in the way that Yunho cares about Mingi. In the same way that Hyunjin cares about his lawyer boyfriend that we all protect. In the same way that Minho cares about Jisung. And in the same way that I care about Hongjoong. It’s all happening beneath our noses, sure, but it’s real all the same. Some faster than others, slower and burning longer, but what you two share isn’t the only thing being thrown around in this bunker.”

“I don’t do this–” San says with a breath, gesturing aimlessly. “Fucking relationships and love and pain– I don’t do this shit.”

“Neither did I,” Seonghwa says with a slight smile. “And yet, you walked in on Hongjoong sleeping in my damn bed.”

“Yeah, and why the hell is that?” San questions with a raise of his brow, watching as Seonghwa’s smirk softens into something more genuine.

“Because I love him, San. Nothing in your crazy, dictator-like rules will ever change that. We’re both aware of what this job brings, of what protecting you and protecting our mission entails; we’re not stupid. But it’s human nature to love someone, to crave affection and to need physical touch. If you’re sharing any of that with Wooyoung, which I know you are, there’s nothing bad about it.”

“You’re just Mr. Know-it-all, aren’t you?” San says, pushing himself away from the counter, now eye-level with Seonghwa. “Think you have me figured out?”

“The way you’re not denying anything that I’ve said seems to speak for you, I’m afraid.” Seonghwa smiles smally as he leans forward, clasping San on his shoulder. “I won’t go around shouting that the boss has feelings, but just know that it’s okay. Even after everything he’s done. I’m sure there’s more to him than just. . . whatever this entire mess is. He’s a person, and I know you don’t trust easily. So if you see something in him, something that’s worth it, then I trust you.”

San nods, glancing down. “I don’t trust myself right now, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Just trust your gut, San. Even if it hurts to do so,” Seonghwa mutters, squeezing San’s shoulder before he leaves, gesturing to Hongjoong before he disappears beyond the corner, likely sauntering down the corridor.

San stands there, stranded in the kitchen, the faint sounds of Mingi rustling about in the living space occupying the space where San knew his thoughts should be. But, he was tired.

Tired of being lied to. Tired of being confused. Tired of chasing after a ghost. Tired of wondering who else was trying to kill him over his shoulder.

He wouldn’t have answers from Wooyoung for a long while, and though he wasn’t entirely keen on the idea of sleeping while Wooyoung was in surgery with Chan, what could he do? Sit outside the room and wait? Run himself mad just listening to every single shuffle and utterance of sound come through the door?

So, he relents. He moves away from the kitchen, allowing his steps to lead him closer and closer to his own room. Even if just for a minute, an hour, he’d stay here, soak in the quiet, settle his mind, all in an effort to try and rationalize everything that he’s found out within the last few hours.

He knew there was more to the story, more reasoning as to why Wooyoung would disappear without a word. That kiss, his gestures and his words; they meant more than just what they were at face-value. They were goodbyes. He wasn’t intending on coming back. But that didn’t explain his meeting with Yeonjun at all. San would just have to wait and ask Wooyoung himself when he woke up, free from pain and on his way to recovery.

But that’s all if Wooyoung would even wake up. If he’d even make it.

San couldn’t think about that now. He never could, because he knew, more than anything else, that the idea of Wooyoung never waking up again would send him spiraling in a way that even he himself was not prepared for.

So, he’d wait. He’d wait an eternity for Wooyoung if he had to. He was worth that much.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

A rapt knock at the door startled San awake, his eyes blinking open as he sat upright in bed, listening as the faint creak of his door preluded an inward cast of light, signaling someone’s damned interruption.

“San,” Hongjoong mutters quietly, staying put near the door. San propped himself up with one hand behind him, the other rubbing at his eyes as he tried to wake himself up, letting out a husky what? in response.

“Chan is done. Wooyoung’s going to be fine,” Hongjoong mentions, the statement catching San completely off-guard.

“Already? How long did I sleep?”

“You were out for about two hours. Chan needed to give Wooyoung a break in between, but I’ll let him explain that to you. Just. . . don’t be hard on him, San. Wooyoung just went through hell.”

San throws his duvet to the side before tossing his legs over the side of his bed, looking at Hongjoong with a blank, deadpan expression. He really did not like to be told what to do, especially by Hongjoong, but the genuinity in his voice, the concern and softness of his tone; something about Hongjoong’s words sat deeper in the pit of his stomach more than he’d ever like to admit.

“Fine,” he rasps, waving Hongjoong off. “I’ll make my way over there, just. . . wait for me in my office afterward. You, me and Seonghwa– we’ve all got something to discuss.”

Hongjoong nods, stepping away from the door without another word. San sighs, pushing himself off of the bed as he moves towards his large closet doors, grabbing the first thing that looked comfortable. A gray sweatshirt, detailed with black stitching, something warm and snug to fend off the chill the atmosphere wrought. But, he wasn’t sure if it was the air conditioning or the bitter truth of the reality waiting for him just beyond the door. Sure, Wooyoung was okay, but that didn’t mean everything was sunshine and rainbows. It was hazardous, chaotic, maybe even destructive and reckoning. Wooyoung had done the unthinkable; betraying an entire mafia and its kingpin, plotting something sinister, walking in as if he was just another crime junkie until he left, slipping away like the ghost that his past seemed to proclaim him as.

There were a lot of missing pieces to this puzzle, parts of a story that San sought to highlight and underline. He wasn’t completely put off by Wooyoung, but in order to forgive and to move on, he needed to know the truth. Not just for the sake of his mafia and his business, but for the sake of his stubborn, angry heart.

After pulling on a pair of joggers, San gathers himself, turning to walk out of his room and into the hall, allowing the hum of the lights and cameras to simmer his mind into a nulled nothingness. He needed to be clear-minded, to be concise and straight-forward when assessing this situation, as he wasn’t sure what he’d experience from here on out. Maybe he’d kick Wooyoung out after questioning him, or maybe he’d turn him over to the authorities as a peace treaty. Or, maybe he’d forgive him and give him safe harbor here, continue to work with him, even if that meant scrapping the entire foundation of their relationship.

He didn’t know where his heart lay, nor was he entirely sure that his heart could take anymore, but he would do it because Wooyoung deserved answers. He deserved the benefit of the doubt, even if Seonghwa and Hongjoong might’ve questioned him otherwise.

Walking into the medical office, San quietly opens the door, spotting Chan sitting at the desk, his eyes weary and laden with exhaustion, a mug of coffee steaming next to him as he typed quickly on his laptop.

“He’s in the other room,” Chan says, glancing up. “He’s knocked out, and I really do not expect him to wake up tonight. I’d just leave him alone.”

“How bad was it?” San asks, closing the door behind him, trying to keep his voice quiet.

“You were right. Point-blank range, right in his chest, just to the right of his heart. Luckily, his lungs were missed, as were any of his major arteries, but the bullet did break into several fragments. I didn’t have the proper equipment, so I had to sedate him to the best of my abilities and use a local anesthetic to just hope for the best. I had to dig the fragments out, and though there were only four of them, I’m sure he felt every single one of them.”

San winces subtly, imagining the pain Wooyoung must’ve endured even despite the medications that Chan had given him.

“He’s going to need to rest for a while, maybe a week or two, but depending on how quickly he recovers will determine how much bedrest he needs,” Chan says, looking back down at his laptop. “You two seriously need to stop creating a habit out of this.”

“Habit?” San raises a brow, watching as Chan nods.

“Him, laying here, injured. You, coming in here, pretending not to care even though you and I both know that you do.”

San rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the way his gaze is drawn towards the door that led to the bed where Wooyoung was resting. He was worried, slightly curious, feeling a pull on his heart as he stood there, listening to the babbles of words that come from Chan’s lips in a slur of things he doesn’t quite bother to listen to.

“Chan,” San interrupts, tearing his gaze away, swallowing sharply. “Do you still have those handcuffs in here for security measures?”

Chan raises a brow, his eyes widening for a moment before he nods curtly. “Yeah, they’re still here. Why?”

San turns towards the door behind him, placing a hand on the handle. “Handcuff him to the bed. He’s not allowed to leave before I ask him everything I need to know. That starts tomorrow.”

“San–”

“Enough,” San dismisses, opening the door. “I’ve got business to attend to. You’ll see your payment doubled by tomorrow evening.”

With that, San leaves, not quite giving Chan a chance to argue before he steps out into the corridor, turning towards his office without another word. The quiet is suffocating, though it’s appreciated. The weight of everything that San had just asked, along with the terrorizing feeling of knowing how Wooyoung would wake up and feel all of that, alone in a room without windows; he knew it’d scare him. San didn’t want Wooyoung to be scared, but what choice did he have? Wooyoung ran. He disappeared without a trace with no plans of being found or relaying why he left. San couldn’t trust that he’d remain still, even with such an injury.

Opening the doors to his office, he finds the familiar faces of Seonghwa and Hongjoong settled there, in their usual chairs, balancing a glass of whiskey each. They looked unbothered, maybe a bit tired, but they were present, nonetheless.

“Who said you could crack open my favorite whiskey?” San asks, closing his office doors behind him. Seonghwa scoffs, raising a hand and dismissively waving San off.

“It’s been a rough few hours, Boss. Leave us be.”

“Well, I’m still here to talk, and both of you are going to listen,” San says, walking through his office until he rounds his desk, perching himself in his large chair. “You both need to hear me, so listen well. This all stays right here, between the three of us.”

Both of the males nod, but make no move to speak.

“Wooyoung and I have been experimenting with a relationship. There was no true label to it, as we were just meeting one another routinely in my room in the dark of night, long past any of you had gone to bed.”

Seonghwa and Hongjoong exchange a look, but once more, remain quiet.

“I know that I’ve always said that I keep my heart safe, that I refrain from romantic relationships and intimacy, but. . . it just happened, and I won’t lie to you when I say that I care about him in a way that scares me. Seonghwa. . . you made it clear to me that it’s human nature to want such a thing, even with someone who hurt me the way he did. He hurt us, betrayed us, and yet here I am, feeling like a lost puppy.”

“San–” Seonghwa begins, but San raises a hand, turning his gaze down. He wasn’t done yet.

“Point is, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking, trying to place my feelings in one pile while dealing with my anger in another. I can’t think straight, nor can I truly figure out what it is that I want. I’m angry, sure. I want nothing more than to kick his ass out onto the streets and wish him good luck, to throw him to the wolves like he tried to do to my entire empire. But–” San pauses, clenching his jaw. “At the same time, I want to pull him closer, ask why he did what he did, try to understand, because I can’t fucking seem to live without knowing that he’s here. That he’s with me.”

Seonghwa sets his glass down, leaning back in his chair as he crosses a leg over the other, looking at San with a gaze that expresses a tale of many things, but all San could see was empathy.

“Then we do that,” Seonghwa begins. “We get to the bottom of it, we try to understand, and we pull what he knows about the government and place it into our plans.”

Seonghwa shrugs, glancing at Hongjoong before looking back at San, who remained quiet, for now. “Who knows, San? You might’ve just slept with the one man who can tackle your parent’s operation even more than you ever could. And that– and that alone– could win us not just another battle, but the war.”

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

The room was dim when Wooyoung finally opened his eyes, listening to the rhythmic beep of a heart rate monitor to his left. His throat was dry, his body tense, the blanket that had been covering the lower half of his torso clinging to him, though thin, yet somehow warm.

His chest was heavy, slightly pained, wrung with a numbness that didn’t quite outlive the stings and aches coming from his chest. He flexes his fingers, tries to stretch his legs, taking in a heavy breath, only to realize the cold press of something enclosed against each of his wrists. His brow furrows, looking down, catching sight of the metallic handcuffs gleaming back at him. He glances back up, scanning each wall of the room he was within, tracing his eyes against the white cabinets, the closed door, the golden handle of the door and drawers, the way the light cast inwards from underneath the door; he knew where he was. He just couldn’t remember why he was here.

It was all foggy at first, flickers of things that seemed too blurry to truly recall. But, the moment Wooyoung truly thinks about it, everything comes back in a flash. Yeonjun. The rumbling of the car. The cold breeze. The neon lights of the gas station. The black metals of the gun. The jarring sound of a bullet being fired. The pain in his chest.

It all made sense. He had expected Yeonjun to act like a coward, or maybe a bit rashly, but he didn’t really expect to be shot in the chest. Yeonjun was angry, and he had every right to be. Wooyoung wouldn’t take that away from him. He cheated, emotionally and physically, but where was the fault on Yeonjun’s end? The neglect, the abusive words, the dramatics and the ultimatums?

Sure, Wooyoung wasn’t entirely innocent, he knew that. But there were two sides to this coin, and Yeonjun wasn’t completely innocent either. Though, to be here, back beneath the Velvet, locked in the medical room, taking in the sight of the low-lighting and the closed door, Wooyoung finds himself on the verge of either crying or laughing hysterically.

How the hell did he survive? And why the hell did San come and find him? Why did San care? How could San care after everything Wooyoung did? Well, San didn’t know the truth. Not the whole truth, at least. Wooyoung hadn’t lied all that much to San, but he did have to embellish the truth slightly, if anything. The military, his ex, his parents– that was all true. Everything else just. . . wasn’t entirely relevant at the time.

But now, handcuffed to this bed, knowing that San was likely somewhere on the other side of that door, he knew that he’d be forced to comply and tell the truth. He didn’t want to hide everything anymore. He just wanted San in all honesty. As scary as it was to admit, Wooyoung didn’t want anything else. He wanted the one person he likely couldn’t have anymore, all because of his blurred sense of duty that altered his reality so much.

Had he known that San mirrored his feelings, at least partially, he might’ve changed his course of actions. He might’ve told San the truth, he might’ve tried to work it out. . . but the consequences still seemed too dire. And now, given his recovering, weakened state, he knew that the stakes had amplified.

There was no telling what Mingyu would do, nor Yeonjun or anyone else that worked for the agency now that all of this had happened. Hell, Wooyoung was sure that he had been labeled as deceased. Killed in action. Rogue. Whatever it may be, he was sure he was listed as dealt with. Yeonjun didn’t waver when he pulled the trigger. He barely hesitated when he tried to take Wooyoung’s life away from him, and Wooyoung was sure that there was no way in hell that he was supposed to be where he was right now. He was meant to be discovered by some junkie in the alley, called upon as a random body on the ground, dead before anyone else could bother to call for emergency technicians. But, there San was, for some reason, saving him and pulling him right back into the fold of things where he wasn’t even sure if he belonged anymore.

He didn’t know what he meant to San, nor what their fling even entailed. It probably didn’t hold any weight anymore, and he knew for all hell that San didn’t trust him as far as he could toss him. But being here, being saved once again by San and his team, Wooyoung knew he didn’t deserve it. No one could really dare to tell him otherwise.

With a breath, Wooyoung tries to adjust himself, wrists pulling against the handcuffs as he moves, feeling a jolt of pain surge through a bundle of nerves, rippling through his chest like a wildfire. He grimaces, but he holds in his noises, biting his tongue as he gets more comfortable. The second his legs find a better spot, he sighs, laying back down with a defeated huff. He looks up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns and contours of the plaster before flicking his eyes back down to his lap, noting that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. His brow furrows, eyes looking over the large bandage on his chest before looking down at his covered legs, turning his head to spot the intrusive rush of fluids pumping through the IV needle that was taped into his arm.

He swallowed thickly, looking around the room once more before looking right back up at the ceiling, an uncontrollable chuckle leaving his lips in an almost-manic manner. He was confused, maybe a bit guilty, and slightly delirious from what he assumed to be the pain medication, but nothing he could see really provided him answers for what he wanted to know.

Where was San? What did he mean to San? What did all of this mean? Where did this leave them?

Too many questions, not enough answers. He was plagued with a rapture of thoughts that felt too uncontrollable, making him wonder if he was going to end up in jail, serving San for the rest of his life, or locked away in some sort of dungeon that San likely had somewhere in the depths of this bunker. Either way, as long as he wasn’t in range to be attacked by Mingyu anymore, he could care less. Ship him off to another city, hell, another country; he’d be more than okay with that. He could leave all of this behind, walk away with the memory of knowing that he did enough.

He paid off his debts, didn’t kill more people than necessary, avenged his parent’s memory, and most importantly, abandoned the job that he hated more than anything else. It felt like a desk job, a random fucking nine to five that only supplied him with the bare minimum. He wasn’t happy, nor was he content, watching as his supposed lover and friends shot and killed people without much rhyme or reason. He was locked into a vicious cycle, one that looped on repeat until he about damn-near fell apart. Except, he did fall apart, just. . . behind the scenes.

He tried not to let anyone in, to keep these raging emotions to himself, as he sought to be the numb leader of a brigade of men that followed the government’s orders. He wasn’t this emotional, heart-stricken man who followed the weight of everything he carried. He wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to love someone. He wasn’t supposed to second-guess the tasks he had been handed.

Yet, here he was, feeling all of those things and breaking every single one of his rules, and for what? Love? To have a choice? To finally be free of the chains that held him hostage?

Pathetic.

Partially, he was glad San couldn’t see him right now. Couldn’t see the way his eyes tried to hold back tears trembling on the edge of his lashes, to see how in pain he truly was, to take in the sight of his shaky hands and pale complexion. He didn’t want to seem weak in front of someone so strong, someone who manned an entire army beneath the guise of a casino, defying his own parents and the own government with just one look shot in their direction. San was the strongest person he had ever met, and to be knocked down to this– to feel less like a person and more like a burden– it was humiliating, to say the least.

He was just laying there, staring up at the ceiling, hoping that the white plaster might supply him with more than just crevices and texture. He needed answers, maybe even San’s gaze upon him, his hands and his lips, the way his hair slightly cast over his forehead when he had just woken up. Or the way their bodies felt like puzzle pieces when they were together, perfectly aligned and perfectly matched, clinging on to one another as if they had known nothing else their entire lives. Or, maybe it was the way San’s eyes softened every now and then when they were alone, as if he was taking Wooyoung in and truly studying him, counting every breath and absorbing every shift of his gaze. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the hardened kingpin that Wooyoung had come to know. He was softer, more gentle, whispering words to him with hushed kisses that felt all too good to even be remotely true.

Their showers together, the way their hands slotted together, the way Wooyoung felt himself melt beneath San’s gaze; it meant more than just a fleeting fling. It was more than just whispered promises and hushed words. It was more than just sex. It was more than sleeping in San’s bed because he couldn’t sleep in his own.

Wooyoung knew what it meant. He was just too scared to say it.

Suddenly, the door begins to creak open, followed by the gentle inward cast of light from the medical office. Wooyoung tilts his head down, raising a brow, watching as Chan enters into the room.

“Hey, you’re awake. How do you feel?” Chan asks, setting down something Wooyoung assumed to be a coffee mug.

Wooyoung clears his throat quietly, wetting his lips. “I’m. . . mostly okay. Just in pain.”

“A bit surprised about the hand cuffs, huh?”

Wooyoung cracks a half-smile, something weak, though knowing. “Yeah. I don’t blame him, though. I know San has his way of doing things.”

“That he does,” Chan confirms, turning to face Wooyoung and approaching the bed. “What hurts? Just the wound?”

“Yeah, just my chest. Nothing else does,” Wooyoung admits, watching Chan’s every movement with a hollow gaze. “Hopefully this is just the worst of it. I don’t think I can tolerate anything more than this.”

“Well, the pain you’re feeling is whatever is being felt over the medications I’ve given you intravenously. But, I have a feeling that, with time, most of it will go away. You’ll be sore for some time, but you’ll be alright, Wooyoung. Just gotta breathe through it.”

“Breathe through it, huh?” Wooyoung replies, but he nods. “Yeah. . . alright.”

“I don’t know how long San intends on keeping those cuffs there,” Chan begins, pulling a stool towards him before he settles down onto it. “Just stay comfortable. I’m sure he’ll come to interrogate you eventually.”

“I know he will,” Wooyoung says with a brief sigh, wincing slightly as he adjusts. “I don’t even know what to expect. I’ve seen him in kingpin mode before, but defensive, protective kingpin mode is a whole other level that I’m not quite sure I’m ready to experience.”

Chan chuckles, reaching a hand over, assessing Wooyoung’s bandage with a featherlight touch. “He’s not all doom and gloom, you know that.” Chan chides, though his tone was gentle. “He’s just. . . working through whatever happened. Seonghwa nor San told me anything as to why you’ve ended up like this, but I can only assume, based on how San looked a few hours ago, what might’ve transpired.”

“I fucked up, that’s case and point,” Wooyoung replies, though Chan tilts his head, raising a brow as he continues to inspect the bandage. “What? Don’t believe me?”

“Never said that, I’m just–” he pauses, his hands stilling before pulling away with a rapt breath. “I’ve never really seen him conflicted like this. That’s all.”

“How long have you been working for him?”

“Uh, quite a while,” Chan says, offering Wooyoung a small smile. “He helped me out with something a long time ago, so now I work under him while maintaining my facade above ground at the city’s nearest hospital.”

“Is that hard?” Wooyoung asks quietly, but Chan shakes his head.

“Not at all. San only really bothers me in the evening, mostly when I’m not even at the hospital anymore. My boss seems to think that I have a secondary job at another facility in the evenings, so I’m never scheduled to be there. In reality, I’m on call for San, who pays me more than that hospital ever really could.”

“Do you mind if I ask about what San did for you?” Wooyoung tilts his head slightly, watching as Chan looks right back at him, even as he sighs.

“I don’t mind, it’s just. . . quite the story, you know?”

“Well, it doesn’t seem much like I’m going anywhere,” Wooyoung teases, earning a scoff from Chan.

“I suppose not,” Chan says with a soft laugh. “Well, it’s not anything too thrilling, I’m afraid.”

“I’m listening either way,” Wooyoung reassures, feeling his fingers curl into a fist before releasing once more, taking a subtle breath inwards.

“Well, my wife and I work at the hospital in the city. She’s a nurse practitioner, and we met while we were in med school. I chased after my dream for a degree in immunology and infectious diseases, but when my wife was in a car accident with an apparent gang member from some drug lord, things kind of turned upside down.” Chan pauses, his brows slightly pinching together. “San, apparently, heard of all of this, and since he was in need of a doctor to hire beneath his thumb, we worked out an arrangement. He dealt with the gang, and I would agree to work under him with a non-disclosure agreement, while getting paid per visit. It was hard not to say no, you know? I get paid well enough, but now, my kids. . . their futures are spoken for because of San.”

Wooyoung feels his expression soften, momentarily forgetting his current situation as he absorbs San’s words. “So, that’s it? San just. . . took care of that gang, no questions asked?”

“Yeah,” Chan says subtly. “My wife is everything to me, and our kids. . . if San hadn’t taken care of that gang when he did, I don’t know what would’ve happened to my wife. They were threatening her, saying that they’d kill her if she reported the accident to the police, and because she did, they laid a hit on her.”

“Jesus,” Wooyoung mutters, watching as Chan’s expression becomes pained.

“They broke into our house when we had been away for a weekend, stole a bunch of shit, ransacked the place–” Chan sighs. “We had to move out that same week. But, I don’t know, a week or so later, San stepped in, and after that. . . the gang just disappeared.”

“San has that magic under his finger, doesn’t he?” Wooyoung mused lightly, trying to evoke a lighter tone between them. “He’s just. . . enigmatic, intimidating–”

“And powerful,” Chan interjected, smiling small. “But yeah, he has that thing about him. He commands attention by just being present, demanding authority from anyone who dares to challenge him. I guess that gang, whoever they were all those years ago, didn’t respect him.”

“They’re dead now?”

Chan hums. “Probably.”

Before Wooyoung could even speak, a sudden knock interrupts the calamity of the moment, leaving both males to turn and look, watching as the door opens quietly until San comes fully into view. He looked tired, wearing a loose button-up, shark black trousers and glasses on his nose, looking the part of a true kingpin. Though, Wooyoung could sense the undercurrent of something more. He was sad, angry, maybe even more confused than Wooyoung could comprehend. The moment their eyes met, it felt like a wildfire. His entire body was hot, his heart thumping against his chest, each nerve alight with a spark that couldn’t be easily put out.

“Chan,” San begins to talk. “Please, finish up. Wooyoung and I have a lot of business to discuss.”

Chan glances back at Wooyoung, giving him a brief smile before rising off of the stool, heading towards the cabinets that were near the door. San stands there, observing Chan with a glimmer of interest, though Wooyoung couldn’t quite take his eyes off of San.

He looked absolutely devouring. He shouldn’t be thinking so hysterically, so delusional, but here he was, probably high on opiates and pain medication, tracing his eyes along the curves of San’s toned chest and broad shoulders. The jut of his jaw, the flutter of his eye lashes, the ebony locks of his hair and the fit of his shirt; it was too much.

Chan gathered some supplies, of which must’ve been another medication drawn into a syringe, followed by the loudening sound of Chan’s steps as he moved towards the catheter port in Wooyoung’s arm. Wooyoung glanced down, tightening his jaw, feeling the weight of San’s eyes shift towards him. He couldn’t look him in the eyes again, at least, not right now. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, he rather did, but to protect his own heart, to keep himself stable, he knew better than to fall right back into San’s orbit.

The moment Chan administered the dose into Wooyoung’s IV line, Chan disposed of the needle and made himself scarce, the door closing behind him with a decisive click. San moves over to the stool, sitting himself down, not quite carrying the same softened aura that Wooyoung had grown familiar with. He was colder, more guarded, leaving Wooyoung to wonder if San had known more than he was led to believe.

“Handcuffs?” Wooyoung asks, raising his hand, listening as the metal clinks against the medical bed. “What’s the reasoning for this?”

“Well, I can’t quite trust you in the way I thought I could,” San begins, his jaw tight as he pauses. “Let’s get straight to the point, Wooyoung. You weren’t here to join the web of my mafia. You held a more sinister task, something that wasn’t meant to ever grace the light of day–” San leans closer, his voice dropping a cent. “I intend to find out the answers right now, or I will force them out of you.”

“Then what was this the entire time, San?” Wooyoung asks, trying to keep his voice even. “If you don’t trust me, why the hell would you only pull me closer? Why not send me away, put me back out on the streets, search through my shit?”

“What do you think I know?” San asks, leaving Wooyoung to slightly shrug.

“Why don’t you tell me? What do you know, San?”

San pauses, raising a brow as he leans back, folding his arms against his chest. He exhales, staring at Wooyoung before his words leave him in a low, mumbled slur of accusations. “Choi Yeonjun. Secret Agent for the South Korean Government. Drives a matte black Nissan 370Z. Has a mother that still lives on the outskirts of Seoul. Has been dating you for the last year.”

Wooyoung swallows sharply.

“Should I keep going?” San mutters, watching Wooyoung’s every move. “Or are you actually going to just tell me the fucking truth?”

“Fuck,” Wooyoung whispers under his breath, turning his head away, chewing on the interior of his cheek.

“I expect answers,” San says curtly. “I expect nothing less. I’m not leaving this room until I get them, Wooyoung, and neither are you.”

With a breath, Wooyoung turns back to San, searching the male’s expression with a plea for a glimpse of the softened San he had adored. But that San, the one who seemingly adored him, was long gone.

“I work as a secret agent, in the same agency as Yeonjun, in the same unit as him and some others. We specialize in gang activity and drug crimes, but your mafia, the Crimson Cartel, has been a target on my boss’s list for some time now.” Wooyoung pauses, gauging San’s expression, which had hardly changed, before continuing. “The world I live in, the job I have and the home I harbor myself within; I hate it all. I thought that I could work my dues, figure something out, leave the country–” Wooyoung shakes his head, his brows pinching together, “but it wasn’t enough. The boss always wanted more from me, more missions and more details, taking care of more people that weren’t even under our jurisdiction anymore.”

“So then why go along with it?” San interjects, leaving Wooyoung to shrug once more.

“Peer pressure?” Wooyoung supposed, though he can tell that San wasn’t buying it. “I thought I had everything. A boyfriend, a house, a nice car, a job that paid me well enough, but like society says, money can’t buy happiness. I don’t think I realized how truly unhappy I was until I actually left to come here.”

“And what was the reasoning for coming here? Why snake your way in here just to leave like a ghost?”

“I was sent on a mission here to uncover the secrets about you, to find out information on this entire mafia and the way its operated, but. . . also to kill you.”

The weight of the words sat in between them without consequence, leaving San speechless, sitting there and watching Wooyoung with an expression that wasn’t far from deadpan. He was expressionless, numb, almost as if he hadn’t quite expected that sentiment.

“I thought it was another job,” Wooyoung begins. “I thought I could waltz in here, like I had with everything else, do my job, clear my assignment, and go back home. But. . . it got more complicated than I could’ve ever predicted. The government, as far as I’m aware, has always been corrupt in some manner. But now, hearing this, being a part of everything the mafia does down here, especially with your family. . . I think I’ve finally realized just how fucked up our own society is.”

“I could’ve told you that,” San mutters finally, his tone still completely ice cold.

“Anyone could’ve, I just didn’t believe it.” Wooyoung shifts, taking in another breath. “It just got complicated, San. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I need you to tell me.”

“I can’t–”

“But you can.” San leans closer again, the stool slightly creaking as he leaned forward. “I need you to. Not for yourself. Not for me. But for the sake of the people I’m protecting here. If their lives are at stake, no one, and I mean no one, will threaten them.”

Wooyoung shakes his head, teeth sinking into his lower lip, trying to hold the words at bay before he feels the dam break, the metaphorical hand around his throat finally tightening until his lungs feel as if they were giving out. The pressure, the weight of the revelations; it was all just too much at once.

How could he even bear to explain this? How could he ever? Sitting here, relaying that the only reason he gave up on his orders, on his previous life, breaking up with his ex and allowing himself to fall deeper into the cracks of a place he never truly belonged within was all because of the male sitting right in front of him? How could he say even a fraction of it?

He knew he had to. San wanted answers, wanted more than statements that were just a sliver of the truth. But the words, simple and honest, died on the cusp of his tongue. Admitting this, opening his heart up just to get broken all over again, felt like a fear that he’d never be able to climb. It was insurmountable, and in the most intimidating way possible.

“Tell me,” San presses. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

“Fuck–” Wooyoung rasps out, biting his tongue. “God dammit, San. This is– this just isn’t what I expected it to turn into.”

“You think I did? Do you really think I wanted any of this? I thought I could fucking trust you, Wooyoung. I thought that we. . . that we had something together.”

“I wanted that more than you know, San,” Wooyoung admits, his voice thick with rising emotions. “You have no idea how much I’ve beaten myself up over everything I’ve fucked up.”

“Then why hide it from me?!” San demanded, inching closer, leaving Wooyoung to turn and face him, a rising tide of his own guilt-stricken irritation lacing his rising tone with every single syllable.

“How was I supposed to tell you that I have feelings for you, San?!”

Silence.

San just sits there, arms still folded against his chest, eyes boring into Wooyoung as if he had just unveiled the biggest secret known to mankind. Wooyoung felt his lip quiver, just slightly, his hands curling into fists, nails pinching into his palm as he pulled slightly against the handcuffs, unsure of how to even maintain his own calm.

“I can’t fucking lie to you, San, so there it is. There’s the truth. You want to sit here and yell at me, force a truth out of me, well you can have it. Everything that I was doing, along with being in your room, letting you whisper stuff to me and lavish me in affection–” Wooyoung shakes his head. “I wasn’t used to that. Everything I told you about Yeonjun, everything he did to me, it wasn’t a fucking lie. It all felt. . . so blurry, and just like a million puzzle pieces that I couldn’t put together. I–I struggled, for so long, to try and balance myself, but at the end of everything, in the darkest of night, the only light I see anymore is you, San.”

San doesn’t say a word. He just sits there.

“God–” Wooyoung raps, closing his eyes, leaning his head back, his wrists straining against the handcuffs once more. “San, everything leads back to you. Everytime I feel like I have my mind made up, that I need to leave and that I should steer clear of these feelings– you’re right there, leading me right back here, where I feel like I should be.”

San adjusts slightly, but for the first time since San had walked in here, he showed the faintest glimmer of something in his eyes. Regret.

“You were sent in here to kill me, Wooyoung,” San mutters, his voice not any warmer than before. “Why didn’t you? Why won’t you just follow your orders like the soldier you used to be? Or was that all a fucking lie too?”

“I haven’t lied to you, San.” Wooyoung tilts his head, looking directly back at the male. “Everything I’ve said about my parents, Yeonjun, even everything now. . . it’s been the truth.”

San nods, glancing down, his arms unfolding until his hands clasped together, resting his forearms down on his knees. He was thinking, that much was obvious. Wooyoung just didn’t know how much he’d believe.

“San–”

“Don’t, Wooyoung.” San shakes his head, running his hands through his hair before he sits up, looking directly into Wooyoung’s eye. “I’ve heard enough.”

Wooyoung stays quiet, but his eyes, even glimmering with tears, follow San’s every movement as his hands paused, his chest heavy, laden with the unspoken.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, San reaches out, the glint of something silver in his hand as he reaches to the bed, grabbing onto Wooyoung’s wrist. Carefully, San unlocks the handcuff before moving to the other one, unlocking that one too, the clinks of metal the only sound in the room besides their subtle breathing. Wooyoung stays still, making no room to move before San leans away, letting the handcuffs hang on the rails of the bed, not quite removing them, but freeing Wooyoung of his confines nonetheless.

“San–?”

“I don’t care what you do, Wooyoung,” San admits, turning his back, beginning to walk towards the door. “If you stay here, protected in my mafia, or if you leave. I don’t care. Just stay out of my affairs from now on.”

Wooyoung uses his right hand, pushing himself upright in a rush as San reaches for the door handle, the weight of everything unsaid lingering between them.

“Don’t do this, San.”

San shrugs, turning over his shoulder just barely. “I didn’t do this. You did.”

And with that, San opened the door and left, leaving Wooyoung sitting in the dark, uncuffed, but utterly alone with the weight of his spoken truth.

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

The days blurred past in a manner that was hard to comprehend. Loneliness, silence, stillness; it all became part of a routine that Wooyoung grew accustomed to. He didn’t mind the complete lack of human presence all that much, as he talked with Chan every now and then, but the tension lingering in his chest was an ever-present pain that never seemed to dull. The medications, though frequent in administration, never seemed to aid in releasing the pain that radiated in Wooyoung’s heart.

He knew he hurt San. He knew he completely dismantled and destroyed whatever foundation of trust they might’ve built with one another. Even if he wanted to attempt to fix it, maybe just a part of it, just a fraction at least, though he didn’t know if he even could.

So, for more nights than he’d ever admit, he stared up at the ceiling, thinking through everything that felt rather thoughtless, running through a million ideas that could end up with San listening to him somehow, and yet he laid there. He didn’t move. He didn’t dare move and leave the bed. Pissing San off even more wouldn’t end well, as since his confession, he hadn’t heard a single word about how San was doing. San did say that he didn’t care if Wooyoung stayed or if he left, just that he didn’t want Wooyoung meddling around in his affairs any longer.

Which, in retrospect, Wooyoung could understand. It pained him, but at the very least, he’d respect San’s wishes. He’d avoid his gaze, settle his voice into quiet, choosing to rather stray far away from San. He could give San the space he wanted, even if it broke his own heart to do so.

Now, almost two weeks after the incident, Wooyoung was finally preparing to move back into his own space. The medical room, though private, felt more like a prison the longer he stayed within it. The lack of windows, hardly consisting of his own personal belongings, along with the consistent beep of monitors with very little to do in order to keep his mind occupied, all began to drive him crazy. He needed a bigger space, something more comforting, something that would help him finish recovering not only physically, but mentally, as well.

Sitting up in the medical bed, Wooyoung reached to rub at his eyes, wiping away the remnants of exhaustion that clung to his expression. He could feel the slight tension in his shoulders, the ache of muscles that had grown tired of sleeping in this bed, along with the dulled memory of everything that had transpired to earn him this position to begin with. In truth, he felt a lot better than he had in several days, as the pain from his wound was fairly minimal now, but the remnants of what once was, lingered more than any pain or stitches ever could.

With only a few days left with the stitches still embedded into his skin, Wooyoung was prepared to move into his own space, with or without Chan’s help. He didn’t expect anyone within the cartel to bother helping him, either. Especially not after they all knew the barren, honest truth.

Changbin, the one he was closest with, hadn’t even made a move to come and visit. Wooyoung never really expected him to, nor did he really ever hope that Changbin would outright forgive him without words being shared. But to know that all of them chose silence over answers was a reality he wasn’t entirely sure on how to face.

With a quiet breath, Wooyoung hoisted himself out of bed, carefully and with subtle motions, though the strain on his chest was minimal, he feared somehow hurting his stitches, or even worse, somehow re-injuring himself. Though he was mostly healed, he knew he had very little to worry about, but considering how life was going for him as of late, that’d be just his luck.

Thankfully, all of the intravenous ports had been since pulled, and all of his medications were given via capsules now, so all he would have to do is grab his phone, his dejected bag that Chan had brought in for him, and make his way back to a room he once knew. Pressing a hand to his wound, he carefully bends down, grabbing the straps of his bag and holding them tightly in his grip, reaching for his phone with the opposite hand after, making a mental note to grab his medications from Chan later.

Shuffling out of the room, he quietly closes each door behind him, looking to the left, then to the right, spotting no one in sight in the corridor as he turns towards his old room. His steps were slow, almost cautious, trekking forward blindly. He didn’t even know if he was welcome outside of the medical room, but he had to get out of there. He had to. Being cooped up, caged like an animal, was slowly driving him more and more insane. All he could do was read, listen to something on the internet, stare at the ceiling, and think about things that would likely end up getting him nowhere.

The corridor was lit by the round ceiling lights, cascading a white light down against the tiled flooring, adjacent to the black-painted walls. Wooyoung felt the room shrinking in on him as he walked, either from his own internal anxieties or from the haziness of his painkillers, but either way, he knew that every single pair of eyes within these walls would be on him. He wasn’t sure if he should act normal, make amends, or simply hide away, lock himself in his room and wait for San to come back. It had been several days since Wooyoung had seen him, or really even heard from him, and deep down, Wooyoung was worried.

San was the type to internalize everything, to overanalyze and to struggle in silence. He was the kingpin, a notorious name in all of Seoul, and to maintain his image, he needed to seem numb; dulled, almost. His glare, the jut of his jaw, the way he dressed and styled his hair, all rendered him as enigmatic and feared, but deep down, Wooyoung could see more than that. He was portraying someone he thought he needed to be, someone that was meant to be the person to avenge the tragedy that happened in his past. This wasn’t truly who San was, as that man, long and forgotten, was buried deeply within his core. It was hidden, layered behind a meticulous run of ironclad walls that not even Wooyoung knew how to tackle. Seonghwa and Hongjoong, who apparently had been closest to San, couldn’t even tear down the most formidable of defenses in San’s armory, which concerned Wooyoung that much more. What was he hiding? What was wearing on him day and night to pretend like this?

The picture, the words that San had shared, the hatred for his parents; slowly. . . it all began to make sense. Wooyoung didn’t want to assume, however, as he was sure there was some long story to be told, but from the sounds of it, his parents had gotten away with something heinous and buried it all for the sake of their public image. San wasn’t one to take no for an answer, so he rebelled, creating his own leisure of men that could tackle a nation if they truly desired to. And yet, San had his eyes set on the prize: his parent’s lives. He wanted nothing more, nothing less. Just them.

That much Wooyoung knew, and he couldn’t blame him. Afterall, Wooyoung had sought out revenge against the people that slaughtered his parents, leaving no room for mercy, nor even words. He took their lives without the slightest bout of hesitation, claiming a part of him that he felt was once lost, now riddled in blood. He’d never been who he once was before his entire life changed, and even now as he walked through this empty corridor, he knew that after all of this, after the agency and after Yeonjun, it was merely all just beginning.

His story in the Crimson Cartel was long from over, and for some reason, a part of him clung to his chapter with San, feeling as if his pages weren’t fully written, left askew and unfinished, but only temporarily. He wanted San back. He wanted to prove to him that he could be better, that he’d never lie and that he’d protect him with everything he had, but words wouldn’t be enough. He’d have to show him. But for once, Wooyoung didn’t know how.

As he moves closer to his room, his hand finds the handle, turning it down, listening as the door unlocks and clicks open. He pushes it further, letting the door swing slowly, his eyes peering up to look around the space, barren in the way he had previously left it.

San hadn’t touched it, nor had anyone else, but something about it felt different. Maybe it was because this was home now, or at least whatever version of home Wooyoung could make of it. This wasn’t temporary, and this wasn’t just a part of some grand scheme anymore. This was real. This was his.

He sets his bag down on his bed, adjusting the loose shirt he had been wearing, making subtle movements to avoid hurting his wound as he begins to unpack everything from his bag. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was even allowed to be here, but San did tell him that he didn’t care if he stayed. So. . . was it an invitation? Was there something more hidden beneath the facet of San’s words? Or, was Wooyoung thinking too much into every syllable? Was he prying for more, reaching and vying for a piece of anything that San would toss him? He didn’t know. He knew he was loopy and slightly out of it because of the medications, but even still, nothing felt more sure than the longing burning inside of him.

Though, he persists, carefully moving his clothes back into the dresser, hanging up his shirts and jackets, resting his usual hoodie over the back of the desk chair. He places his books on the bedside table, one by one, carefully placing them in a manner where the spines were facing outward, just so he could see the titles and the names of the authors. But, as he turns back to his bag, he then sees his laptop, his charger cables, and his other phone. It was broken, still. A complete mess, really, but he still shoved it away, keeping it safe, maybe in the hope that San would’ve just let it all go. He should’ve known better, though. A kingpin would never let someone do what Wooyoung did in good conscience without ending their life first.

The only reason Wooyoung believes that he’s even alive is because of his ties to the agency, the apparent agency that held more baggage over San’s head than he probably knew about. Though, Mingyu never really did dive into the details as to why the job was even acquired in the first place. Ever since they had dipped their toes into the illegal-side of things, the conspiratory, dark web, Mingyu became more and more vague about the details. It almost felt like he was running his own empire beneath the mask of the agency, wanting more money, more power. Wooyoung didn’t necessarily understand it, though he never made a move to ask questions, nor voice opinions about it. He just followed through, like any dutiful soldier would, watching as his comrades ended life after life, almost as if they were nothing.

This phone, somehow, felt like it was still attached to everything he once had. Part of him wanted to smash it completely, dismantle all of the tracking chips inside and rip it to complete shreds, and yet, all he could do was stare. Everything he once knew, everything he held onto for so long, for some reason, was within that phone. Pictures, messages, endless bouts of data that would tie his name to an agency that was riddled with lies and deceit. This was no longer a game of deception, but rather a game of wills, a test of power, and a gamble of lives. Mingyu was prying to something deeper, hiding beneath his veil of innocence, walking around as if he had no wrong-doings in anything he orchestrated. It was disgusting, but back then? Wooyoung didn’t care. He was there for a paycheck, to go home, to sink into bliss, to pretend that all of it wasn’t happening.

That’s what he knew how to do. He could pretend. He could act like his relationship was butterflies and rainbows, pretend that Yeonjun loved him, turn his cheek to all of the crimes being committed before his eyes, do his paperwork without asking questions, and smile at Mingyu as if he didn’t hate him.

Lying; it was second-nature. He had to survive in this world, to make it out alive from the things that dared to pull him back into the brink, to strangle him and pull the air from his lungs, and sometimes, he let them. He couldn’t fight it off all the time, nor did he have the strength to stay afloat, but for those months, for those years beneath the government, he allowed himself to float. To stay with the current, to go with the tide of change because it was all he could do.

And now? All Wooyoung could do was wait. Be patient, listen, act within reason, follow orders, be the perfect little soldier he was used to being. He’d just have to hope it’d be enough. Or at least, a fraction of enough.

Just as he reaches for his phone, the sound of footsteps draws his attention upwards, watching as a figure appears in his doorway. Seonghwa.

For a moment, Wooyoung just stands there, completely still, his hands lingering on his bag before he straightens his back, almost unsure on if he should look away or continue looking at the male.

Seonghwa, even despite his calmer nature, was just as intimidating as San was. His eyes told a million tales, expressing a million things, and Wooyoung could never read into the male’s intentions. His long black hair, the way his bangs cascade against his skin, his narrowing eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his hands were clasped together behind his back; he came with news settled on his tongue, watching Wooyoung with a gaze that felt predatory.

Wooyoung swallows sharply, averting his eyes momentarily as he places his hands at his sides, preparing for the worst news possible. Though, the moment Seonghwa spoke, Wooyoung’s chest lightened. The tension that had been wound began to unfurl subtly, all because of the elder’s tone.

“You’ve moved in.”

Wooyoung wets his lips, looking back at Seonghwa before he nods, unsure about the reasoning for this unprecedented visit. “I couldn’t stay in that room any longer. I was going crazy.”

Seonghwa nods, though his expression hardly changes. “So, you’ve decided to stay?” He questions, taking another step further into the room as he speaks again, “what’s changed?”

Wooyoung takes a subtle breath, acknowledging the dodgyness of his own behavior. “I–I’ve realized my wrong-doings. I’m looking to make amends.”

“Amends?” Seonghwa pries, his tone shifting the slightest bit, almost hinting at a sense of disbelief. “Is there amends to make? I’ve come to understand that you were sent here as an assassin. A means of snaking your way into our family to try and unravel everything San has built.”

“I won’t deny that,” Wooyoung admits, trying to remain as even-keeled as he could manage. “I lied. I won’t sit here and say that I didn’t. As for my past life, it's a life of deceit and ill-behaviors that I’d rather leave behind.”

“And you really think that everyone here will just take you back with open arms? As if the whole plot to murder our boss never even happened?” Seonghwa narrows his gaze, arms folding against his chest. “You’re quite bold. I’ll give you that.”

“I don’t expect anything,” Wooyoung returns, looking at Seonghwa, not making a move to avert his gaze any longer. “I know I will need to work my way back to where I was, to even earn any ounce of trust and respect. No one owes me anything, not even a glance or the spare rarity of kindness. I just ask for safe harbor, because I’m pretty sure I’m not really supposed to be alive right now.”

Seonghwa, for a moment, stands there, taking in Wooyoung’s words before he sighs in contempt, nodding after a moment. “San has agreed to allow you to remain here. As for respect–” he rolls his eyes slightly, trying to find the correct wording, “actions will earn you more than words ever will. Especially with San.”

“I told San that I thought this was just supposed to be another job. I’d fulfill my duty, go home, pretend nothing happened, get paid–” Wooyoung shakes his head, blinking down as his nails bite into his palms. “That’s just not the case.”

“Because you had sex with him?”

Wooyoung’s gaze shoots upwards, his eyes widening, hesitating, nearly unable to catch his own breath. Seonghwa knew. Which meant that either he heard them, or San told them. Either way, the options weren’t all that great, and Wooyoung was unsure of how to completely feel.

“I–”

“We’re human, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa explains, wetting his lips. “Look, I’m not one to sit here and judge your relationship with San, as involved or as distant as it now may be, however, if your plan was foiled because of romantic feelings and intimacy, that makes me question my opinions of you. Not only that, but of your morals, of the weight certain decisions hold in your mind.”

“Can I explain something to you?” Wooyoung asks, albeit quietly. Seonghwa nods short, but he allows Wooyoung the space to speak. “I don’t think it was because of the. . . sex, per se. There was more to it than that, and I–” he sighs, “I began to question everything about my life the moment San and I met.”

Seonghwa raises a brow, subtly almost, but Wooyoung saw it nonetheless.

“My life was a disaster beyond all of this. I won’t bore you with the details, as I’m sure if you cared enough, you could have Yeosang find it somewhere in his little nerdy lab of his. But, just know, that everything that I had, it was something I settled for. I had a neglectful partner, a terrible job surrounded by mostly terrible people, and sure, I had a home of my own and a nice car, but what of it? Those things are just materialistic. They can be replaced. Everything else was just. . . awful.”

Seonghwa remains quiet, though Wooyoung could tell that he was listening intently.

“Point being, is that when I got here, and when I truly began to understand everything that happens around here, I questioned everything. San. . . he has this way of taking me apart. He finds every vulnerability, every single asset of my insecurities, and he unravels me completely. There’s this. . . very subtle softness to him, it’s almost so well hidden that you wouldn’t know where to look for it sometimes. But I saw it. I saw the way he was beginning to let his walls down around me, and how he was beginning to try to allow himself to let someone in.” Wooyoung took a breath, steadying himself, too caught up with the feeling of everything tilting over the edge of his tongue. He wasn’t going to cry, but he was feeling it all once again. The pain, the longing, the distance, the misery of knowing just how much he fucked up. All at once, like a chaotic downpour of things he tried to avoid, yet was confronted with head-on.

“I fucked it up. I took that gentle side of him and ruined it. I tried to leave to spare all of you the chaos that would follow me, all because my boss and colleagues were threatening to have everyone down here killed. I. . . I didn’t want to risk it. I know how much San cares about you, and everyone else down here, and the idea of being the reason why he would lose any more family just broke me in a way that I can’t describe. So, sure. I lied. But I did it to protect the cartel. To protect the Velvet. To protect all of you, and to protect San.”

Seonghwa, for the slightest second, ponders internally, his fingers tapping against the jacket he had been wearing before his arms unfold from his chest, returning to his sides, one hand slightly resting against his hip. There’s the faintest flicker of understanding molding into his expression, something a bit softer glimmering in his sharpened gaze that makes Wooyoung’s shoulders begin to slightly ease from their tense state.

“I don’t condone a single thing you’ve done,” Seonghwa begins, keeping his voice low, yet gentle in delivery.

Wooyoung sucks in a breath, knowing exactly where this conversation was apparently going to go, but he doesn’t expect Seonghwa to speak again, and the moment he does, he feels his breath catch in his throat.

“But–” Seonghwa continues, “at the very least, I understand. We’re all fools to our own emotions, Wooyoung. We do stupid shit, we make mistakes, we hurt one another; it’s a part of life. Even if we do lead a life of illegal actions and guns, we’re still privy to feeling things that everyone else does. Anger, sadness, love and happiness; we’re human, aren’t we?”

Wooyoung nods, lips parting to speak, but Seonghwa holds up his hand, signaling for a pause.

“San is human too, deep down. He puts on this mask, this brute-like persona, almost as if he’s not just some guy hidden beneath an intimidating trench coat and a sleek shirt. He’s got power, sure, but he feels things, probably more deeply than any of us do, even if he won’t admit it.”

Wooyoung looks down at his bag, spotting the broken phone once more.

“He needs time, Wooyoung. Just like any other human being would. I can’t say that I’m all that pleased with the lies you’ve told, but you protected him. That means more to me than some meaningless words would.”

Looking up, Wooyoung smiles faintly, nodding once more. “I appreciate that. More than you realize.”

“I’ll leave you be, but just. . . don’t bother San for now. If you’re that keen on repairing things, let him come to you. He’s not the apologetic type, but once he’s over it, you’ll know. You’ll see the difference in him,” Seonghwa explains briefly, almost casually, talking with an air that makes Wooyoung’s smile curl wider.

“Is he. . . okay, though?” Wooyoung asks, his smile slowly beginning to fall as the words leave his lips. “I worry that he’s harboring everything and avoiding everyone.”

“To be honest, I haven’t seen him in three days.” Seonghwa glances over his shoulder, looking at the ajar bedroom door. “He isolates. He gets in a mood, locks the door, refuses to eat, and only really comes out when his head is screwed back on straight. He’ll be fine, Wooyoung. Like I said, he just needs time.”

Wooyoung nods absently, and just as he was about to reply, another set of steps waltz towards the room, Changbin nearly stumbling into Seonghwa as he turns the corner haphazardly. Seonghwa smiles, raising a brow as Changbin curses under his breath, his ears turning red in embarrassment.

“Christ, Hwa–” Changbin mutters, smoothing his shirt out. “Swear to God, you’re like a ghost. You’re always scaring me.”

“Just pay better attention, Binnie. You’ll man up one of these days,” Seonghwa muses, offering Wooyoung a glance before he moves out of the room, a feeling of levity following his exit.

The words he shared with Wooyoung weren’t all that terrible, and for once, Wooyoung felt as if he finally gained some ground. Maybe, just maybe, trust was able to be re-built.

“So,” Changbin begins, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ve heard about everything.”

“I kind of expected you to have heard it all by now,” Wooyoung replies, watching as Changbin shrugs.

“I’m not all that mad about it,” he confesses. “Like, sure, you lied. But, the way I see it, we all lie. We’re in a fucking mafia, for fucks sake. Part of our job is to lie and deceive people.”

“Even if you were mad, I wouldn’t put it past you. I really cannot blame anyone for how they feel about me now.”

Changbin scoffs, waving a hand, almost brushing off Wooyoung’s words. “Please, Woo. Life is short, and I’ve seen parts of you that make me believe otherwise. There’s always been a second side to the story, hasn’t there?”

Wooyoung nods, so Changbin continues to speak.

“So–” he drags on, “I assumed there were reasons as to why you had done everything. The lies, saving San’s ass, protecting everyone. . . you’re more than your past, Wooyoung. Everyone will come to see that. I promise.”

Wooyoung smiles, nodding his head. “Thank you, Bin. I don’t deserve your grace, or your understanding, but it doesn’t go unappreciated.”

“Like Seonghwa-hyung had said,” Changbin muses, leaning a bit closer and away from the doorframe, a knowing smirk curled lightly on the edge of his lips. “Just give them time. Time heals all wounds.”

“I do have a question, by the way,” Wooyoung interjects, glancing down, looking at his broken phone, pausing, unsure of if this idea would even hold any weight.

“Shoot.”

“Yeosang–” Wooyoung glances up, reaching his hand into his bag, fingers wrapping around the slightly dented and cracked edges of his phone. “How good is he at breaking into phones that don’t work anymore?”

Changbin smiles. “That’s a piece of cake for him. Is there something you need from it?”

“Not something I need, but. . . I think we could all benefit from it.” Wooyoung holds up the phone, taking a breath, letting the tension flee from his chest. “My past life is connected to this phone, and if we want to get the upper-hand on those who are trying to kill San, I might just have the key to unraveling their entire operation.”

Changbin nods, then gestures towards the door with his hand. “Let's go, then. That maniac is still awake, doing God knows what.”

Wooyoung chuckles quietly, following Changbin out of his room, phone in hand. Their steps are quick, moving through the quiet corridor and towards Yeosang’s office, spotting that the door had been, in fact, ajar and left open for anyone who needed anything from his expertise. Changbin walks right in, unphased, walking over to Yeosang’s chair and placing his hands on the back of it, which almost immediately pulls Yeosang’s attention away from his several computer monitors.

“I’ve got a task for you,” Changbin muses. “Well, Wooyoung does. If you want it.”

Yeosang quips a brow, his gaze flicking between Changbin and Wooyoung before he nods, almost hesitantly.

“Sure–? What is it?” Yeosang shifts in his chair, turning more to face the two males more appropriately before Wooyoung hands him the broken phone, watching as Yeosang’s expression shifts to something slightly more unreadable.

“This was my personal phone. I had contacts to everyone from the agency, as well as files that I likely shouldn’t have had, personal information about all of my former colleagues, and pings from locations of bases that I’ve been to.” Wooyoung passes the phone over, Yeosang’s hand cupping the device as his eyes bore down to look at the several cracks.

“So, what are you supposing?” Yeosang mutters, looking back up. “Is this something we can use against the government now? Or are we actually inviting a raid to come and kill us all by hacking into this device?”

Wooyoung sighs, even though he expected such distrust from everyone, the doubt lingering in everyone’s gaze and in their words, started to pull at his sanity. But, he shakes his head, understanding where Yeosang was coming from, at the very least.

“There’s nothing rigged in that phone. I swear on my life. That was the phone I used to contact everyone, to conduct business, to. . . talk to whatever family I used to have. I broke it in a rage, not on purpose, but because my previous partner was being terrible to me, and I didn’t want him to contact me anymore. The phone isn’t likely on their radar anymore, so–”

“So, if I hack into it, we can find out more layers to government operations?” Yeosang asks, his interest now clearly piqued.

Wooyoung nods. “Everything you need, it will be there. I have no use for it anymore, but I figured you might.”

Yeosang looked up, offering a brief smile before he turned to his computer, setting the phone down on his desk as his fingers moved to hover over his keyboard, fingertips typing away some sort of command in the lower left corner that brought upon an entirely new screen. Then, Yeosang reached for a black cable, plugging in the phone before plugging the USB port into the top of his computer. A second later, another window pops up, and the moment Yeosang clicks on it, files and folders begin to unfurl from the phone itself, popping out with codes and names that Wooyoung didn’t recognize. Yeosang inspected everything, hovering his cursor over specific things while ignoring others, waiting for the phone to finish completely extracting before he would even dare to click on something.

The moment it had, however, he found a folder of interest, opening it, watching as a few data files unraveled before him. They were laden in a code that didn’t make sense; a jumble of letters that came together to form something not really numeric or alphabetic. It was completely random, and for some reason, Yeosang saw right through it.

“You weren’t kidding,” Yeosang mutters, opening the first file. “Everything in here is labeled just like Changbin’s phone might be, or even mine. But, the agency didn’t code their files correctly from the looks of it.”

“What do you mean?” Wooyoung asks. “I downloaded everything myself. I broke their encryption in order to even do it.”

“Well,” Yeosang turns, glancing up at Wooyoung. “What were you downloading?”

“Schedules, personal information, just. . . I don’t know– stuff to keep tabs on the people I was working with. They were intimidating to me when I first joined, and given the missions we went on, I kept some leverage on my phone, just in case.”

Yeosang nods, but as he turns back towards his monitors, he mutters something under his breath, something that makes Wooyoung’s breath catch in his throat.

“San’s going to love this.”

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

Two miserable weeks pass.

Loneliness had become a cavern, an endless whirlwind of encompassing darkness that never seemed to ever wane. It was heavy, burdensome like a cloak, sharp as a dagger, painful in ways that no one should ever truly know. Yet, Wooyoung felt it all. He shut himself away, healed on his own, kept to himself, only ever daring to leave the confines of his room late at night once the moon had fully risen, collecting items of food to keep himself fed during the daylight hours.

He didn’t want to trip over San’s feet, nor to impose in a way that would cause more arguments. Maybe, just maybe, he was overthinking, delicately perusing through ideas and scenarios that would likely never come to pass, but with everything at stake, with the entire risk of their relationship crumbling to an irreplaceable manner, Wooyoung just didn’t want to push it.

Changbin came to visit regularly, bringing a few books along with him, or the rare appearance of a few video games, trying to keep Wooyoung company, even in his time of healing. Wooyoung appreciated him more than he could ever know, as Changbin’s presence seemed to be his only salvation. His books, of course, provided some comfort, a means of escaping the reality he knew that he made himself a prisoner to.

The irony wasn’t lost on him, as he was completely aware of how rearranged the circumstances are between himself and San. Before, San was chasing after him, seeking comfort and intimacy, indulging in some sort of fling just for the sake of stress relief. Now, he was avoiding Wooyoung at all costs, likely drinking himself into a state of misery until he eventually fell asleep. He didn’t want San to act like that, nor did he really wish for San to be in pain like this. But what could he do? San didn’t want to see him, and Wooyoung wasn’t about to go and plead for his attention, either.

Now, two weeks after his near-death experience from Yeonjun, he felt mostly back to normal. His wound was almost completely healed, as a lingering soreness persisted even without stitches present. Otherwise, he was completely engulfed back into a state of normalcy.

Today felt different, though. It wasn’t like the other days, filled with a quiet realization that he was locked away inside his own hellish prison. Today, rather, he could hear voices of everyone in the living space drifting through the corridor, laughing and talking about something, mingled with the smell of freshly cooked Korean dishes, reminding Wooyoung of a time when home was just home. When it was comforting and felt safe, not when it was dark and neglectful.

Changbin had texted him earlier, stating that he should come out and join them, yet, Wooyoung remained unsure if he should. He didn’t know how everyone felt about him now, especially with the truth shattered and spilt all over the floor. He didn’t expect anyone to forgive him, nor be overly friendly, but. . . to fit back into the group, to be with them, to try and just exist again, felt too good to be true.

Changbin was overly encouraging, trying to convince Wooyoung to just step outside of his room, to reintroduce himself, and if anyone had any questions, to just answer them as truthfully as possible. It wasn’t that Wooyoung intended on lying anymore, because truthfully, he hadn’t. He would explain the situation to anyone who wanted to listen, however, he didn’t want the past to become a broken record, to keep having to repeat his mistakes when all he wanted to do was move past them.

But, he digresses. He can’t force anyone to speak to him, to want him around, but for the fact that they allowed him to live here, to heal under their protection was grace enough.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Wooyoung, now, had been sitting at his desk, leaning back into his chair by the time his door swung open. He glanced over his shoulder, raising a brow, sucking in a breath at the sight of Changbin carrying a soju bottle.

“You look like you could use this,” Changbin muses, a slightly slurred smile faded over his lips.

Wooyoung arches a brow, but he doesn’t completely dismiss the idea. “I might, but I don’t know about drinking around everyone else–”

“Oh, come on, Woo. They’re over it. We’re adults here,” Changbin says as he saunters over, his wide smile now drifting into something softer. “Not everyone is out there, as I’m sure some of them are paired off and doing God knows what behind a closed door. It’s just me, Hyunjin, Yunho and Mingi, Minho and Jisung–”

“That’s. . . mostly everyone.”

Changbin narrows his gaze before he continues talking again. “Okay, point being, I want you to come drink with me. So, you should.”

“You are awful at peer pressure,” Wooyoung retorts, but Changbin doesn’t falter. Rather, he keeps talking, waving his hand around while the other still holds onto the neck of the soju bottle.

“It’s not peer pressure, I’m just. . . poorly convincing you to rejoin our group and come drink with us, mainly because you’ve been locked in here like a hermit and I will not let you rot inside of this room, alone may I add, any longer.”

Wooyoung, a bit taken aback by the words, begins to nod slowly. He understood, even if he sought to protest, part of him wanted to drink himself into oblivion, to let his mind run numb and his emotions fall into silence. He wasn’t sure how everyone would feel about him being there, but at this point, he wasn’t entirely sure that he cared, not in the way he used to, anyway.

“You’re sure that this is okay?” Wooyoung asks, just once more, waiting and hoping for the reassurance that his slightly-tipsy friend might offer.

“Positive,” he assures, handing over the bottle, his smile growing. “Come on, Woo. You’re healed, you’re alive, and you’ve finally seen the government the way the rest of us do. There’s a lot for us to celebrate here.”

“I don’t know if everyone would celebrate that,” Wooyoung mutters, but Changbin scoffs, taking a step backwards.

“Please–” he laughs. “Just because some of them were upset at one point, doesn’t automatically mean that they would rather you be dead, Wooyoung. You’re one of us, regardless. That says something.”

Wooyoung pauses, a slight glimmer of understanding bleeding across his lips, trying to understand the weight of Changbin’s every word. He wasn’t lying, he wasn’t being deceitful. He was being genuine, trying to pull his friend out of his darkened abyss that had been holding him hostage for the last few weeks.

Even still, his excuse for avoiding this entire drinking session would be null, as all he was doing was sitting there, his mind gallivanting through thoughts, both meaningless and obtrusively poignant, though Changbin somehow had a way of enticing him away from everything else. Maybe it was the promise of drinking himself into numbness, a promise of different scenery, a moment of levity, or. . . maybe it was the hidden chance to sneak a glance at San.

In truth, Wooyoung thought about him a lot. More than a lot, really. He hadn’t seen him, heard from him, or even had a chance to pass by him in the hall. He was like a ghost, a complete mystery, one that Wooyoung would do anything to unravel himself.

“Fine,” Wooyoung finally relents, taking the bottle of soju, turning around in his chair fully. “But this better be worth it, Bin. I don’t want to bring myself more trouble just because you want a drinking buddy.”

“That’s the spirit!” Changbin enthusiastically remarks, reaching to grab Wooyoung by his right wrist, slowly coaxing him out of his chair. “Come on. We can go sit and enjoy the festivities for a little while, and if you want to leave after one drink, then you can. All I’m asking for is one drink.”

“Right,” Wooyoung says, following Changbin’s pull willingly. “One drink better not turn into two.”

“No promises!”

With careful, meticulous steps, Wooyoung follows Changbin out of his room, barely hesitating by the door as he treks out into the hall, feeling the cold press of glass grace his palm, the soju bottle dangling carefully, his eyes wandering around every single inch of the white walls in search of a familiar face. San was nowhere to be seen, as he expected, but he couldn’t help but feel the slightest bout of disappointment.

As they entered near the living space, Wooyoung felt Changbin’s grasp grow lax, his fingers releasing Wooyoung’s wrist as he sauntered into the fray without fear. He rejoined the chaos, sitting down on the large sofa, a space near the edge left open, presumably for Wooyoung. Yet, he stands there, the bottle awkwardly pressed against his palm now, his stance wavering for a moment before he glances around the room, absorbing it for everything it was.

Hyunjin was leaning against the wall, a bottle in his right hand, his phone in his left, eyes reading something as a smile graced his lips, entranced in a way that Wooyoung has never really seen him to be. Yunho and Mingi were settled close on the sofa, barely any room between them as Yunho’s arm hung lazily against Mingi’s shoulders, a bottle nursed in each of their hands, laughing about something as they talked with Hongjoong, who reached for his drink from the coffee table. Seonghwa was nearby, standing upright for now, his hand on Hongjoong’s shoulder, looking up to meet Wooyoung’s gaze fleetingly. Wooyoung doesn’t immediately look away, but after a passing glance, he takes an inward breath, moving to sit down on the sofa next to Changbin. Minho and Jisung sat next to Changbin, bickering lightly about a bag of crisps that must’ve been popular amongst the masses. Wooyoung raises a brow, observing the chaos delicately, but his senses felt a bit too fuzzy to be truly reading too much into it.

He wasn’t even tipsy, but his lack of social prowess, his innate need to seek solitude and hide from his mistakes, seemed to somehow overwhelm everything else. He didn’t want to ignore everyone, but he felt like a piece of this puzzle that just didn’t belong. The angles and shapes weren’t aligning, mixing up with the incorrect box and pieces, trying to fit into a bigger picture that never truly welcomed him in the first place.

So, he takes a sip of his soju instead. He pops the cap off and indulges, letting the taste linger over his tongue, trying to let the feelings bleed elsewhere but here, maybe the carpet, the couch, or even the faint edges of Changbin’s clothes. Wherever; Wooyoung didn’t care. He just didn’t want them here. He didn’t want them inside of his own mind anymore.

“Come on,” Minho chides, reaching for the bag between himself and Jisung. “Share with me. Don’t be so stubborn.”

“Who says that I should?” Jisung attests, raising a brow, his tone tinged with an obvious smirk. “You’re awfully pushy for someone who doesn’t have the higher ground.”

“Because I’m your boss,” Minho retorts playfully, laughing lightly. “And you're drunk. Give them to me.”

“You should listen,” Changbin chimes in, his lips curled in a cocky smile. “It would do you good to listen now.”

“Says you,” Jisung attests, pointing a finger, his eyebrows pinching together. “You never listen to your boss, anyway.”

Wooyoung listens carefully, nursing another swig of his drink, his eyes never leaving the conversation that was happening to his left.

“I run communications detail, I practically am my own boss sometimes,” Changbin mutters, though Seonghwa scoffs, taking a drink of his own bottle that was once on the coffee table, and was now in his palm.

“What?” Changbin asks, his eyes shifting to look at Seonghwa. “Am I wrong?”

“Everyone in this room is your boss besides Jisung, you idiot,” Seonghwa muses, a smile softening the harsh edge of his tone. Wooyoung cracks a small smile, though opting to hide it behind yet another swig of his drink.

Changbin fell into silence, while half of the room, on the other hand, had stumbled into soft laughter. Changbin looked around at everyone, and even despite the smile twitching at his lips, he began to protest, standing up, raising an arm, creating a scene that was completely unnecessary.

“I can’t believe you idiots!” He protests, pointing a finger at all of his assailants. “After everything I do for you! Without me, none of you would have a single job!”

Everyone laughs, but no one dares to argue or intervene.

“I keep the lines open, bringing us more deals, more clients, more revenue to fill your pockets–!”

“And yet,” a voice intrudes from behind, causing everyone to nearly freeze in the spot. “You live under my roof, eat the food I pay for, all without thanks.”

Changbin turns, his eyes widening as he spots the one person that no one expected to hear from. Wooyoung tenses up, his hand nearly gripping his bottle so tightly that he was afraid it might shatter beneath the pressure.

“I am your boss, don’t forget. I won’t fault you for being drunk and acting a fool, but remember who’s the one actually calling the shots,” San chides, though there lacked any true bite to his tone.

Changbin sheepishly smiles, offering San a curt nod and a partial, half-assed salute before he sits back down, quiet laughter breaking the voided space that San’s words had caused. Wooyoung, however, couldn’t hear any of it.

He carefully, slowly, almost tediously, turned to look over his shoulder, trailing his eyes over everything that San was.

His lowly-buttoned shirt, crisp and white in color, rolled up to his elbows, clinging thinly to his torso as if it was tailored specifically for him and him alone. The first three buttons were undone, a silver chain delicately laid against his collarbones. His eyes, red and hazed over, clearly drunk off the essence of his whiskey cabinet, a crystalled glass of amber liquid pressed and nursed against his left hand, lips not yet quirked into a smirk that had usually been present there. His hair, normally perfectly groomed and kept slicked, now lay unkempt against his head, messy at the edges, clinging to his forehead and dancing in front of his eyes, giving way to a more disheveled, yet somehow, intimidating appearance.

There was always that predatory look in his eyes, one that gave way to a darkening, deeper fire that always unraveled anyone he glared at. Wooyoung wasn’t immune to his gaze, and he knew he’d never be. But this one, and this one in particular, bled with something completely different. He looked. . . lost. Not in the way someone can’t fathom their future, or rather cope with their present, but someone who was grieving the past, and didn’t yet know how to move on from it.

Wooyoung wanted nothing more than to talk, to figure it out, to let their past tribulations melt into nothingness just so he could hold San, to let him know that it was okay.

His previous family battles, the loss of someone close to him, the unrivaled anger that drove his vengeance, weighed heavier on him when he was inebriated like this. He seemed more vulnerable, sensitive, clinging to his whiskey as if it were the only thing keeping him somewhat stable-footed.

Then, San’s gaze shifted.

Their eyes met, the room falling completely into silence, a dazed blur of emotions struggling to free themselves of the tension bubbling to the surface. Longing, desire, need, and distrust; a flurry of things that Wooyoung couldn’t palpably explain, yet felt all at once. San’s eyes boiled with tension, his gaze searching, holding steady for a moment before he glances down, breaking line of sight after what felt to be a millennia of holding it.

Wooyoung clutches his drink, tighter than before, eyes watching San’s every move as he talks absently, conversing with his crew with a lazy smile, something faint and barely there, yet curled nonetheless. Wooyoung wants to reach him, to do something, but even as San begins to walk away, he feels himself cemented in the spot, nearly rooted there, lost in a trail of thoughts that was meant for him and him only.

San’s figure began to grow smaller the further he walked, his steps quiet against the floor, taking another drink from his glass just before he disappeared from sight completely, leaving Wooyoung to watch, unable to move from his spot. He could hear the murmurs of the other couples around the living space, stuck in a tipsy streak of banter, growing closer, indulging in one another, unafraid to share their affections for the other even with the world they lived within.

He couldn’t stand it. He didn’t want to sit here and drink this entire bottle of soju, watching and listening to everyone drown in their own romantic bliss while he and Changbin chatted about nothing in particular.

Coming out here was a bad idea. Now I miss him. Now I want him. Now I wish I would’ve just–

“Wooyoung–”

He pauses, turning his gaze back towards Changbin, who was looking at him with a slight glimmer of confusion passing over his gaze. Changbin, ever so kind, somehow read him like a book. Cover to cover, page through page, each paragraph scoured over. Wooyoung felt the blood drain from his face as realization crawled in, his jaw tightening as he fought to make up some sort of lie to cover his basis, but Changbin spoke before he could even have the chance to defend his actions.

“Were you staring at San?”

Wooyoung’s lips part, eyes shooting away, guilt betraying him as he sighs. “No, I just–”

“Let’s go chat,” Changbin suggests, the drink he once held in his hand being dismissed, set onto the nearby table. “I think you need a minute.”

Wooyoung doesn’t protest, though he nods, following Changbin’s movements as they rise off of the sofa without interruption, disappearing towards the kitchen, which felt to be a safe-enough distance from the living space. Changbin stops, leaning against the kitchen island as Wooyoung stands ahead of him, setting his bottle down somewhere far away from his grasp, folding his arms over his chest, slowly blinking to look up at Changbin.

“What’s going on?” Changbin asks quietly, keeping his voice low so that their conversation would remain between them alone.

Wooyoung hesitates, only partially, debating on how much he should say versus what he should keep private, given that the likelihood of getting back together with San was next to none.

“The entire reason my mission failed was because of San,” Wooyoung says quietly, his eyes shifting to scan the group that wasn’t too far away, making sure none of them noticed. For the most part, they were too busy laughing at Mingi to care, as it seemed. “San and I. . . we had a. . . thing going on.”

“Oh, so the dramatic risk to save his life wasn’t just out of the kindness of your heart?” Changbin muses in a low tone, earning an eye roll from Wooyoung in turn.

“We weren’t even. . . it doesn’t matter–” Wooyoung rushes out, waving a hand, feeling heat crawl up his neck. “Point is. . . we, well, I have feelings for him, and now. . . I think he’d rather choose to hate me than anything else right now.”

“Oh,” Changbin says, his eyes softening. “‘Feelings’ feelings? So, the deeper kind?”

“Yes, you idiot,” Wooyoung mutters under his breath as he leans closer, trying to keep his voice down. “I saw parts of him that I’m sure no one else has down here, and I just. . . I want to fix it all. He won’t let me, though.”

“Well, go on–” Changbin says, gesturing off to the right, almost to where the hallway began.

Wooyoung raises a brow, confused.

“Go,” Changbin says once more. “Go get him. Sitting here and eye-fucking him isn’t going to fix anything. Words will.”

“He doesn’t want to hear my words, Bin.”

“But right now,” Changbin begins to say, his tone oddly persuasive. “He’s tipsy, and probably not as angry. He only gets this drunk when he’s feeling too much and he wants to drown out the noise. I have a feeling if you go to talk to him, he might just talk back.”

Wooyoung takes a moment to glance at the hall that San disappeared down, his eyes shifting to look back at Changbin once more. “Are you sure?” He asks in a small voice, “I don’t want to intrude.”

“Boy–” Changbin huffs, gently pressing his hand to Wooyoung’s lower back, offering him a light shove. “Go in there. Fight for your man.”

“Okay–! Okay, shit.” Wooyoung smooths out his shirt, pausing near the corner of the hall, his hand just barely touching the archway frame. He spares one last glance at Changbin before making his way down the hall, his fingertips trailing against the faint grain of wood before fleeing back to his side, twitching anxiously, allowing his steps to follow a familiar path towards San’s bedroom.

With how he’s been, Wooyoung figured he wouldn’t be in his office, working away to cure his future hangover, but he’d rather be in the dark of his room, planning and plotting, or fuming about something. Maybe he’d be laying with his loyal dog, or watching a movie, maybe even sleeping. Wooyoung didn’t know. He just had to hope that San would hear him out.

His steps were quiet as he walked, heels pressing against the cold floor with every inch spent gaining ground to San’s bedroom, hand slightly trembling as it paused, hovering over the handle that remained as the only barrier left between himself and the unknown.

Yet, he turns it, pushing it downwards, letting the door drift open as darkness envelops his senses. The faint flicker of candlelight, the aroma of burnt umber, followed by the sudden deep, threatening growl of a nearby canine. Wooyoung pauses, the door drifting open until the stopper prevents it from making contact with San’s wall. Two eyes, dark brown and inquisitive, met Wooyoung’s as he looked down, spotting Daemon, San’s Doberman, rising from his bed with slow-paced steps guiding him closer to the door. Daemon approached without hesitance, the gold chain hung around his neck glistening in the candlelight as he moved and stopped just barely a foot away from Wooyoung’s position.

He swallows, looking down at this protective canine, not making a rash movement, but rather choosing to stay still, hoping to offer the idea of not being an immediate threat. Daemon, however, tensed as he approached, his ears perked upright, eyes sharp, continuing to growl, though not quite pulling his lips back to show his teeth just yet.

“That’s enough,” a voice rings out from the left, causing the canine to pause, his ear swiveling to listen closely. “Go lay down, Daemon. He’s not a threat.”

Daemon considers the request, but after a moment of silence, he turns, his demeanor shifting, paws leading him right back to where he came from. Wooyoung steps inside, reaching for the door, closing it behind him with a barely-audible click. The room envelops him then, eyes perusing over the decor as he shifts to look at San, who was sitting on the edge of his bed.

There was an empty whiskey bottle at his feet, a few scattered glasses around his room, the faint traces of cigar butts left abandoned in their ashtray. He was a mess, or had been a mess, just like Seonghwa had said. Clothes were scattered around, draped over chairs and furniture, ties not put away correctly, hangers left askew at the bottom of his now-open closet doors.

He was just as much of a mess as I was. Maybe we both still are.

“You come here, unannounced?” San asks, adjusting the buttons of his shirt, pulling each one loose until the shirt just barely clung open to his shoulders. “You know what I’ve told you, Wooyoung. I’m not interested in talking.”

“I wanted to make sure that you’re okay,” Wooyoung says quietly, not stepping any closer. “You’ve clearly been isolating yourself, just like I have, and by the looks of this room–”

“Don’t interrogate me, Wooyoung.” San pushes himself off of the bed, taking a step closer as he speaks, “I’m not drowning in sorrow because of your pathetic little lies. I’m dealing with some shit; things you can’t even fathom. What I’m doing is best for me, not for you, or for anyone else.”

“All these empty glasses and bottles say something else,” Wooyoung returns, which earns a raise of San’s brow. “I’m not here to argue, San. I’m just here to make sure you’re okay. I don’t want you ruining yourself over me, or even over anyone else.”

San pauses at that, his hands reaching to un-roll his sleeves, letting them fall back down to his wrists before he discarded the shirt completely, letting it drift down to the floor. Wooyoung keeps his eyes trailed upwards, refusing to look down, to fall under his spell again, but his presence, his aura alone, was intoxicating.

“I’d rather you argue with me,” San returns. “At least it’ll prove that you care, that whatever we had meant something.”

“San–”

“What?” He demands, stepping even closer, barely half an arms’ length away. “You’re thinking too much, Wooyoung. That’s what you’re always doing. Thinking, analyzing, trying to make sure everything runs under your control. You’re never just here. You were never just with me. It was always about something else, wasn’t it?”

Wooyoung begins to shake his head, but San reaches up, grabbing his chin gently, holding his gaze, lowering his tone until the words Wooyoung never thought he’d hear fell from his lips.

“Then why are you here, Wooyoung? Are you here to talk, or for something else?”

Wooyoung doesn’t falter, doesn’t shy away, but he couldn’t help but feel himself drift back into that place that somehow held him hostage to San’s every wish. He didn’t want to argue, truthfully, but with San’s warmth bleeding closer to his skin, the way his eyes were boring into his own, mingling with the ache of need bubbling from beneath; it was a recipe for pure disaster.

San lingers there, his hand falling away from Wooyoung’s chin, the tension settling between them so palpably, it felt like an electric current. Everything Wooyoung wanted to say fell on a broken voice, harboring themselves on his tongue as he sat submissively beneath San’s gaze. He didn’t feel small, nor did he feel weak; he just felt. . . powerless. He wanted San to shut his mind off, to clear the doubts, to speak on the things left unresolved. Most of all, he just wanted San.

Without thinking, Wooyoung wraps his hand around the back of San’s nape, pulling him closer as their lips meet in a fiery, deepening kiss. To Wooyoung, it felt like breathing again. As if he had been starved completely and deprived of everything good in this world, now rushing back to him, replenishing his will to live and simply exist.

He melted into it, feeling as San’s hands wrapped around his waist seamlessly, as if they had always belonged there. But his hands didn’t linger for long, rushing about and pulling, nearly tearing at the fabric that kept them apart. Everything was in a blur, met with the snaps of belt buckles and unloops of buttons, fabric pooling to the floor and kicked away, completely forgotten until they’d come to regret this tomorrow morning.

But Wooyoung didn’t care. He never did when it came to San.

He wanted to be ruined, to feel nothing except San’s hands on him, to taste him, to memorize the way San’s lips warmed his own. He wanted to look in the mirror tomorrow and see himself purpled in bites and stakes of claim, to wake up and look directly at the one person that could take him apart piece by piece before delicately placing him right back together, as if it never even happened.

Wooyoung’s hands moved with a devious tremble, slipping San free of his trousers until they too landed amongst the growing pile scattered near San’s large bed, abandoned from thought, leaving them bare and pressed against one another as their lips and heavy breaths chased after the only thing they could ever pull from one another.

San’s hands drifted lower, hooking beneath Wooyoung’s thighs as he picked him up, holding him close, all before pressing him against the nearby wall with their lips still practically glued to one another. Wooyoung can feel the texture of the wall pressing against his back, the cool paint likely leaving faint marks against his skin, his hands clutching onto San’s shoulders before he feels the male shift, thighs tightening around his waist, preparing for the inevitable.

He wanted this. He wanted San. He didn’t care if he was slightly tipsy, or even if he was making this worse. Right now, all he wanted was this. He needed the escape, the moment to breathe, to feel anything else but his eternal sense of dread, lost in the thought that he’d simply be better off dead.

He wanted the reassurance, the bleeding affections, the lingering kisses and coiling in his stomach. God, he needed it.

Gasps and groans bleed through the once-quiet room as San presses himself into Wooyoung, leaving the younger to tighten his grip around San’s waist, arms wrapping around San’s neck, letting his head fall back against the wall as the messy strands of his hair wildly cling to his neck and shoulders. San didn’t hesitate, rolling his hips without a single essence of tenderness, rushing to claim whatever it was that he was chasing after.

Wooyoung let him. He wanted San to use him, to free himself of those thoughts, of that need to control something, now beginning to realize just how much he never wanted San to do this with anyone else. He wanted to be the only one, the one person San trusted more than anyone else, all while loving him and him alone. He couldn’t let anyone else have him like this, to be vulnerable and exposed, to kiss him and taste him, to feel him intimately; he couldn’t. 

It was toxic, possessive in a way that was completely unlike Wooyoung, but in this moment, feeling as San’s hips move and press upwards against his own, he finds himself unable to care anymore. All of his old ideals, his old personality, his previous acts of wanting to escape from Korea entirely, fizzled out into complete silence. This is what he wanted now. San, the mafia, the Velvet Mirage, this life; it was everything he was secretly craving for his life, and now that he had a taste of it, he couldn’t simply let it go.

San was ravaging him with every single inch of fleeting control, his pace unrelenting and quick, snapping upwards as Wooyoung arched into him, sliding a hand into San’s hair, tugging and pulling with breathless moans fleeing from his lips as he let the male completely devour him. San traced a languid, sickening trail against Wooyoung’s jaw with his tongue, teeth grazing against Wooyoung’s pulse as he trailed lower, biting into his skin like a rabid animal, wanting nothing more than to leave indents of their time together as a reminder of just how much he owned him.

Even if San hated him, even if this was going to be the last time they’d be together like this, there’d still be the marks. There’d still be the acknowledgement of how, right now, Wooyoung was completely and utterly his. As he sunk his nails into San’s back and drug them upwards, he knew that San wouldn’t simply let anyone else mark him that way, staking his own claim in whatever way he physically could. But it’d never be enough. He would need more, to mark him over and over again, to claim the one person that belonged to him in the same manner he belonged to him, too.

His breaths were stuttering, pressed flush against the wall, letting San completely unravel every single inch of his essence with every upwards thrust that began to unfurl a feeling that was all too familiar. He gasps, moans, digs his fingernails in tighter, letting his head fall back with his eyebrows pinched together, feeling everything as it all tumbles into a quickening burst.

He falls into the unknown, breathing out San’s name in a claim of lust, legs falling limp, grip loosening completely as San held him there, pinned against the wall, hands tucked just beneath his thighs in a manner of support.

He could feel San’s breath against his skin, their chests heaving uncontrollably, sweat clinging to their bodies as they stood there, wordless in the aftermath of their actions. Wooyoung remains put, watching San, trying to read his demeanor, to gauge if this had been a complete mistake or not, but the moment San looks up, he finds a trace of the male he once knew lingering just beneath.

Slowly, carefully, San leans closer, their noses just barely brushing against one another as their lips meet in a delicate kiss. Wooyoung sighs into it, exhausted, slightly tipsy, yet entranced by the feeling of having San surround him like this. For once, he felt. . . safe, and that was an entirely new feeling that he hadn’t felt before.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, as the day always swelled with the unknown, but all he could hope was this wouldn’t disappear. He wanted to remain close to San, to figure this out, even if it involved a few arguments.

San was worth it, after all.

And he’d do anything to prove that he’d change. Not just for San, but for himself.

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

The deepening evening wasn’t anything like Wooyoung expected. It was cold, met with a kind of darkness that only came with harboring, tumultuous thoughts. It was heavy in a way that most things weren’t, burdensome like a towering nimbus cloud, threatening like thunder with a rotating funnel. What he had hoped to be a better interaction, one met with understanding and smaller, delicate smiles, had been the far opposite.

Nothing felt right. Sure, they were both drunk, or even just the slightest bit tipsy to undergo yet again another bout of possessive, more intense intimacy, but that wasn’t the San that Wooyoung knew. He wasn’t handsy like that, overly consumed by lust, demanding and taking everything that he needed like he wouldn’t survive without it. That was drunk San.

That was the San that didn’t think before he did something, the one who didn’t consider the risks or rewards of his decisions, the one who was afraid to lose someone so close to him because of his namesake. This San was darker, more possessive and controlling, maybe a bit more egotistical and dark. He wanted what he wanted, without asking or even looking for permission. He took, and took, and took, until all that was left was a mind filled to the brim with doubt.

Doubt that came like a siren, calling with an alluring spell that seemed somewhat peaceful, blissful almost, until their true colors showed, and everything else fell from behind a curtain. This world, this mafia, wasn’t what it seemed to be. Wooyoung didn’t know what he expected, as being within such a group hadn’t been easy. But he expected loyalty, strength in being together, plotting and planning for something grand while remaining under the guise of something that seemed rather innocent. That just. . . wasn’t the case.

San wasn’t like himself right now. He was sitting on the bed, boxers glued to his form as he sat without his shirt, looking down at the floor with his hands clasped together. Wooyoung just stood there, pulling his trousers back on, looping the button against his waist, avoiding eye contact, wondering why in the hell San would kiss him like that. Wooyoung wasn’t sure what they meant to one another now, what this even was, for that matter. They could just label this as a one-night-stand again if they so wanted, but truly, Wooyoung wasn’t even sure if that’s what he wanted. San, in all of his quiet contempt, looked to be just about as drunkenly confused as Wooyoung, and somehow, that meant something.

In that, Wooyoung found it within in himself to hope, to cling on to a version of his new reality where he’d apologize, where San would forgive him, where’d they simply just try to be together. It didn’t have to be perfect, nor did it have to make sense to anyone else. As long as he had San, everything just felt. . . clear.

San, however, moved further into bed, pulling the duvet back, shoving his legs beneath, not saying a word while he rolled to his side, his back now facing Wooyoung. He stands there, watching San’s sides rise and fall with a slower, deepening rhythm, teetering on the edge of sleep, sinking into the mattress as he allows the drunken pull of whiskey to guide him into dreamland. Though, the moment Wooyoung bends down at his waist to reach for his shirt, San turns, glancing blearily over his shoulder, a glimmer of something unknown passing over his features.

Wooyoung stays put, his fingers curled around his shirt as he slowly straightens his back, hands twitching with uncertainty, not knowing if San wanted him to leave, or if he wanted him to stay. But, he says nothing. Instead, he reaches a hand out, extending towards Wooyoung, not quite pleading for the male to stay, but silently asking for connection.

Wooyoung hesitates, he pauses completely, eyes shimmering with an unfamiliar surge of tears that dangle and dance against his lashes, coming forth with a realization that he never thought he’d see. San wanted him, too.

So, he takes a chance. He lets his hand raise and plant itself into San’s grasp, curling his fingers around San’s palm as the male squeezes his hand right back, slightly pulling Wooyoung towards the bed. Wooyoung follows without protest, dropping his shirt onto the floor once more, climbing onto the mattress, mindful to avoid hurting San in the process until he falls onto the other side, adjusting the duvet just enough to cover his legs and waist.

He turns his head while leaning into his pillow, meeting San’s gaze, watching as his eyes slowly begin to soften. Wooyoung feels himself growing warmer beneath the male’s gaze, eyes searching, wandering, clinging on to this silent, tender moment as if it’d be the last time he’d ever get to experience this. Just then, San raises an arm, his hand slowly moving to brush a strand of hair aside from Wooyoung’s forehead, curling the ebony strand behind his ear with a touch so delicate, Wooyoung nearly didn’t feel it.

This was the San that Wooyoung missed. The one who didn’t need to use words, the one who sought out connection to tether him back to reality, and the one who was softer than the lightest flurry of snow. He wasn’t all brawn and brute, cold and deprived of emotion. He was kind, and he cared more than anyone else could ever dare to comprehend. This moment, the faintest tremble of San’s touch, the delicate glimmer in the male’s reddened eyes, had all spoken of the tenderness that lay inside. He might not show it all the time, but behind this closed door, laden in candlelight and encompassing darkness, his steely gaze melted into a million versions of adoration, his smile slowly bleeding through the enforced cracks of his usual demeanor. He allowed himself to just be human, to not have to be on guard, to be strong and tough, to not be emotionless. He just allowed himself to be exactly that; himself. And now, Wooyoung found it nearly impossible to look away, to walk away from something as beautiful as this because he realized just how much he loved him.

The beginnings of his feelings felt as delicate as a flower. Born as a seed, sprouting a relationship that neither of them dared to comment on, yet the more they watered the seed, the more light they gave it, the more warmth it received, everything finally began to blossom. It was a delicate rose, reddened with beauty, yet tinged with razored thorns, a budding sign of something so rare that it felt to bloom in the midst of a field of daisies.

They couldn’t have anticipated this, especially after their first encounter, but with the magnetic pull that came from looking at one another, all the way down to how it felt to just be with one another, it was something that could stop time. The faintest brush of a kiss, the trail of fingers against skin, the curve of that damn smile that always had Wooyoung weak in his knees; it was infatuation. Toxic, maybe, but alluring all the same.

Wooyoung felt like he was drunk while being overly sober, entranced into the male’s aura as if he’d drunk the largest bottle of soju. Dizzying and encompassing, San pulled Wooyoung closer and closer, melding their bodies together in an embrace that felt all too intimate to be just friends.

Wooyoung inches closer, glancing down, his hand laid on the mattress between them, desperately close to San’s arm. He wants to breach across the distance, to mold their bodies together completely, but he was scared. Terrified to trek too far, petrified to ruin everything that had just fallen back into place. It was a delicate balance, a line teetering between longing and the unknown, wanting nothing more than to walk into that place where he could just be San’s again, but after everything he had done, after everything that San had said about staying out of his affairs. . . was it worth the risk?

To fall into the deep, to sink beneath the surface, to allow himself to drown in the hope that San would be the one diving in to save him, to pull him right back to the place they sought shelter in together. It was scary, and Wooyoung couldn’t find it within himself to just move across that subtle breach of space, to try and reach for something he wanted so badly, and yet, San does.

San reaches, his arm smoothly wrapping around Wooyoung’s middle as he tugged him closer without the single utterance of words or permission.

He just takes. Like he always does.

It was warm, intimate in a manner that was completely unforeseen, unanticipated. Wooyoung didn’t protest, however, allowing San to pull him closer, to relish in his warmth, to finally just relax, to just breathe, to just be.

San didn’t say a word. He just held Wooyoung. He held him in a manner that felt like a significant opening to their relationship, yet. . . Wooyoung couldn’t help but feel a nagging realization that it could very well also be just as much of a goodbye as it was a hello.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

The morning was calm. Not a comfortable calm, something that was laced with unease, hidden amongst a thicket of the unknown.

San wasn’t in bed.

Which, to Wooyoung’s waking brain, was the slightest bit worrying. His duvet was pulled back, the sheets askew, his pillows a slight mess without a lingering clue as to where he could be. Upon further inspection as Wooyoung sat upright, Daemon, San’s loyal dog, wasn’t in the room either. Which only brought forth more questions.

The room was dark, slightly illuminated by the light that came from under the door, shone inwards, resting against the floorboards. Wooyoung scanned the door, taking note of the door handle, the lock, the way it was slightly left ajar, as if meaning that San was coming back, and not completely shutting out whatever was done the night previous. At this point, given their history, Wooyoung was sure that everyone in the compound somewhat knew about last night’s escapades. Everyone was tipsy, flirting, laughing, just being a casual person for once, which likely led to a slew of trouble all around; surely they could excuse their boss and lowest ranking greenie sleeping together. Surely.

He wouldn’t hold it against them, however, if they didn’t. He just didn’t know what to expect. The unexpected, really, is what he always anticipated, but as of late, with this deepening, thickening web of entangled emotions and connections, he found himself stuck in the fray, trying to piece it all together without completely falling apart.

Sometimes it felt like he was standing at the sidelines, watching everything unfold before him without the slightest warning of what was to come. A storm, a thickening haze, a cold front, maybe even a disastrous tornado coming to sweep everyone up and off of their feet. Who knows? Even as he sat there in bed, legs covered by the covers slightly, almost pulled up to his thighs, he waited, like a deer trapped in the high beams of an oncoming car, wondering if he should even move or chase after the man that began to claim his heart.

What even was last night? Now that he was thinking about it, San was drunk. Wooyoung was the slightest bit tipsy, but San smelled of a deep cologne and the musk of whiskey, drowning himself in the amber liquid before his own feelings could drown him elsewhere. He pulled on Wooyoung, tugged him closer, demanded the intimacy as if he couldn’t function without it. Wooyoung gave, and gave, and gave, all so San could take, and take, and take. It was unhealthy, borderline toxic, but at this point, Wooyoung wasn’t entirely sure if he cared.

The bed was stagnant compared to the thrumming of his heart, rapidly beating against his chest in anticipation, thundering like storm clouds within the confines of his torso. He could feel his pulse raging in his throat, could hear the thumping rhythm of his heart pounding away in his ears, and furthermore, he could feel the way his fingers slightly trembled, wondering if San would enter into the room with a steely gaze, or the one that softened almost immediately when their eyes met.

Last night. . . very well could be a mistake, in the eyes of some. Wooyoung wasn’t entirely sure what he thought, as losing himself in the throes of everything that San could give felt like a rational, relatively okay idea at the time. Though, in retrospect, given their turbulent history, it likely was not a great idea. Well, sue him; Wooyoung couldn’t exactly care any more or any less than he did right now, sitting in San’s bed, watching the door as if it would simply open or close its-damn-self.

He shifts, almost uneasily, glancing around the room, finding the remaining, darkening reminders of their previous night cast across the floor, almost as if a ghastly reminder of what was to begin, or even to end. His clothes, a scattered mess at the foot of the bed, felt like the wear of his armor, falling apart, piece by fragile piece, leaving him vulnerable, exposed, submissing to San’s will every single time the buttons were unlooped and the fabric slipped right off of his delicate shoulders. His trousers, though covering his thighs, hiding away the skin just beneath, hadn’t held up against San’s touch, the way he grabbed and reached for what he wanted, coming undone as if the fabric itself had a mind of its own.

His hair, a tangled, askew mess from overnight tossing and turning, left pressed up against the hardened edges of San’s wall, began to resemble just how frayed his control was, how little of himself now remained that he had completely given up on everything. He wasn’t even the slightest fraction of who he was before, lost in a smog of what once was, riddled in lies and deceit from the mouth of someone he claimed to call his lover. The cold, calculated assassin that he once was, just didn’t exist anymore. His brain, once emotionless, mostly numb and self-focused, had shifted, wondering if he’d ever get the chance to be loved by the one male that he was sent to kill in a plot of greed and deception.

The person he was had molded into the person he had always wanted to be, met with a relationship that felt right. Was he entirely deserving of it? No, not really. But even still, he so selfishly wanted it all for himself. The idea of someone having San, of someone touching him and whispering words to him, taking the place that Wooyoung once adorned, made his chest boil with an envy that was truly unlike him. But oh well, he thinks. That’s what love does to someone.

Suddenly, the door is pushed open, a palm flat against the wood as more light bleeds into the room, followed by the soft click of nails and patter of paw pads, causing Wooyoung to look upright just a little more, watching as San’s figure trails inwards. He didn’t look at Wooyoung, not immediately, not just yet. He was cradling a cup of coffee, a loose black tee adorned to his torso, fitted and matched with joggers, making Wooyoung wonder if he was preparing to workout, or just casually decided to dress down for the day.

Then, their eyes meet. The door shuts, Daemon’s steps halting as he sits on his bed in the corner, an electric spark firing off between them as Wooyoung waits for anything that San has to say. But his eyes, the ones that had softened the night before, the same ones that looked so full of love just hours ago, darkened immediately.

Wooyoung’s lips part, the words catching on the edge of his tongue, but San glances away, taking a sip of his steaming coffee, the scent of creamer and coffee beans lingering in the cavernous space that settled between them. Wooyoung’s legs shift, his hands reaching for the blanket, almost wanting to flee and duck for cover, yet the other half of him, the half that loved San, clung to the mattress, wanting nothing more than his approval.

The door closes, locking them in an intimate darkness, though before one could protest, San flicks on the overhead lights in part of the room, dimming out near his closet, leaving the bed dark, almost veiled over by his unwillingness to truly look at Wooyoung. The male just sits there, fingers dancing along the edge of the duvet, pondering on getting up and leaving, closing the distance between them, or simply staying put. Then, San speaks.

“You’re awake.”

Wooyoung raises his brow, only partially, studying San as he treks towards the lounge chair nearby, setting his coffee down, letting his fingers brush against the ceramic of the mug. Wooyoung follows his gaze, trailing over the black mug before glancing upwards, watching as San adjusts the watch adorned on his wrist with a movement so mechanical, it felt forced.

“And you’re not in bed,” Wooyoung replies, keeping his tone even, not yet giving away the tumultuous storm of things raging around inside of his head.

San nods, his jaw absently tightening before he turns, hands falling down to rest at his sides. “I don’t owe you an explanation, Wooyoung. I’m allowed to come and go as I please.”

Wooyoung glances down, his fingers curling into the fabric of the duvet. “So. . . you’re not completely okay with what we did last night?”

San is quiet for a moment, and Wooyoung can feel his eyes on him. It’s intense, likely filled with something unexpected, a reaction to words that Wooyoung didn’t truly mean to let slip free. But he had to know. He had to. Was this just meaningless, hateful sex again? Was it possessive? Was it San trying to prove a point once more? Or did it mean everything that they both couldn’t admit to?

“I wasn’t in my right mind, Wooyoung,” he says, his voice unfaltering, without the slightest hitch of doubt. “I was drunk, and I wasn’t thinking about the consequences.”

Wooyoung looks up at him, his heart heavy with the realization of San’s mindset. He didn’t want this; he didn’t want him. He resented everything they did, likely hated himself for it, even if he couldn’t completely look at Wooyoung as the words spewed from his lips. Did he mean them? Was he deflecting? Or was this the honest truth that Wooyoung was trying to make excuses for?

“Why would you use me then?” Wooyoung asks brazenly, his brow furrowing as he pushes the duvet aside, pushing himself upright and off of the bed. “If you wanted no part in this, and if you didn’t want me, why would you let me walk in here and pull me closer?”

San’s posture grows rigid, his eyes scaling over Wooyoung as he assesses the situation, debating on a further reply.

“Because! I was fucking confused, Wooyoung. I was drunk out of my mind, trying to drink away the memories and the thoughts that I apparently can’t get rid of because you’ve poisoned my mind. I’m trying to get rid of you, and you keep crawling back here towards me.”

Wooyoung scoffs, biting back the hurt that swelled in his chest. “You claim that you want to get rid of me, that you want nothing to do with me, then you turn around and fuck me, pull me into your bed, all to just push me away again. You do realize how that sounds, don’t you? Delusional. Like you’re trying to run away from me but you can’t bear to live without me in your orbit.”

“I trusted you!” San yells suddenly, the hurt in his voice radiating through as Wooyoung stands there before him, arms slowly folding over his chest as he steels himself over, like a practiced performance that he had endured from an ex-lover time and time again. “I gave into you, and I gave you my heart. I gave you the parts of myself that I would never let anyone see because I trusted you! You broke that trust, Wooyoung. I didn’t.”

Wooyoung nods, not quite deflecting from the truth, because he couldn’t. He did break San’s trust, and probably his heart, but never on purpose. That was where the true disconnect was hidden, lost amongst a thinning line of being lied to and not meaning to hurt someone with the harsher truth. A double-edged sword, swinging in the delicate space that hung between them, but it’s only now that Wooyoung realized just how much that sword pierced into San’s chest and ripped him apart.

“I know what I did, San. Do you really think that I intended for things to end up the way that they did? I was sent here, emotionless and fully prepared to commit to the things I was hired to do, and I didn’t. I gave in to temptation and I slept with you, over and over again, because I can’t sit here and deny the fact that I have feelings for you.”

“Don’t fucking pull that shit with me, Wooyoung–” San says, biting every word that erupts from his lips. “You made a choice. You chose to come in here, seduce me, and to try and kill me without bothering to even let me in on the truth until your psychotic ex-boyfriend nearly killed you.”

Wooyoung is silent, turning his head slightly, gaze becoming avoidant, trying to keep his emotions at bay while he listens to San yell and raise his voice, over and over again.

He deserved it. He knew he did. But he didn’t feel like San was listening to him.

“What we did meant nothing to you, did it? It was just sex to win me over, so you could slip in my room, unnoticed, and what? Slit my throat, kill me in my sleep?”

Wooyoung lets out a shaky breath, shutting his eyes tightly. “No–” he says with a whispered breath, his voice breaking slightly. “No, that’s not– no! You’re putting words in my mouth, San!”

“Then speak! Tell me the fucking truth, because right now, from where I’m standing, you just look so fucking guilty that you can barely even make eye contact with me.”

“What am I supposed to do?!” Wooyoung replies, finally turning, his eyes burning with tears, meeting San’s gaze defiantly. “You didn’t have to go through everything that I did. You didn’t have to sit here and lie your way through everything, to try and please the people in the government who are watching your every move like a prey-starved hawk. I was under their radar, San, and yet, I chose to give up everything I had for you!”

“I never asked you to play superhero, Wooyoung. You did that all by yourself.”

Wooyoung looks at him, truly looks at him. Beyond the veil of San’s anger, was the thicket of hurt he was so desperately trying to mask over, forcing himself to be the bad guy so he could avoid crushing under the weight of what he was truly feeling. He was hurt, heartbroken, trying to reassemble his shattered trust like a myriad of puzzle pieces, all belonging to the wrong box.

“I made the choice to ruin everything that I had waiting for me,” Wooyoung says, keeping his voice quiet, tightening his jaw. Tears were bridging over, and yet, he willed them not to fall. Not here, not now, and especially not yet. “I ruined my entire life for you, San. I wanted to be here, to be with you, because I can’t stand the thought of being without you.”

San says nothing, his posture rigid, eyes slightly wide, hands curled into fists beside him, listening without interrupting, almost as if he was waiting to hear something to mend the wounds marring over his entire being.

“I had a house, a car, a fucking selfish, piece of shit partner and a job that paid the bills. I had everything that someone should want, and yet I wanted none of it. I just wanted you.” Wooyoung feels his lip tremble, but he calms himself, letting the final reach of his words to linger in the space there, hoping, praying, that San would finally see the truth of his intentions. “I still do. I want you, San.”

San stands there, completely still, his eyes brimming with an emotion that Wooyoung never thought he’d see. Tears. He was hurting, so profoundly, so deeply, that for once, his steely exterior finally began to just crack.

“Get out,” he mutters, shaking his head, trying to dislodge everything that was beginning to fall over. “Get out, Wooyoung. Leave my cartel, stay, I don’t care. Just leave my room and stay out of my shit.”

“San–”

“I said leave, Wooyoung.” San turns away, clenching his fists so tight that his knuckles bled white. “Last night was a mistake, and it’ll stay that way. We’re done.”

Wooyoung stands there, arms falling away from his chest, lips parting to speak, but the words, fragile and afraid, die before they could even come to fruition. The tears finally bridge over, storming down his cheeks, curling and falling to the floor, just in the same manner his heart had fallen out of his chest and shattered into a million, crumbled pieces. He wants to say something, to reach out and to fix this, but as San turns further away, his back now facing him, Wooyoung realizes that it’s too late. The damage was done. Just as it had begun, it had ended, all because of a selfish lie.

He grabs his phone, bending down to grab his shirt from the floor as he reaches the door, opening it with the faintest creak from the wood and metal hinges. San just stands there, his gaze turned away, his steaming mug of coffee still resting there, more tranquil than the atmosphere itself had felt. Wooyoung’s hand lingers on the door, standing in the doorway, waiting, hoping that San would turn around, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t dare meet Wooyoung’s gaze, and instead, he turns again, walking further into the dark of the room to hide far away from the one person that had hurt him in a manner that no one else had. Wooyoung lets himself step out, the door closing, a definitive click ringing against his ears as he stands there, the quiet seeming too numbing, too loud, causing his entire demeanor to crumble at the seams.

His eyes shut, his hand falling away, wondering how he could’ve ended up here. He lost everything, now. His home, both of his partners, both loved and unloved, his job and his friends, leaving him in a space where he wasn’t even sure he belonged anymore. The walls were empty, once riddled with secret kisses and languid touches, giving way to a freedom he hadn’t felt before. And now, they were deathly silent, pale in color, and whispering about everything he had done so discreetly, painting him to be the villain he had always sought to erase from this world.

His steps, teetering and unsure, lead him down the sterile corridor, listening as voices fan out behind him, joyful and jovial, likely enjoying the morning company of one another as Wooyoung walked, alone and isolated, back to the confines of a room that slowly began to resemble more of a prison than it did a home.

The moment he opens his door and walks inside, the entire dam breaks loose, causing him to toss his shirt away, reaching for his desk, latching onto the one hoodie that still somehow smelled like a part of his life that he no longer had. He tugs it on, arms pulling through until the warmth seeps over his skin, but it does nothing to fix the broken ailments of his soul.

He then sits there, placed on the edge of his bed, staring down at the floor, vision blurring with tears as he tries to comprehend how he fucked up so badly. He should’ve never taken this job, should’ve never agreed to it, shouldn’t have listened to Mingyu, and how he never should’ve slept with San in the first place. Maybe then, this wouldn’t be so complicated. Maybe then, just maybe, would he be whole again.

Yet, the other half of him lingered in that master suite, locked away behind the door, staying with the one man that held onto his heart so tightly, that it simply broke into several pieces. He didn’t want it back, in truth. That small portion of himself, the one that loved San still, even despite the yelling, the words, and the pain inflicted by mere sentences, clung to him, wondering how he could ever move past someone who treated him in the way no one else ever had?

Yeonjun was never like that with him. He was cruel, manipulative, sharp-witted with a tongue that truly spat abusive words in every direction that Wooyoung thought of. He didn’t want anyone else, now. He wanted to be by himself, to isolate and to cower in the darkness, trudging through what felt to be the most turbulent year of his life.

This back and forth, this magnetic pull was anything but healthy, but now with their ties severed, Wooyoung feels himself drift freely in a manner that he didn’t want. He was free-falling, lingering in the depth of an ocean that encompassed a merciless tide, one that was beginning to swallow him whole.

He wanted nothing more than to disappear, to gather his things and flee the country, to simply try somewhere else; and yet. . . he convinces himself to try. One more time.

He’d give San a little bit of time, give them a little bit of time to heal from the lies and deceit, only to talk it through and let San see just how much he changed. He wasn’t ready to give up just yet, lingering in a mafia that wasn’t even home to him anymore, but he’d risk it all for San. Just once more. He was worth that much.

But if he were to fail, if he couldn’t make San see the truth, well. . . he’d pack everything and disappear, just in the way a ghost always did.

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ʏᴇᴏɴᴊᴜɴ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

The streetlights were a blur, the rain pounding down against the windshield as the car moved through the streets, tires rolling against the pavement as droplets screamed down the windshield and over the paint of the car, storming past like a tidal wave that would save him from his emotions.

The gun shot. The screech of tires. The adrenaline. The sight of him laying there, bleeding out, motionless. . . it was haunting him. He could feel the cold metal of the gun still pressed against his palm, the way his breaths hitched and the way his jaw tightened instinctively, as if his entire body was bracing for the impact of killing someone he loved.

He loved Wooyoung. He did, maybe even still as he drove away from the crime scene, listening to a flurry of sirens break out into the open, darkening night, the storm just now brewing to flood over the scene where Wooyoung lay, barely awake, barely clinging to life, probably in his own blood that sank into the asphalt pavement.

His hand came up abruptly, slapping himself in the face, trying to dislodge the memories of everything he had seen that night. His eyes were wide, hardly focused, watching the road blur past as his foot pressed down harder and harder, driving way over the speed limit, not that Yeonjun cared, even in the slightest.

His forehead was damp with sweat, hands white-knuckled as he gripped the steering wheel tighter, driving to the place that only he could seek solace. This wasn’t a part of the plan, it never had been, as Mingyu clearly stated that if anything were to go wrong, he’d take care of it. Yeonjun, of course, lost his mind in a way that he hadn’t in several years, but now with his medication gone and prescription bottle empty, his mind went askew, left frayed at the edges as he tumbled away from sanity and into a deepening rabbit hole. He spiraled, so quickly and so haphazardly that the idea of simply walking along the line of sanity and calamity, was tossed out of the window, lost in the flurry of rain and wind.

Wooyoung deserved it. He shakes his head again. No, he thinks. No he didn’t. But I didn’t deserve this, either. The cheating, the gaslighting, the manipulation. . .

He punches the steering wheel, the horn blaring out into the night as he drives past another intersection, vacant of other life as he sped through the outer bounds of the city.

He’s a traitor. A cheater. A liar. A fucking disgrace to our agency.

His grip tightens once more, thunder looming overhead like a pounding heartbeat, racing and thumping, lightning electrifying the atmosphere to make it all seem more dramatic, more theatrical than Yeonjun perceived it. He wanted to change, to run away, to hide from his gruesome act, but. . . what was the point? Why hide from the blood on his hands, the part of himself that had always been stained with an anger that came with unbridled hunger to do right by his own morals?

People were nasty creatures, all cynical and unbelievably selfish, craving things that are so involuntary and linear that made Yeonjun sick. Love. . . a twisted, cruel emotion, a complex feeling that comes with its own consequences and negative points, riddled with this anticipation that it’s the greatest thing one can feel.

What fucking bullshit.

Wooyoung wasn’t honest. He wasn’t kind and he wasn’t the man Yeonjun met all those years ago. He changed. He morphed into something cruel and sinister, something that Yeonjun hardly recognized anymore. Yet, the more he looked at previous pictures, read previous texts, scanning his empty home in search of the heart he once fell in love with, he felt himself grow more and more numb.

Sure, Wooyoung didn’t deserve to die. No one really did. Yeonjun just. . . reacted. He pulled the trigger out of rage, out of spite, out of complete and utter jealousy that clouded his vision like a thickening fog, guiding him into doing something he would’ve never thought to do otherwise. He was envious, he’d admit it. Someone was out there, loving his partner, touching him, talking to him, doing things that he himself should’ve been doing. And now, all he could do was drive and drive and drive, hoping that his anger wouldn’t cause the car to run amiss, crashing into some random telephone pole as the haze of his anger lingers.

The storm overhead did not lessen, in fact, it only got worse. The thunder was booming like a bass drum, lightning flashing and illuminating the darkening nimbus clouds, reaching across the sky like branches of electrons. Yeonjun’s eyes were dark, somehow not completely illuminated by the flashes and sparks of lightning as he drove, slowing the car down as he took a sharp right, pressing on the accelerator as he neared his destination.

The engine rumbled viciously as Yeonjun tapped the brake pedal, turning to the right, pulling into a long, concrete driveway, the home itself protected by a perimeter of iron-clad fencing, the shingles of the roof highlighted by streaks of rain and illuminating lightning. The car comes to a halt, the engine being killed off as he removes his key from the ignition and tosses the vehicle into park. He grabs his gun, the one he haphazardly tossed onto the passenger seat with shaky hands as he pulled away from the gas station, slamming the door shut behind him as he races towards the front door, eager to escape peeping eyes.

He brushes his hair back, rain streaming down his face as he steps onto the porch, raising a fist and knocking on the door three times. He waits, turning impatiently as he scans the area behind him, the gun now tucked safely into the waistband of his jeans. He turns around, knocking three more times, taking a breath as the storm continues to loom overhead.

Suddenly, the door opens, dim lighting behind the figure standing there shaping him, revealing the outline of someone muscular with longer hair.

“Yeonjun?” He asks, raising a hand to rub at his eyes.

“Seung-cheol,” Yeonjun breathes out, brushing past him as he welcomes himself into the male’s house. “I did something bad. I fucked up.”

Seung-cheol closes the door, wetting his lips, turning to face Yeonjun as he hesitates near the front door, scanning over his friend curiously, though reserving his own judgment.

“I fucking shot him,” Yeonjun breathes out, hands coming up to comb through his wet hair, blinking once, then twice, almost as if he was trying to dislodge his raging disbelief.

“You–? What?” Seung-cheol asks, taking a step closer as he assesses Yeonjun’s condition. “Who?”

“Wooyoung–” Yeonjun breathes out, taking a shaky breath back inwards. “I didn’t– I couldn’t–”

“Okay, man, you’re seriously scaring me. Let’s go sit down, have a drink. You need to calm down,” Seung-cheol breezes past him, a hand lingering on Yeonjun’s shoulder as he moves deeper into the corridor, turning the far right corner to move into the kitchen. Yeonjun follows, almost a bit clumsily, brushing a hand over his face as he tries to blink himself back into his usual composure.

A soft clink rings out, stirring Yeonjun’s gaze to drift towards the noise, watching as a crystallized glass sits beneath the overhead lighting, glimmering beneath the yellowed hue as Seung-cheol poured an amber liquid into the glass. Seung-cheol looks up, watching Yeonjun, tilting the bottle of whiskey back to stop the pour before sliding the glass down the counter, watching every single movement that Yeonjun makes in an effort to simply catch the glass.

“You’re acting weird.”

Yeonjun glances up, fingers pressing softly against the glass, feeling the liquid move and bounce around inside before slowly calming down into a stagnant motion.

“Well,” Yeonjun breathes out. “Mingyu has told you everything, hasn’t he?”

Seung-cheol nods, moving to fold his arms over his chest, leaning and pressing his hip into the counter. “He told us a lot tonight, for a meeting you weren’t present for.”

“I know,” Yeonjun replies calmly, raising the glass towards his lips. “I planned on being there, but I intercepted something that needed to be dealt with, and. . . I did. I. . . dealt with it.”

“So, you killed him?” Seung-cheol asks, earning a slow, tentative nod from Yeonjun in return.

Yeonjun nods. “I. . . shot him.”

“But is he dead?”

“Yes?”

“Why aren’t you sure?” Seung-cheol pries, raising a brow. “Did you not. . . check?”

“No–! The hell? I got in my car and I drove straight here! I didn’t wait around to see if he was going to get back up or not.”

“Well, you did love him at one point or another,” Seung-cheol states, still seemingly unconvinced. “It’s a bit surprising that you’d skip through everything that Mingyu laid out and head straight into just killing him–”

“Mingyu was taking too fucking long,” Yeonjun sneers, rolling his eyes. He takes a sip of his drink, barely wincing as the liquor burns his throat. “He wanted to raid the compound, take everyone into custody and execute San himself.”

Seung-cheol scoffs, glancing away before looking at Yeonjun once more. “He wanted to do things the legal way–”

“Legal way?” Yeonjun shakes his head, pointing a finger at Seung-cheol. “My ass. He wanted that personal satisfaction of dealing with his past.”

Seung-cheol pauses, lips parting as if he was about to speak, but he stops.

“You don’t know, do you?” Yeonjun asks softly, lowering his hand, leaning at the waist as he rests his weight against the island counter. “Mingyu knows San. You thought this was just a government hit on an underground kingpin, huh?”

“I mean,” Seung-cheol sighs as he cuts himself off, readjusting the way he was leaning. “It occurred to me that his obsession with San was a bit. . . taboo.”

“I don’t know why, honestly. He hasn’t told me. But, from what I do know, I know that it’s more than just a cash grab. This is serious. Mingyu wants him dead for some reason.”

Seung-cheol nods, but he shrugs. “Don’t we all?”

“Personally, I’d love to be the one to kill him,” Yeonjun remarks, reaching for his glass again. “He corrupted Wooyoung, turned him against us.”

“Or. . . maybe he didn’t.” Seung-cheol turns, reaching into a nearby cabinet, grabbing another glass. “Just a thought.”

“You really think that Wooyoung, after all the shit that’s happened recently, would choose me over him? Choose the one person that just fucking shot him?”

Seung-cheol shrugs, unamused. “I’m not saying shit, actually. I’m listening to everything you’ve told me, and you seem really damn sure that Wooyoung was turning against us without even knowing a fraction of what he’s learned in that compound.”

Yeonjun raised a brow, lips parting to speak, but Seung-cheol persisted.

“He had to sit there and pretend that he knew nothing, that he came from a life that was a compound of words that Mingyu spewed to him that morning. Did you forget that part? Did you sit there and think about everything he took under his wing just because Mingyu asked him to?”

“It’s our job–”

“Sure, it might be our job to do as we’re told, to follow Mingyu’s orders like dogs,” Seung-cheol pauses, turning to face Yeonjun as he reaches for the whiskey again. “But when have we ever stopped to think about the dirty work that we’re doing for him, likely without permission from the government, just because he has some bad blood with some mafia hardass?”

Yeonjun sighs. “Why did I even come to you? You’re the level-headed one, and you’re supposed to guide me through the fact that my ex is now dead–”

“You forget that I’m way older than you, and that I’ve seen way too much shit in my time beneath Mingyu’s thumb. I’m probably just too rational for your liking.”

“Rational?” Yeonjun scoffs. “That’s not the word I’d use.”

“Oh, well I’ve got others to choose from,” Seung-cheol muses, pouring whiskey into his glass. “Handsome, intelligent, sarcastic, loyal–”

“This isn’t a flattery fest,” Yeonjun drawls. “I’m the one who lost something here. I’m the one who’s struggling to comprehend what I even just did!”

“Well, let’s start there. You don’t know that you actually killed him.” Seung-cheol turns, glass in hand, taking a long sip, eyes never leaving Yeonjun’s. “Have you checked his phone? Looked for his tracker?”

“No–” Yeonjun says after a definite pause, considering his wording and his thoughts, eyes trailing down to look at the drink in his hand. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought of that. In between spiraling and a flurry of raindrops, the thought of rationally searching for evidence of Wooyoung’s death was quite the opposite of where his mind went. He was panicked, trying to rationalize everything he did with the seed of jealousy already having taken root, but there was nothing more he could do but that. Spiral, think, drive, spiral, think, drive–

“Yeonjun.”

He glances up, eyes slightly widening as he realizes that the glass in his hand was held so tightly, his fist was beginning to shake.

“Put my glass down. I really do not feel like cleaning up glass shards because you’re fucking losing it.”

Yeonjun listens, the glass clinking against the countertop as he retracts his hand, fingers curling around the edge of the marble. Yeonjun takes a deep breath before he pushes himself backwards slightly, offering Seung-cheol a look, a glance rather, one that spoke of dismissal and irritation.

“What do you want me to do?” Yeonjun asks, keeping his tone low. “This just happened. I had no time. I fled the scene and came right here.”

“Oh? So you expect me to help?” Seung-cheol counters, raising a brow.

Yeonjun scoffs, waving a hand in dismissal. “Forget I asked.”

“Listen,” Seung-cheol begins, finally setting down his drink and stepping closer, raising his gaze just enough to meet Yeonjun’s. “I’m not too pleased with what you did, because now we’re in this shit together. If Mingyu finds out about what you did, there’s no telling what the consequences are going to be. So if you’re going to tell him, we need to be one-hundred percent sure that Wooyoung is dead. Otherwise, if he’s not, and you claim him to be, Mingyu will lose his mind.”

Yeonjun nods, knowing all too well what it would be like if someone lied to Mingyu. Let alone lied to him about something as significant as someone else’s death.

“Okay,” he breathes out. “Where do we start?”

“Follow me,” Seung-cheol says, nodding towards the corridor. “We can head to my office and figure this out.”

Yeonjun nods, following every step, even as it leads him into the unknown.

Seung-cheol’s house was the furthest thing from what he’d expect. Of course, he’s seen it numerous times, as his friendship with the male has run deep for the last six years. However, the male, usually so serious, moody and quiet, decorated his home with a warmth that didn’t match his typical persona.

The walls were painted in light grays and creams, the furniture more modern in taste, though softened by the familiar curves of decorative pillows and frames of people Yeonjun didn’t recognize. Seung-cheol was. . . quite the mystery at times, as he never really gave away to the tremors of his past. Yeonjun knew that Seung-cheol’s father was abusive, dependent on alcohol and completely dismissive of his family. Yeonjun never pried, nor really did Jeonghan or Mingyu, as everyone knew not to poke the bear unless they wanted to deal with its wrath.

Wonwoo, however, Mingyu’s husband, was the person closest to Seung-cheol, having grown up together with vaguely similar backgrounds. They were trauma-bonded, in a way that Yeonjun could respect and understand, even if Wonwoo wasn’t completely trust-worthy. At least, that was his opinion, anyway.

As they made their way into the office that was near the front door, Seung-cheol flicked on the light, the door slowly opening and remaining ajar as the male slipped inside, watching as Seung-cheol settled at his desk.

It was a large, L-shaped desk, the wood stained black, his chair leather, four monitors connected to a wide computer tower that illuminated with dark red the moment Seung-cheol tapped on his keyboard. Yeonjun stood there and waited, folding his arms against his chest as he watched his friend work, clicking through a few pop-ups before finally launching a program that immediately spammed with a few alarming alerts.

“Uh–” Seung-cheol stammers, his brows furrowing slightly, fingers typing away rapidly on his keyboard.

“What?” Yeonjun pries, leaning closer, watching and waiting for anything to make sense and appear in front of him, but nothing comes up. Everything was flashing before him, scans and alerts brightening the screens with cautionary symbols, making Yeonjun question if he actually had killed Wooyoung. For a moment, a very brief, tentative moment, did he feel the slightest brush of guilt for having paid a hand in his ex’s assumed-death.

“Well, you have the code for Wooyoung’s chip, right?”

Yeonjun pauses. Did he? He was supposed to, as Mingyu gave him the number for it a long time ago. Mingyu, of course, had everyone’s code locked away somewhere, however, with Yeonjun’s insecure tendencies, he asked for Wooyoung’s code, all to keep track of his partner in the event something went wrong.

This was an act of something going wrong, but just. . . not in the way he anticipated.

“I do, I–” Yeonjun interrupts himself, swallowing thickly. “Should end in 1126.”

“You don’t know the whole thing?” Seung-cheol asks, and Yeonjun shakes his head.

“It’s almost twenty characters long. I just know it ends on his birthday, which was just a stroke of luck.”

Seung-cheol sighs. “Alright, that’ll have to be good enough. I’ll scan through the connected codes that align within our network, run some diagnostics, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Is this going to take a while?” Yeonjun asks, and to his dismay, Seung-cheol nods.

“It could take all night. That’s why it’s better to have the entire code, but. . . it’s done now. It’s searching.”

“There’s only four of us, so why is it taking so long?”

“It searches through the whole agency. Mind you, there’s over a thousand employees, so it’s scanning through an entire database of matches, and if anyone else’s codes have a one, two or a six in their line of code, it flags them before eliminating them from the pool of matches.”

“That’s. . . a lot,” Yeonjun says with a breath, glancing at the computer screens. “But, if it gives us the answers we need before confronting Mingyu, then I guess we have to do it.”

“I’ll get it done, Yeonjun, but for now–” Seung-cheol says, leaning back in his chair, looking up at the other male. “Go home. Get some rest. And please, for the love of everything–” Seung-cheol really looks at Yeonjun, almost deadpan, “stay out of trouble.”

Yeonjun nods, offering the faintest curl of a smile. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me, boss.”

“That’s the thing, Yeonjun,” Seung-cheol says, his voice suddenly dipping into a more serious tone, causing Yeonjun to pause. “I always worry.”

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

The drive home was silent. The rain had stopped, now nulled into darkening skies with overcast cloud cover. The car hummed with life, the radio quietly playing in the background as Yeonjun drove another twenty minutes to reach his own home, a place that had felt far from what it actually was.

The moment he pulled into the driveway, Yeonjun paused, soaking in the exterior of his home before killing the engine, sitting in complete silence as he contemplated what the future even held anymore.

Was it a midlife crisis? Was he overthinking the inevitable? Or was insecurity and guilt mixing into a deadly concoction that hazed over every other sense of judgment, bringing forth an emotion that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Sadness.

The house reminded him of things that seemed like vague recalls of a past he could no longer grasp, too far away and distant to be truly called a memory. The laughter, all the times spent in the kitchen together, making dinner and sipping on whiskey, creating a space that felt like their own, until it just. . . wasn’t, anymore.

Wooyoung’s presence lingered in the little things. The books he never finished, the way his glasses remained on the nightstand or in the way that his towels in the bathroom remained hooked and folded, untouched and unused. Or maybe it was the way that his spot on the sofa wasn’t indented any longer, or the way that his belongings no longer filled the space in the way they used to. Everything felt empty, like tokens of things Yeonjun used to love and cherish, now gone with the fleeting undercurrent of envy.

Now, all he could do was stare, tracing his gaze over the line of his windows and the front door, taking in the planted tree that was out front, all before looking down at his hands, wondering how they remained so clean, yet so stained with blood at the same time.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love Wooyoung. He had. He did. He never had tangible proof that Wooyoung had cheated on him, nor slept with the enemy, but something in his gut, something stronger than just jealousy, knew that Wooyoung was lying. The mission was extended time and time again, played off with excuse after excuse, all for what? Another night in another man’s bed? Time spent with the very people he was supposed to be tricking and killing? It didn’t make any sense, and though Yeonjun wanted nothing more than to claim the answers for himself, now he’d never get them.

He fed into his impulsive decisions, going to the pick-up spot for Mingyu after getting the green light, claiming that he’d take care of things. Did he plan on killing Wooyoung in the alley? No. But the rage he felt, the desperation, the envy, the jealousy– it piled up. He was like a volcano, bottled up with a raging flurry of emotions, teetering on the edge of explosion until he inevitably erupted. There was no containing the outburst, let alone preventing the consequences, leaving Yeonjun standing there, staring at his ex, fingers tightening around the grip of his gun until he pulled the trigger.

His grip tightens around the steering wheel before he sighs, unlocking his car door and stepping outside, slamming the door shut just before locking his car for the evening. He heads towards the front door, sliding the key into the lock before twisting it, listening as the door clicks unlocked. Walking inside, Yeonjun tosses his keys to the table nearby, his wallet following, a hand brushing through his hair as he settles into familiar surroundings.

He felt like a ghost, confined in a house that used to be his own, now laden in memories from a time long since passed. The pictures were his own, the furniture, the rugs, the pillows; it was all his. But it used to be someone else’s too.

God, did I fuck up? Did I ruin everything without giving it the chance to fix itself? Did I act without reason? Did I really just shoot someone that I loved?

He could sit here, pondering through every single thought that came to fruition, wondering if he’d ever truly find the answer to all of the things that went wrong. But right now, there are other things to handle. The grief and the envy could be wrangled with later, especially after learning if he had actually committed such a heinous act.

He heads upstairs, changing his clothes with rapt haste, tossing everything away before sinking into new clothes. A pair of sweats, along with a baggy tee, one that came from the opposite side of the closet, astray from his own clothing, lingering on the side that Wooyoung’s belongings still occupied.

The room still smelled like him. The bed was cold, the sheets askew on the left, perfectly made on the right, signaling a shift in the home’s regular routine. There was a stillness amongst everything within the room, glimmering from the partial shimmer coming in from beyond parted curtains, dancing along the carpet and duvet, lingering on the edges of his dresser. The room was cold, as it always had been. But this time, it felt different. There was more to this chill, and it wasn’t just from the air conditioning.

Suddenly, his phone pings, causing Yeonjun to look down, pulling his device from his pocket. Seung-cheol had texted him with an alert, and it hadn’t taken long at all.

Scoups

I’ve pinged his number, luckily for you. I spotted it while watching the system search.

His phone is still pinging, Yeonjun. This could be a fluke, as I’m sure you know, but it’s pinging strong at the Velvet Mirage. He’s still there, but most importantly, the ping was moving.

Yeonjun sucks in a breath, feeling something new shift over his chest, resting there and acting complacent, causing his thumbs to scatter across the electronic keyboard, replying with a message that he couldn’t really grasp.

Wooyoung wouldn’t have left his belongings behind, especially not if he wanted them to follow him back to somewhere. That means he’s alive. He’s fucking alive.

Scoups

Take a breath. You missed a shot, for once in your life. But that also means that he knows you did it, Yeonjun. Wooyoung isn’t the silent type, and I’m sure he will send San’s dogs after you.

He can send whoever he wants. But Wooyoung needs to realize that he’s coming home. He was mine, and he still is. He’s just fucking delusional right now.

Scoups

Are you sure he’s the delusional one?

Are you with me, or are you against me right now?

Scoups

We’re in this together, not because I agree with you, but because you pledged your badge under the same oath that I did. I will help you with this, but you need to tell Mingyu.

No.

Scoups

Yeonjun–

No. I will handle this myself. I’ve got a lead on something that I intercepted, and I’m going to check it out for myself.

Scoups

Don’t act rash, Yeonjun. You need to rest.

I’m not acting rash! This will be good. This will plant a seed to get Wooyoung out of that fucking mafia once and for all.

Scoups

I’m warning you, Jun. If this goes wrong, I’m stepping out and bringing Mingyu into the fold.

Do what you have to.

In a swift movement, Yeonjun reaches for the dresser, grabbing his laptop before settling himself down on the edge of his bed, starting the device with a few clicks against the keyboard. The screen flashes on, leaving Yeonjun to input his password before everything flutters to life. His applications, his icons, his user data and communication reports, all blinking onto the screen in the manner of a minute.

He searches through an encrypted database, typing in a few names that had been popular amongst the ring of Seoul’s inner city, watching as a multitude of data flashes onto the screen. Phone numbers, security details, news articles, home addresses; everything came into focus, making Yeonjun’s plan fall into a more detailed category.

Choi Ji-ho, and Choi Chun-hwa. The parents of Choi San and enigmatic, stoic figures of Seoul’s political social light. They were the ticket to bringing San down from the inside out, to poisoning his lines of power and transportation, to ridding him from the underground bunker that he lives in like a rodent. This was rash, just like Seung-cheol had said, but what was there left to do? Yeonjun was desperate, and in an almost self-absorbed, convincing manner, he allowed himself to believe that in performing this act, in enacting this plan, his ex-lover might just crawl back to him.

So, he begins.

You do not know me, he begins to type. But I know of you. I know of your son. I know that your family blood is corrupted and vile, riddled with lies and more deceit than both of you likely comprehend. From an outsider’s perspective, I see everything that’s flawed. From the speeches you both give, to the payment statements that are labeled incorrectly, all the way down to the knowledge of how you allowed your son to become the monster that he is. But–

He pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard, contemplating on how to approach.

If you’re willing to work with me, I can give you a key into your son’s vulnerability. I want to take San down for everything that he is, to turn him in to pay for the crimes that he’s committed. If you too, want to see your son pay for his flaws, then trust me when I tell you this: the key to your son’s vulnerability is by the name of Jung Wooyoung.

Yeonjun hesitates one more time, knowing fully well what kind of message he was sending.

He isn’t just a coworker or someone that resides beneath his thumb. This is a romantic partner, someone he cherishes. You and I both know that the easiest way to crush a man in power is to take away something he loves. The offer stands for twenty-four hours. Otherwise, I’ll take care of them both myself.

He hits send, the message fluttering off into digital cyberspace, leaving Yeonjun to sit there, staring at the screen, almost as if the message would reappear as if he never sent it.

But, just as quickly as the message disappears, another reappears, sparking alive a dormant light that remained unkindled for a long, long time.

Unknown Number

Send us the details about Jung Wooyoung. We’ll handle it.

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

A week passes.

Wooyoung had been avoiding social aspects of the mafia like the plague. He didn’t much leave his room, scrounging through data on his laptop without the slightest chase after sleep, compiling evidence for Yeosang in order to pinpoint allegations against his old coworkers. He had a stockpile of data against everyone inside of the agency, even people in a position higher than Mingyu himself. He wasn’t completely sure if this route was the best to trek on, especially if he sought to take Mingyu down, but whatever he had to do in order to gain San’s trust back, he’d do it.

San had been gone as of late, disappearing into meetings, leaving the compound with Mingi and Yunho, seeking more information about the data chip that he had been after for a time too long. Wooyoung wasn’t entirely sure how they were going to steal such an item, as the chip itself was locked away inside of a government facility. San wasn’t the type to be afraid, however, as he’d go through every single possibility until he knew he could or couldn’t pull it off. The government, if anything, was scared of San, as the power he held was greater than anything they could truly ever imagine.

Wooyoung watched everything from the sidelines. The kitchen, a harbor to his thoughts these days, provided a cut off from everyone else, even despite the lack of walls surrounding it. He could hear the chatter from the living space just beyond the island counters, chatting and laughing about everything and nothing in particular. It wasn’t that Wooyoung disliked the members of the mafia, quite the opposite, really. He just. . . felt out of place. He came from a completely different background, one that ruled with discipline and pain, trifled with trauma and an abundance of loneliness. Being in a group that was as close-knit as this was far from everything he knew.

Even now, sitting and waiting in the meeting room with his left leg crossed over the other, he finds himself staring off into space, eyes tracing the lines of the pictures hung within the large room. They were awards of some kind, of a time long ago before San traveled the path of blood and merciless ruling. Wooyoung didn’t know what for, but he assumed it was something political, something with gain and power, only to help elevate what he had amassed thus far.

Hyunjin was to his right, typing something on his laptop with a curved furrow to his brow, sorting through images and codes that Wooyoung couldn’t recognize. And to his left, was Changbin. Ever the entertainer in Wooyoung’s eyes, Changbin sat cradling a soda can in his right hand, talking expressively with Jisung, who sat closely next to Minho. Yunho and Mingi stood near the far wall, talking about something, Mingi nursing a mug of steaming coffee while they conversed, while Seonghwa and Hongjoong sat closest to the head of the table, leaving Jongho and Yeosang to sit nearby wordlessly. Yeosang had a look in his eyes, a glimmer of something that Wooyoung couldn’t quite place just yet, but he had a feeling that after all of the information he had spent relatively three days gathering without sleep, that the male was beyond exhausted, but determined.

Suddenly, the door opens, slightly creaking on its silver hinges as San steps inside, wearing his usual gold and black-framed lenses, wearing an impeccably-fitting suit jacket. The white shirt, laid just underneath, was form-fitting, just barely concealing the build beneath a simple layer of cotton. Wooyoung felt his jaw grow tight in just watching him, wondering how his presence could be so enigmatic, challenging, and commanding all at once. How could someone truly ever command attention and demand respect, without needing to utter a single word?

Whatever the hell it was, Wooyoung was under San’s spell, and that was surely a future that wouldn’t change.

“Alright,” San begins, not really moving his gaze away from the manilla folder between his fingertips, laid open, likely full of information that had San concealed from the world for days on end. “Seoul’s inner-government building, The Matriarch of Society, as they refer to it as. . . we’re finally going to get the data chip.”

Seonghwa, who was closest to San, was the only one who made any sort of visible reaction to that statement. His eyes widened, if only slightly, just barely noticeable to anyone who would’ve paid close enough attention, but he said nothing in terms of protest.

“The Hellraiser, as it’s called, is an SPC-4200 data receiver that will pull information from every single government office within a specified range, unless tuned into another network, then it can control the world,” San continues, setting the folder down with a soft slap to the long table, standing before his crew, hands sliding into the pockets of his dress slacks. “I want it. Not for the sake of ruling the world; I’m no mastermind, however. . . my parents, their business, the government. . . it’s all going to be mine.”

“Damn right,” Mingi chimes in, earning a slight smile from San in return.

“Now, listen closely. I’m only explaining the route once. The details once. You all have one chance to get this correct to take the chip, or it’s a bust, and you all know me– I don’t lose.” San scans the room, his eyes not lingering for a moment longer than necessary before he steps back, clicking a button on the bottom of the table as a 3D image of the government building comes into view, just like a realistic blueprint, illuminated by blue LEDs.

“The datachip resides in the innermost part of the office. Down the stairs, behind some sort of security that’s practically child’s play, followed by a long hallway and a very secure door. There’s no guards down here, however, there are cameras. Everywhere. Facial recognition, badge alignment within certain timestamps, clock-ins and clock-outs; the whole nine yards. They’ve played a careful hand in crafting a system that feels rather fool-proof, meaning no one should be able to get in, or get out. Lucky for us, Yeosang found a backdoor, a way for us to infiltrate the system without anyone batting an eye.”

Just as San steps back, Yeosang rises from his seat, taking a breath inwards as he gestures towards the electronic map, a sudden red line zooming throughout the blueprint, almost like a diagram of one’s path to take.

“We all have roles, carefully chosen and designed to make sure that everything goes according to plan. Minho and Hyunjin, the both of you will take the police car we had stolen a few days ago and act as a perimeter check. You’ll have badges that have already been inserted into their system as Internal Security Guards, so no one will look at you differently. The security guards that were scheduled have been dealt with, taken off their shifts, so it’s all up to you two to keep everyone at bay.” Yeosang then glances at San, who clicks another button, which causes the diagram to shift and turn, showing locations of the outdoor perimeter. “Wooyoung and Changbin, the two of you are in the getaway vehicle. Jisung has been working on an Audi RS with tinted windows to cover your faces. Once the data chip is secure, the two of you will exit with the public flow of traffic, protected and overseen by Hyunjin and Minho, before you get in the car and escape with the backside route, not on any highways. Stay out of sight, wear dark caps, in-ears, everything. You two are to be in and out, no questions asked.”

Wooyoung nods, as does Changbin, who was now leaning back into his chair, arms folded against his chest as he listened. Wooyoung was relieved, at least a little bit, to be with the one person he had found some sort of friendship with, as he was sure if he was paired with anyone else, it’d be just. . . weird.

“Lastly, Hongjoong and Seonghwa will get into the security offices as quickly, and as quietly, as they can. We need to insert my own data chip into their servers, and once that’s done, everything we’ve discussed will go to plan. I’ll stay here to run the operation from my chair, monitoring everything to make sure nothing slips through the cracks. As for San, Yunho and Mingi–” Yeosang sighs, gesturing towards San as the diagram in the middle of the table hovers, rotating slowly within its own digital orbit. “There is to be no entry on your part. Yunho and Mingi can enter the building to cause a scene if necessary, a somewhat. . . debilitating distraction, if you will. San will monitor communications from the car, safe and out of sight. If the government officials sense anything is off, or if they see San, the mission is over. We’ll be toast before we know it.”

Wooyoung watches Yeosang for a moment as he uses his hand to spin the diagram, beginning to point out the cameras, entry and exit points, while also highlighting areas where security may be tougher than others. Though, his eyes begin to shift, lingering on the one person in the entire room he couldn’t have.

San.

He stood there, hands resting behind his back, his gaze focused intently on the diagram as Yeosang continued to explain the intricate, innermost details of the operation. But Wooyoung couldn’t listen. All he could see was the past, the way San’s eyes slowly began to soften the more time they spent together, the way his hands would so gently caress parts of his body, as if he were a living piece of art within the kingpin’s gallery. Or, maybe it was the way that San began to let his walls down, piece by piece, lowering and gentling his tone down, only for Wooyoung. Whatever it was, it was resonating loudly. Shimmering, really. Wooyoung couldn’t escape these thoughts even if he tried. Yet, he pulled his eyes away, a burdening, sharp and painful feeling settling over his chest as he sat there, trying to ignore how much it felt like his heart was breaking.

He needed to remain professional, to be a part of the team, to prove to San that he was changing. But at what cost? Was this really worth it? Was all of this effort, all of these swallowed emotions, really, truly worth the price just to be with someone who clearly didn’t want him?

It could be a waste of time, he told himself, over and over again like some sort of negative monologue on a consistent, terrible loop. Or, he begins, maybe this is the beginning of something new. Something built on steadier trust than before.

And somehow, he convinces himself, once more, that this was just an off-road, bumpy ride in their journey together. A fork in the road, Wooyoung supposes. It wasn’t forever, just. . . for now. Even if the ‘for now’ part killed him on the inside.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

The outside world felt still, almost as if the entire planet had been holding its breath. Everything had led to this. The lies, the trials, the paperwork, all of the collected data; everything San had worked towards finally led to this very moment.

The data chip, a device hidden away from the public eye for a specific reason, for the sake of control and confidentiality, all to keep their citizens unaware of the power that lay just beneath the surface. The data chip could conquer an entire government if it ended up in the wrong hands, tampering with technology and sending everything into a spiral of chaos. San, on the other hand, wanted the device for nothing more than to send his parents and their family business right back into the ground, just as they deserved.

Wooyoung didn’t know everything, as he wasn’t entirely sure that he was meant to know everything, but something about the way San had been so determined to get rid of his parents spoke volumes to just how vile and toxic his family must’ve been. San, albeit impulsive with harsher edges, didn’t seem to be a mere fraction of what his parents claimed for him to be. And that, in Wooyoung’s eyes, made all the difference.

Now, laden in darker gear, Wooyoung sat in the front seat of his car, one hand gripping the steering wheel, listening to the engine die the moment he turned the keys in the ignition. Changbin was to his right, looking curiously at the building that stood stark before them. It was tall, based and built with cream limestone and brick, fashioned with black windows and large encompassing sculptures that not even Wooyoung could decipher. Were they men? Men on horses, at that? And. . . why did they appear more Greek than anything else?

Wooyoung, in all of his curiosity, kept trailing his eyes over the faintest details, all the way from the security cameras, the glare of the windowpanes, the way the doors were held open by stoppers, all the way until he spotted two familiar faces standing front and center near the front door. Hyunjin and Minho.

The plan was in motion. The internal security was down, hence why the building called for the only on-duty officers nearby to come and clear the perimeter. Hyunjin and Minho walked in confidently, averting as many gazes as they could, passing through the front doors without a hitch. Wooyoung took a breath inwards, trying to calm his nerves as he watched from afar, all to be interrupted by Changbin’s quiet voice.

“The fuck are those statues supposed to be representing?”

Wooyoung tried to stifle a laugh, turning to gaze at him. “Power?”

“Power, my ass. They don’t look good. Whoever did them really needs to learn a lesson in sculpting.”

“I think you need a lesson in subtlety, my dear friend.”

“Please,” Changbin scoffs. “You’re the one eye-fucking San all the time. Look in the mirror, Woo. At least I’m not a hopeless sap in love with a cold-hearted brute.”

Wooyoung immediately snaps his gaze towards Changbin, who had already been laughing by the time Wooyoung’s lips parted to respond.

“You mother fucker–”

“Stop it!” Changbin insists, waving Wooyoung off as he tries to watch the main doors. “It’s almost our cue. Hongjoong and Seonghwa arrived.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes, leaning back into his seat, folding his arms against his chest. “Fine. You owe me a drink later. That is, if I don’t throw it in your face.”

“Aw, baby–” Changbin coos playfully, “don’t be like that!”

“Call me that again–” Wooyoung swears, cutting himself off as he mockingly raises a fist towards Changbin. “I’ll beat your ass.”

“Alright, alright, hard ass. I can see why you’re in love with such a tough guy. Bad boy vibe is totally your type.”

Wooyoung, once more, huffs, slouching in his seat as he adjusts the in-ear placed within his left ear, making sure the cord wasn’t caught on his leather jacket.

“You’re fucking insufferable. You know that?”

“I’ve been told a time or two,” Changbin mutters, his hand moving to linger on the car’s door handle. “It’s almost time. Focus up, Woo.”

“I am focused,” Wooyoung protests, earning the slightest curl of a smile on Changbin’s lips as he prepares to open his door.

“Focused on a certain someone’s dick–”

“Changbin–!”

“Let’s go,” Changbin dismisses easily, whipping his door open. “You can beat my ass later.”

Wooyoung follows, albeit disgruntled, shoving his keys into his back pocket before tapping the back waistband of his jeans, feeling his gun still tucked away inside. Together, Wooyoung followed Changbin towards the side entrance, away from prying eyes, close enough to the alley where the car would be parked. Wooyoung could feel his heart thumping against his chest, preparing for the adrenaline rush, preparing for anything, even if the mission would go without a single rush of error. Fitting the cap on his head with ease, Wooyoung then slid a medical mask over his face, trying to protect his identity as Changbin followed suit, walking a few steps behind Wooyoung as they prepared to make entrance. Wooyoung veered off to the left immediately, steering himself towards the bathrooms as Changbin hovered near an ATM machine, scanning the area just as Hyunjin and Minho appeared in the center of the room.

The main area was a grand foyer with large ceilings and a glimmering, golden chandelier. Marble and limestone composed the staircases and flooring, freshly polished and cleaned from a late night janitor the evening before, laden with wooden seating and decorative planters. Wooyoung adjusts his mask carefully, taking a breath inwards as he looks around the bustling interior, watching Hyunjin and Minho carefully before casually leaning against the nearby wall, reaching a hand up, tapping on his in-ear.

“We’re in,” Wooyoung mutters softly, glancing at Changbin, who looked right back at him, nodding subtly. “It’s calm. No one suspects a thing.”

“Good,” San replies, his tone firm, unrelenting. “Hongjoong, Seonghwa; you’re up. Don’t disappoint.”

Wooyoung remains calm, listening to everything bustling around him. Carts being pushed around, people walking, people talking, mindless conversations through the phone, in-person, thoughts spoken out loud; everything was so normal. No one noticed a thing. But Wooyoung, he noticed everything.

Every sound of heels against the floor, the sound of a man begging for money from a bank teller, or the sound of an elderly couple trying to save their mortgage payment from rising due to conflicts they couldn’t control. It was everything. This building, as vast as it was in terms of responsibility and need, contained just as many off-hand ventures as it did people. A bank, a vault, people to speak to about government paperwork, court ordinances, as well as the rare complaint following a political race that Wooyoung didn’t really give two shits about.

This building contained just as much diversity as the ocean had, and even despite not having been here before, Wooyoung had a feeling that almost everyone in here was the same. Who would come here without it being absolutely necessary?

“We’re in,” Seonghwa mutters through the ear-piece, his voice slightly filled with static. “Hongjoong is tapping into the mainframe. Yeosang, you’ll have access in two seconds.”

“Copy,” Yeosang replies, the communication cutting off for a moment as an imposed silence breaks through with a crackle of anticipation. Wooyoung knew that everyone knew how to perform their job, how to deliver the best results, but the mere image of having to live through San’s wrath a second time just wasn’t ideal.

“Got it. You should be in their entire network.” Hongjoong relayed, causing Wooyoung to let a slow breath pass through his lips as he glanced upwards, watching the passing crowd with disinterest.

“I’m in. Shutting down their routine security checks now, signing the cameras off, and disarming the alarm that’s in the basement corridor. You guys will have full access for ten minutes. Once that window closes, I won’t be able to re-open it. Get down there and get the chip.”

“You got it boss,” Seonghwa replies, starting phase two of their entire operation just as swiftly as the first began.

Wooyoung continues to stand there, pulling up his jacket sleeve to eye his smart watch, glancing at the time, noting the ten minutes the team had to perform their task. Glancing upwards again, Wooyoung begins to memorize a few routes of escape, mapping out the doors, the routes to avoid a cluster of civilians, the best way to grab cover if he needed to in the event of a shoot out. Everything was calculated to an obsessive standard, a method he had learned from the hand of Mingyu himself. By routing a few back-up plans, Wooyoung now had four ways of escape, ways to deceive the enemy, and multiple ways to slip through the cracks without having to hurt anyone that would get in his way. He just had to hope that Changbin, and everyone else, were doing the same thing.

But just as Wooyoung began to lessen his defensive nature, his eyes landed on the familiar faces of people he had seen in a picture frame months ago. They were stoic, commanding, wearing long black coats, their hair slicked back and kept neat and tight, shoes polished, designer jewelry around their necks and wrists; San’s parents.

Wooyoung takes a breath inwards, glancing at Changbin, who seemed none the wiser, before looking back towards the suspects in question. Curiously, he watches closer, leaning away from the wall as he strolls over to a nearby bench, his eyes never leaving the two figures as they move closer and closer to a hidden door just off to the right. The door was painted dark, labeled with a Do Not Enter plaque, but just as they had lingered nearby, the door swiftly opened as they were welcomed inside, a yellow manila folder laid in the grasp of Mr. Choi’s fingers.

“San–” Wooyoung begins, sitting down on the bench, crossing one leg over the other, trying to remain as inconspicuous as he could.

“What is it?”

“I saw something I think you should know about.”

“Spit it out.”

“Your parents–” Wooyoung begins, swallowing sharply, watching the door as it closes. “They’re here. In a room. Enclosed, completely private, carrying a manila folder that seemed thick. There’s gotta be paperwork inside that relates to their business.”

San is silent. He doesn’t immediately answer, letting the silence between them and everyone else who was listening draw longer and longer. Wooyoung fidgets, hands gripping onto one another as he patiently waits and listens, feeling the tension of the moment seep in through his leather jacket and into his bones.

“Don’t engage.”

“What–?!”

“You heard what I said, Wooyoung. Do not. Engage. I’m serious. They’re dangerous.”

“I’m very capable of defending myself,” Wooyoung retorts, but San’s voice cuts in immediately after, leaving zero room for argument based on the strength of his tone.

“Zero discussion. DO NOT. Stay put. Get the data chip and get out. That’s final.”

“Copy.” Wooyoung sinks further into his seat, raising his wrist to check his watch once more, glancing at the time. Only three minutes had passed, which was good, Wooyoung supposes. But, he hadn’t heard anything from Seonghwa or Hongjoong just yet. The clock was racing against them, and even if Yeosang was practically the smartest hacker Wooyoung has come across, even he had his own digital limits. If the government saw the cameras malfunctioning a second time for a ten minute period, their operation would be shut down faster than they could even realize it happening to begin with.

So, Wooyoung sits, and he waits, and waits.

Another few minutes pass before Wooyoung shifts uneasily, glancing at his watch again. Two minutes left.

“Come on,” Wooyoung mutters under his breath, glancing up at the surrounding area as he tries to fortify another plan in the event that the pair get stuck down in the basement looking for this damn computer chip.

His eyes travel towards Changbin, who had now shifted to settle near a pillar that rested by a teller’s booth, who was dealing with a very angry, and upset client, muttering about money that randomly depleted from her bank account. Wooyoung raises a brow as he tries to ignore the story, but can’t help but listen in as the clock ticks on and on and on without another word from his allies.

“We’ve got it,” Seonghwa breathes out suddenly, the sound of something shutting behind him rattling through the ear-piece as he speaks again. “We’re out, Yeosang. Turn the system back on in thirty seconds.”

Wooyoung lets his head tilt back, the pounding of his heart beginning to lessen just as he lets himself breathe. But, the moment his head tilts back, the door creaks open, and out comes San’s parents. Wooyoung snaps his attention discreetly towards the door, pretending to read something on his phone as the brim of his cap hides the direction of his gaze just as another pair of footsteps follow San’s parents out of the hidden, private room.

Yeonjun. Mingyu.

Wooyoung’s eyes widen, watching as Mingyu shakes hands with San’s father, Yeonjun too, shaking hands as if they had just conducted business.

“Uh, San–” Wooyoung says, tapping the device in his ear. “Bigger problem.”

“If it involves my parents, leave it alone, Wooyoung. We’re almost done here.”

“What if it involves my old boss and the man who tried to kill me? What then?”

San is silent, once again, but for not as long as the time previous. “What?”

“Your parents just stepped out of the same room that Mingyu and Yeonjun just did, and now they’re shaking hands. They’re plotting something, San, and I’d like to bet on everything I own that it has to do with both you and me.”

The line is quiet, and it’s only then that Wooyoung glances to his left, spotting Hyunjin shifting uneasily near a line of people, his jaw tight, hands resting on his hips, fingers tapping against his belt. Wooyoung could see that the news was making everyone feel the same thing, albeit in different waves and strengths. This was news that none of them could’ve prepared for, especially given all of the revelations that had come from Wooyoung’s sudden betrayal that left a rift between everyone he thought had become not only his allies, but his friends.

“Get the folder.”

Wooyoung immediately rises from his seat, adjusting his hat as he moves to where Changbin had been standing previously, leaning against the ATM machine as he listens in on the conversation between Mingyu and Mr. Choi, but nothing of importance had been said. It was a casual comment, something about golf and the money made from a country club nearby; typical banter that no one would turn their attention towards. But Wooyoung wasn’t that naive.

As the two groups parted ways, Wooyoung watched the manila folder continue to dangle between Mr. Choi’s fingers, walking in tandem with his wife without the slightest clue of something amiss. Mingyu and Yeonjun had disappeared out the front door, their steps trailing into silence as Wooyoung found himself observing the new target, letting his past walk completely away from him.

Following subtly, Wooyoung remains a curious distance away, listening as chatter begins to fog up the channel.

“I’ll make sure Mingyu and Yeonjun leave the premises,” Minho chimes in, earning a hum of agreement from San.

“Good plan. Changbin, you wait for Seonghwa and Hongjoong before heading towards the car. Wooyoung, get that damn folder. Mingi and Yunho, now’s the time to cause a scene, block the exits on the north side of the building; do whatever it takes to stop them from leaving.”

“On it,” Yunho comments, the sudden sound of a car horn blaring ringing through the long, empty halls of the government offices. Wooyoung follows still, watching as Mr. Choi perks up at the sound of the car horn, but he continues walking, holding his wife’s hand as they trek through to the other exit, the one that was closest to the main roadway.

“Exits are closed and blocked, San,” Yeosang interjects. “They don’t have long, though. Wooyoung, get the folder as discreetly as you can before you get back to the car. Changbin can meet you in the alley across the street. Just do not let anyone see you, especially the Chois.”

“On it,” Wooyoung mumbles, smoothing out his jacket as he continues to follow the pair through the hall, landing into another lobby, this one much smaller than the previous one, filled to the brim with chaos as Yunho and Mingi cause a dramatic scene, their voices filling the void where any normal chatter would remain. Their voices were raised, yelling and cursing at one another, claiming that one person stole the other’s spot in the parking lot, while the other needed to be in line first due to an emergency. Mrs. Choi, who slightly paused as she grew closer to the scene, rolled her eyes as she looked at her husband, none the wiser. Wooyoung smirks in response, watching as Hyunjin appears near the doors.

“Sorry, Sir, we must perform security checks as you leave the lobby due to a new policy issued by our Head.” Hyunjin stands between Mr. Choi and the main door now, his voice calm, his expression professional, as seasoned as any man under San’s authority should be. Wooyoung waits patiently, watching as the folder dangles between the male’s fingers still. He glances around, specifically to the main desk area where the receptionist had just walked away, her voice rising slightly to calm down Yunho and Mingi, who were still yelling at one another. Slyly, Wooyoung reaches behind the desk towards a stack of folders, filled with random files that he wasn’t privy to knowing anything about, gripping it firmly in his hand as he watches Mr. Choi set down his belongings on a nearby chair, taking off his long coat, offering it over to Hyunjin as he checked over the item of clothing. Wooyoung waits, listening as Yunho’s voice grows louder, catching the attention of Mr. and Mrs. Choi once more, giving him the perfect opportunity to grab the folder from the chair before sliding the other folder where the previous one laid, seemingly untouched.

“Is this really necessary?” Mr. Choi questions darkly, his irritation palpable.

“Unfortunately, it is,” Hyunjin returns, handing the male’s coat back over. “I just need to see her purse, then you will be on your way.”

Suddenly, Mingi dares to throw a punch at Yunho, causing the scene to escalate at just the perfect time. Hyunjin hesitates, eyes darting towards the scene before he glances at Wooyoung, who simply nods to relay that the job was done.

“Sorry, Sir. You’re both free to move on,” Hyunjin mutters quickly, moving to handle the situation in question as Yunho and Mingi loudly begin to throw curses at one another in front of an entire lobby full of people. Wooyoung waits, watching as Mr. and Mrs. Choi leave through the door, muttering something nasty beneath their breath before he too, moves out of the lobby, pushing the glass door open, taking a breath as he scans the outside world, looking for the alley in question.

Bingo.

He turns to the left, then to the right, spotting a pause in traffic before he jogs across the street, clearing the intersection just as the light turned green once more, blurring him out amongst the chaos of passing cars in indistinct colors and makes. Wooyoung turns into the alley, the folder well within his grasp, labeled with something that he didn’t notice at first, but noticed now.

Jung Wooyoung.

“I’ve got the folder. I’m in position,” Wooyoung relays, leaning against the exterior wall of whatever building was nearby. “San–?”

“Go ahead.”

“The folder has my name on it,” Wooyoung says, listening to traffic pass by, not bothering to remove his gaze from the forged words on the mere outside. “Your parents, my old boss, my ex–”

He pauses, the gravity of the situation now sinking in.

“They’re plotting to have us killed.”

Chapter Text

⋆.˚⭒⋆ ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

After the revelation of everything their mission wrought, Wooyoung sat by and watched as the mafia fell into complete silence. San hadn’t exited his room for days, glued into the thoughts consuming him without even leaving for dinner or to answer Seonghwa’s pleas. The bunker felt lonely in a way that Wooyoung hadn’t truly grasped until now, seeing that everyone was affected by the decision made from not only the Choi family, but his old coworkers.

It wasn’t Wooyoung’s fault that things ended up this way, as he was sure that this business deal, of sorts, had some far greater meaning. This, partially, seemed as if it was going to happen even without Wooyoung’s meddling, whether he liked it or not. San’s family, the pressure from the government, Mingyu’s hatred and poisonous plan. . . it all seemed like a precursor to something far greater.

Wooyoung had contemplated, briefly, on if he should go and check on San. He knew that he was likely the last person San wanted to see right now, but the worry that no one else could peel back those layers in the way Wooyoung could, lingered like an uncomfortable ache.

Even today, days had passed since then, and Wooyoung couldn’t help the flurry of things passing through his mind. He worried about what plan was unfolding behind the scenes, about how San was doing, and even if the mafia could do anything to fend off whatever attack was surely coming. The mind was a dangerous place when left alone, and being alone, especially with San isolating himself, was the first thing Wooyoung worried about. He knew that purgatory all his own, as with the waking consequence of insomnia, came an unfiltered train of thoughts that ran rampant, without the slightest bit of hesitation. He was used to this, the darkness that came from unpredictable tensions, or the way negativity could sink into his bones, but as for San? Wooyoung wasn’t entirely sure that San knew how to completely tackle these thoughts, especially when they involved his own parents plotting with an unforeseen enemy.

Yet today, there was a meeting. A chance to see San. A chance to see if he was still as thoroughly put together as he always seemed to be, or if he somehow cracked and would be more vulnerable than he ever really has been. Wooyoung didn’t know what to expect, but he’d go in with an open mind, to see if the reality of their situation had changed the hardened exterior that San had always fronted himself with.

Truly, Wooyoung wouldn’t blame him. Everyone processed things differently, especially in terms of a toxic home life. As far as San was concerned, Wooyoung just wanted him to be okay. He wanted to be in San’s life, to be able to comfort him, to just exist in his orbit, but right now didn’t seem to be the time to intervene. There was a lot going on, surely, and Wooyoung couldn’t quite pinpoint just how well San was adapting.

Even sitting there, staring blankly at his plate in the kitchen, everything seemed to unravel and piece together at the same time. It has been weeks since they talked. Weeks since there were feelings involved. Weeks since San had pulled Wooyoung into his room drunkenly. Partially, Wooyoung knew that he was naive to hope that someone like San, with so much power and responsibility, would take the time to repair a relationship that started on a whim. He was a kingpin, a mafia boss, someone who demanded attention and respect with a simple glare. How was he, as he was, ever so deserving of San’s time, especially emotionally? Intimately, even?

Maybe that was his self-doubt circulating, coming into fruition, rattling around inside his head like a jar full of angry hornets. The more he shook the glass jar, the angrier the bugs got, clinking against the glass boundary, demanding to be free to unleash their anger on anything that was living and breathing.

Or, maybe it was the truth. Laden with feelings, thoughts, statements, and a sentiment that would forever change the course of Wooyoung’s life without him even knowing it. He could sit there and flirt with these feelings, get a grasp for how they feel and pretend as if they weren’t real. But the moment San closes his door and locks himself away with an angry glare, the more those feelings will come to light, and the more they will breathe themselves to life.

Wooyoung was torn, internally, emotionally, maybe even physically, at this point. He knew what he wanted, even if it was selfish to hope for it. But what could he do? Sit and mope? Cry? Lock himself away and demand for isolation? What would that solve? Nothing, in reality. Nothing would be done, and San would drift even further away, maybe even too far out of reach, at this point.

The kitchen was silent. The sound of the refrigerator humming was the only noise to break apart the stillness, save for the sound of Wooyoung’s chewing on the toast he made for himself. It was bland, slightly buttered, maybe even slightly too burnt on the edges, but it was something. Oh, well.

His plate was riddled with crumbs, each speck feeling more impactful than they should’ve been, and yet somehow, it felt to be little fragments of himself, meandering about with nowhere left to roam. It felt like his thoughts were left to free float, to pick apart, to somehow exist in this plane without anyone’s foul interruptions. Then again, he might’ve just been staring too hard, chewing too loudly, processing everything too far to the extent where he wasn’t just overthinking and overanalyzing, he was genuinely beginning to drive himself stir-crazy.

“What the hell did that plate do to you?”

Wooyoung’s head snaps up, spotting Hyunjin, of all people, roaming into the kitchen.

“Uh–”

“I get it. Not everyone likes whole wheat. But can you blame a guy for not wanting anything else?” Hyunjin rolls his eyes as he opens the refrigerator, running a hand lazily through the long locks of his ebony hair.

“I wasn’t–”

“Oh?” Hyunjin asks, peering over his shoulder. “You weren’t what? Staring at the damn plate as if it was going to give you an answer for why you’ve been slowly chewing your singular piece of toast for the last ten minutes?”

Wooyoung sighs, defeatedly. How can I really defend that?

“You caught me,” Wooyoung admits, setting the small piece of bitten toast onto his plate. “I’m just. . . lost in my thoughts.”

“As I’ve seen,” Hyunjin replies, snagging a banana from the fridge. “I think we all are, man. Things feel. . . different.”

Wooyoung nods, glancing down.

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

His gaze snaps upright, meeting Hyunjin’s more stoic, calming gaze, wondering what the male was exactly getting at. Hyunjin wasn’t one that he talked to very often, and when they had spoke, it was often about tasks or work-related manners. Casual conversation? No, that wasn’t in their history.

“What isn’t my fault?” Wooyoung asks, watching as Hyunjin begins peeling the yellow fruit, taking in a breath.

“I mean, you saw what was unraveling during our mission. There’s nothing you can do to stop the shit that San’s parents do.”

“Well–” Wooyoung glances away, pondering the correct words before he begins to speak once more. “It involves me. Those are my previous friends, the people I worked with, ate with, trained with, celebrated with–”

“But they’re not you, Wooyoung. They’re a part of your past, sure, but that's not on you. If they were planning this before you, surely they would’ve planned this after you, or even without you.”

Wooyoung nods, understanding his point of view, but not quite believing it.

“You don’t know Mingyu.”

“Maybe I don’t, but I know San’s parents,” Hyunjin reaffirms, arching a brow subtly, raising a hand as he gestures wildly, speaking openly, trying to convey his point further. “They’re cruel. They’re dark. And they’re assholes. There’s a very clear reason why San wants them dealt with, even if he’s never openly said it.”