Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Finding a dead boy was not necessarily something Minghao had expected when he signed up for yet another late patrol. A dead mundane wasn't surprising - demons regularly got a hold of unsuspecting victims late at night like this. But the ink dark curl of runes dancing across the boy's skin was a whole other issue altogether. Minghao frowned, slinging his silvery bow across his back and dropping silently off of the fire escape where he had been crouched. In the distance, the pained chunter of the Shax Demon he had been tracking told him it wasnt long for this world as it withdrew into the shadows to nurse its wounds. Later, Seungcheol would reprimand him for allowing it to get away alive, but as far as Minghao was concerned a dead Shadowhunter was far more interesting than lopping the head off yet another prickly, insect-like creature.

The boy - or man, Minghao supposed, looked no older than he was - with a strong, smooth jaw and a tangled mess of dark hair. Even lying down, he could tell he was tall and broad, weathered with years of battle. It wasn't unusual for Shadowhunters to hunt alone at night - especially ones as strong-looking as this one. What was strange was that Minghao had no idea who he was. Seoul was a small community of Nephilim, and despite the fact that he had only been just over a year, it was strange that he didn’t have the faintest clue who this boy might be.

Minghao squatted down, pressing two fingers to his neck. The boy groaned, flinching away from his touch.
Not dead, Minghao thought, mildly pleased. Unfortunately, if he didn’t do something soon, that might change. The deep gash on his side was pissing blood, leaking through his jeans and his sweater. Strange, he noted. The boy wasn’t in gear, didn’t bear any seraph blades, nor a stele. If it hadn't been for the runes and the stonking great battleaxe at his side, he would look like any other mundane. Perhaps that had been the whole point. Minghao drew his stele from his belt, scrawling a quick Iratze onto the boy's exposed throat. He frowned at it, watching as it sat on his skin like pen ink, buffering as it worked slowly against the Shax poison. It would have to do.

The boy was laughably heavy, like a sack of rice that sagged and bore down upon him as he dragged him through the streets of Seoul. Even with his strength runes, Minghao was sweating profusely, regretting his decision to strap the battleaxe to his side. He should have tossed it in a dumpster. Fortunately, he had barely made it a kilometre into his patrol before he encountered the boy, so it wasn’t exactly a hike back. Before long, the dark glass walls of the Seoul Institute were looming out of the night, guiding him home. He huffed, readjusting the boy’s arm on his shoulder as he trudged through the gates, flanked by their two colossal jade dragons. They made it to the foot of the stairs before the double doors swung open, Seungcheol hurrying down the steps towards them, his expression cartoonishly concerned,

“What happened? Who is this?” Minghao exhaled, lowering the limp boy unceremoniously onto the flagstones.

“No idea. I found him just off Insa. He’s a Shadowhunter, but not one that I've seen before. Shax demon got him as far as I can tell. I thought maybe you’d know him.” He rolled his neck out, enjoying the twinge of tired muscles, and unhooked the axe from his belt. Seungcheol crouched beside the boy, lifting his knitted jumper to examine the wound. It was an ugly gash, carving across his abdomen like a yawning red mouth.

“I don’t recognise him at all - maybe he’s from elsewhere?”

“Has Minghao been killing mundanes?” A mild voice came from the top of the steps. Jeonghan was grinning ruefully, his dark hair ruffling in the night breeze. Unlike Seungcheol, who was head to toe armed, he wasn't in gear. Jeonghan was never in gear, not anymore.

“Don’t joke, Han. He’s a Shadowhunter.” Seungcheol’s voice was clipped, and he barely took a second to glance at his parabatai as he hobbled down the steps - his right leg buckling under the weight as he leaned heavily on his cane. The smile on Jeonghan’s face faded a little, though Minghao couldn't tell if it was the result of Seungcheol’s snub, or because there was a Shadowhunter dying on his porch at one in the morning.

“He’s not from these parts,” Jeonghan observed, poking the boy with the metal tip of his cane, “I could ask the Gyeongju Institute if they’ve lost a tall, handsome Shadowhunter?”

“We’ll get him into the infirmary and call the Silent Brothers. Jeonghan, wake Joshua up.” Seungcheol decided. Jeonghan pulled a face,

“I’d rather fight Belial with a tennis racket. Last time I woke Joshua up on a night off he put salt in my coffee”

“Just do as I ask.” The Head of the Institute pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly before slinging the left arm of the boy over his shoulder and heaving him to his feet with a pained groan. Minghao gave the three of them a head start, watching Jeonghan trail behind Seungcheol and disappear into the gloom of the Institute before hefting the boys axe over his shoulders and following behind.

***

The Seoul Institute was vastly different to the Shenyang Institute, where he had trained as a younger Shadowhunter. Where Shenyang was all quiet courtyards and sprawling space, Seoul resembled a large office building, sleek and modern. Only the oldest parts - the Sanctuary and the Catacombs, bore any resemblance to his original Institute. It wasn't that Minghao hated the Seoul Institute, per se, but he did wish it lended itself more to its surroundings. His bedroom was a floor apart from his fellow Shadowhunters - high enough up that he could gaze out his abnormally huge window at the hazy glut of mountains that cradled Seoul.

It was here that he sat now, stretching on the hard wooden floor, his gear neatly hung up and traded for soft sweatpants and a black tanktop. The sun was beginning to kiss the sky, breaking early and bringing with it yet another day of the oppressive, sticking summer heat. He had tried to sleep after the excitement of the evening, but the knowledge of Silent Brothers being in the Institute was enough to fray his nerves. Even meditation had failed to settle him, his thoughts wandering back to the mysterious Shadowhunter boy lying in the infirmary three floors below. Who was he? Where had he come from? To use a weapon like a battleaxe was rare for a Shadowhunter, who often favoured simplicity and convenience over brute power. Not only that, the boy carried no other weapons. To rely on something that wholly? It was absurd. Going into battle alone so underprepared was a death sentence, regardless of how strong you were. Minghao sighed, linking his fingers and stretching his arms over his head, pressing his palms towards the ceiling. If sleep was determined to evade him tonight, perhaps he should get a head start on training. He was certain the excitement of a newcomer would throw the other members of the group out of rhythm, and if there was one thing Minghao hated, it was people making excuses to slack off.

Chapter Text

There were times when Jeonghan suspected Seungcheol hated him. He could see it in his parabatai’s eyes when he hobbled his ruined body into the room - the disgust, the anger. Seungcheol had bound himself to a mutilated wreck of a Shadowhunter, and his regret was as stark on his skin as his runes were.

They had known each other thirteen years, been parabatai for ten. There had been a time when the two of them had been closer than brothers, closer than family. Jeonghan had fled his family home in the dead of night, the images of his parents ravaged bodies burning bright in his mind's eye. The Seoul Institute had been the only place twelve year old him had thought to go, and the rest was history. Where he went, Seungcheol had followed, uncaring of his parents' insistence that he found himself a more appropriate battle partner - one more suited to stand beside the future head of the Seoul Institute. When Jeonghan was sent to Idris to train at the Academy, Seungcheol had gone on strike from training until he too was allowed to go, and when Seungcheol was called back to Seoul, Jeonghan had followed without question.

Now, six years after their return to Seoul and two years after Jeonghan’s final mission, he was certain that if there was a way for Seungcheol to have broken his ties to Jeonghan, he would have found it. Their bedrooms were no longer side by side - Jeonghan’s had been moved to the ground floor to make it easier for him to access. Seungcheol buried himself in work, avoiding all but the necessary contact with his parabatai. It was a listless, half formed existence for Jeonghan - one that rarely extended past the hallowed gates of the Institute. Even the presence of his fellow Shadowhunters, his friends, did little to quell the bone-deep loneliness in his ruined body.

“Brother Seungju says the Shax poison should work its way out by morning - he should wake up by midday.” His parabatai said now, running a tired hand through his bleached hair, “Joshua will stay with him, much to his own disappointment, I think.”

“I did offer to stay up instead - Josh has training tomorrow morning. It’s not like I've got much I need to be alert for.” Seungcheol shot him a flat look,

“You need to rest, Han. Besides, he’s a healer, you’re not.”

I’m not anything anymore. Jeonghan thought bitterly, rubbing at the thigh of his injured leg. Seungcheol frowned,

“You shouldn't be on your feet.” Irritation flared in Jeonghan. Seungcheol had no business treating him like a wounded bird - he was just as much a warrior as anyone else. He could handle pain.

“I don’t need your pity, Cheol.” He said, surprising himself with how curt he sounded, “I’m not a child.” Seungcheol didn't look surprised at his snapping, just resigned and vaguely tired as Jeonghan turned on his heel, marching away.

He hated his new room - it was much larger than his old one, having originally been one of their many TV rooms before duty called it. His double bed sat between the bay windows, feet facing the door. Jeonghan wasn't afraid of the dark, but when the cool night breeze whistled against the glass panes, he longed for the steady comfort of knowing his parabatai was only a wall away. In his old room, he had had a corkboard screwed to the wall that had been thick with pictures, but the effort required to redecorate this detested room was overwhelming, so he had left everything bare. The closest thing to personalisation was his katana - shut away in its forest green sheath and resting on a rack nailed to the wall. Seungcheol had put it up during the early days of Jeonghan’s recovery, somewhere that he could see it from the bed. At the time, it had brought him immense comfort, but now it just reminded him of a museum piece: a purposeless memory that did nothing but gather dust. Jeonghan wasn't a Shadowhunter anymore, not in any way that mattered.

He flopped backwards onto his bed, not bothering to change into pajamas. Joshua would reprimand him, surely, for sleeping in such a position without ensuring that his leg was stable, but the exhaustion that clung to his shoulders like a heavy cloak was noisy and demanding, tugging him under before he could so much as drop his cane.

***

“For the last time, Jeonghan. You can’t just pass the fuck our where ever you like.” The voice of the Institute healer, Joshua Hong, snapped Jeonghan out of sleep like a slap. He stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed and eyes narrowed with disapproval. Jeonghan groaned, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth and wrestling himself into a sitting position. He had met Josh in Idris, at the academy. Part of him wished the two of them had ended up as parabatai, rather than him and Seungcheol. But Joshua wasn't like that - he wasn't a warrior, and as such had very little need for a partner. Instead, he had agreed to not return to his home in LA and instead to join their merry band of brothers in the Seoul Institute only nine months after Cheol had taken it over. He sighed, scooping Jeonghan’s cane off the floor,

“Until a year ago your leg was bone soup, Hannie. You can’t mess around with it like this.” His chiding stung less than Cheol’s, sounding more like a tired doctor than a frustrated friend. So Jeonghan allowed Joshua to manoeuvre his ruined leg through a series of stretches and exercises, staring blankly at the katana on the opposite wall as they worked.

“Did the boy wake up?”

“Not yet.”

“So he’s alone?” Joshua shook his head,

“Seungcheol’s in there with him. DK was supposed to take over after breakfast, but Minghao went haring off on another one of his ridiculous runs, and he’s gone to drag him back for the idiot injures himself again.” It didn’t surprise Jeonghan to hear he had slept through breakfast - he had very little to wake up for these days, finding himself lounging about in his barebones room until the last possible moment.

“The others?”

“The Three Musketeers are in the training room with Hoshi - poor bastards. Jun’s still not back from Idris. I haven’t the faintest about anyone else, they all moseyed off after breakfast to god knows where.” Jeonghan nodded. Perhaps he would go and watch training for a while. It was always a joy to watch their three youngest train. Seungcheol had dubbed them The Three Musketeers after Chan and Hansol had both separately asked Seungkwan to be their parabatai, and Seungkwan had tearfully refused to choose between his two closest friends. Seungkwan and Chan were relatively new permanent residents of the Institute, having moved out of their family homes only a year ago, but had made themselves welcome additions.

“I’ll go see how training is going.”

“Don’t you want to check up on the new kid? I’m sure Seungcheol will want you there.” Jeonghan winced internally, ignoring the raw tug of his parabatai bond straining towards Seungcheol. He didn't want him there, not really. Jeonghan was a burden on him now.

“Cheol will be fine. Besides, I want to see Seungkwan’s new misericordes.” Jeonghan decided, an air of finality in his tone. Joshua offered him a concerned look, but said nothing,

“Now get out of here so I can change.” Jeonghan pushed his friend gently, and Joshua nodded, retreating and closing the door with a soft click as he slid from the room, leaving Jeonghan all alone with the dust motes that danced in the thick swathes of sunlight streaming through the bay windows.

Chapter Text

In his twenty two years of life, Kim Mingyu had never set foot inside an Institute. Until now, apparently.

The first thing he noticed was the warmth - something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. The bed was soft and plush, letting him sink into the pillows like a dream.

The second thing he noticed was the young man, standing with his arms crossed by the door. Fear lanced through Mingyu, forcing him out of bed and onto his feet, his hands flying to his back as if his battleaxe would still be there.

The third thing he noticed - and, unfortunately, something that didn’t strike him until he was far enough away from the bed to lean on it for support, was the crushing pain in his side. He went down like a stone, his training alone keeping him from shattering his nose on the wooden floor.

“Woah there, kid.” The man was at his side in a second, hooking an arm under Mingyu’s armpit and hoisting him onto the bed before he could flinch away from the touch. As he moved, Mingyu clocked the sharp, inky lines of a parabatai rune, snaking over his thick forearm.

“You alright?” He asked gently, leaning Mingyu back against the cushions. What a stupid question, Mingyu thought. How could he possibly be alright? Anxiety was humming under his skin - he didn’t know where he was, he didn’t know where his axe was. All he remembered was the razor sharp claws of the Shax Demon slicing through his soft flesh and the jaw-clenching pain of dragging his own body along the concrete towards safety.

“Where am I?”

“The Seoul Institute. You took quite a nasty hit - one of my Shadowhunters brought you back for the Silent Brothers to treat.” Mingyu froze at the words Silent Brothers, his pulse leaping in his throat. Not them. Anything but them. The young man ploughed on, oblivious to his plight,

“I’m Choi Seungcheol - do you remember your name?” He had a kind face, his heavy lidded eyes wide with concern. Mingyu swallowed,

“Kim Mingyu.”

“And where are you from, Mingyu?” He didn’t have an answer to that. Not one that the Clave would accept, and if this man was the head of the Seoul Institute, he wasn’t to be trusted,

“Can I leave?”

Seungcheol frowned, his thick brows kissing together on his high forehead,

“I can’t keep you here, Mingyu. Once you’ve answered a few questions, and Joshua has cleared you medically, you’re free to go. All of your stuff is in the corner of the room.” He nodded his chin towards the corner by the door, where Mingyu’s rucksack and battleaxe were leaning against the wall. Someone had polished his axe within an inch of its life, leaving it so shiny he was certain he could use it as a mirror. Beside it, his clothes were folded in a neat pile. He looked down at himself in surprise - someone had changed him into a large blue shirt and grey sweatpants. Bile rose in his throat, and his gaze found Seungcheol’s, seeing nothing but sickening sympathy there,

“About the scars…” Seungcheol started,

“I don’t want to talk about them.” Mingyu cut him off, feeling the fear bubble and pulse inside him. It wasn't supposed to go like this. He was supposed to get out of Seoul, get out of South Korea. He had his plane ticket, folded carefully in his backpack, alongside a fake passport. It was all supposed to be over today. He wasn’t supposed to be lying, helpless and injured, in the belly of the beast.

“We want to help you, Mingyu. But we need to know who you are, where you come from. Do you have any idea who sent that Shax Demon after you?” If not for his wound, Mingyu could have doubled over with laughter. Of course he knew who sent it. They’d be desperate to get him back by now, he imagined.

“It’s complicated.” Was all he managed, his voice a little strangled.

“I can help you, if you’re in danger.” Seungcheol said gently, “you’re safe here.”

“Safe? I don’t even know how I got here.” Mingyu scoffed, shuffling himself upright again. Across his back, he could feel his scars stretching to accommodate the movement. There wasn’t such a thing as safe, not in this life.

“Listen, Mingyu. Until you can stand on those two feet of yours for longer than twenty seconds, you’re just going to have to trust me when I tell you that you’re safe here. If you’re running from somebody, they can’t get to you in these walls.” Mingyu wanted to believe him - wanted so desperately to sink against the pillows and let someone else bear his burdens, but those sorts of notions were ones that were firmly beaten out of people like him. He tilted his neck from side to side, feeling his tight muscles sing with pain. Maybe just a few days - until he was back on his feet. Then he would leave, would take some of the undoubtedly priceless artefacts stored in this institute and pawn them in the Night Market, scrounge together enough cash to book a new flight out of here. Until then, all he had to do was play this strange man's game. So he wilted, making it seem as if he had given in, and relaxed against the cushions.

“Do you guys have food here? I’m starving.” He forced a bright lilt into his tone. Seungcheol pulled a face,

“Our usual cook, Junhui, is away in Idris right now. I can order you something though, if you want?”

“A burger would be killer. Fries too.” Seungcheol pulled a slim black phone out of his pocket, tapping away for a few moments,

“Soda?”

“Just water please.” Soda made his nose wrinkle.

“Alright, it’ll be here in fifteen. I’ll get someone to bring it up.” The phone disappeared back into the pockets of his gear, “I can run a few questions by you whilst we wait.”

“Fire away.” Mingyu worried he was maybe going a little gun-ho with being palatable, but Seungcheol either didn’t mind or didn’t notice.

“Where are you from?”

“Anyang.” Not a lie. He had spent his younger years there.

“Okay, not far from Seoul. Why have I never met you before?”

“My parents don’t like getting involved with the Enclave.” Also not a lie. A half truth, yes, but not a lie. His parents didn’t attend Enclave events when they were alive, it was even less likely they’d go now they were dead.

“Then who taught you how to fight? Did you have a tutor?” Mingyu blanched a little, and Seungcheol definitely caught it, but didn’t push,

“My father.” He managed, his voice strangled. Across the room, his axe seemed to watch his every move, listening for his next mistake.

“Why didn’t they send you to the Academy, if they couldn't provide you with a tutor?” Mingyu looked down at his hands, picking at a callus on his right palm.

“It’s complicated.”

“Okay, fair enough. Families can be difficult. My parents fucked off to some pissy high rise in Gangnam a few years ago, left me in charge of this place.”

“There are worse places to be.” Mingyu said softly, looking around at the infirmary. It was brightly sunlit, five soft beds lining one wall. On the far wall, someone had meticulously organised shelves of healing tonics and powders, each bottle labelled in script-like hangul, with smaller English labels beneath. There was a whiteboard on the adjacent wall, with what looked like a to-do list written on it in blue pen. It was again in English, the handwriting a frustratingly difficult cursive. Perhaps the healer here was a foreigner. Everything about the room, from the lavender scent diffusers to the soft, welcoming glow of the witchlight lamps screamed safety. Seungcheol caught him gazing around the room and smiled softly,

“Joshua takes great pride in his infirmary. Mess with his organisation system on pain of death - he may be a healer, but he’s scrappy.” Joshua - definitely a foreign name. Mingyu hadn’t met many foreigners, though he had been practicing his English hard since he had started to form his escape plan.

“I wouldn't touch it. I don’t know the first thing about medicine.” He said. Not a lie.

“You and me both.” Seungcheol chuckled a little,

“How many people live in the institute?”

“Complicated question, my friend. No one technically lives here, since it's not meant to be a house. But Joshua is our live-in healer, with Seokmin as his apprentice. Then we have three trainees - Chan, Seungkwan and Hansol. Two transfers from China - Junhui, who I mentioned earlier and Minghao, who rescued you. Me and my parabatai, Jeonghan, run this place, but there's another parabatai pair - Soonyoung and Jihoon - who do all the training. Oh, then there’s Wonwoo - he manages the armory mostly.”

“Wonwoo?” Mingyu choked, “Jeon Wonwoo?”

“Yeah, that’s his name. You know him?” Seungcheol frowned. Mingyu blinked, wide eyed. That was a name he hadn’t heard in many, many years. A name that tasted like childhood, like a friend had and lost. It was a name that reeked of ash and blood.

“A long time ago.” Seungcheol opened his mouth to ask a follow up question, but a knock at the door cut him off,

“Jeonghan told me to bring burgers up for the two of you.” Someone said, the door swinging open. Mingyu could have laughed. Speak of the devil, and all that. Standing, greasy takeout bag in hand, his fingers gripping the handle of the infirmary door, was Jeon Wonwoo. Taller now, sharper. Large, round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. At the sight of Mingyu, he froze, all the colour draining from his face. The paper bag slipped from his fingers, spilling fries all over the wooden floor. Mingyu supposed Joshua would take offense to that, wherever he was. Wonwoo swallowed hard, his now empty hand curling into a fist so tight his knuckles whitened.

“You’re meant to be dead.”

Chapter Text

To say Minghao hated Seokmin would be an overstatement. He didn’t have the energy to hate Seokmin. In fact, the bright eyed healer barely registered on his radar as a person, let alone an annoyance. But the way he trailed behind him on runs, concern radiating from him like he was made of uranium, made Minghao want to shake him until his tiny brain fell out of his ears.

“It’s only been four weeks since you broke your collarbone.” Seokmin whined, catching up to him just as he reached the entrance of the Malbawi Trail. Minghao sighed, slowing to a frustrated walk, letting the healer catch up to him,

“I’m a shadowhunter, Seokmin. I heal fast.”

“Tell me that when you’re forty-five and you can’t lift your arm above your head. You try drawing your bow then.” He said crossly, reaching over to rip Minghao’s wired headphones from his ears, leaving them swinging wildly from his phone in the space between the two of them.

“I’ll be dead at forty-five.” Minghao deadpanned.

“Not if I can help it. Come back to the Institute, follow the training plan we made for you, you’ll feel better.”

“I feel fine.”

Seokmin had the hilarious audacity to snort with amusement, crossing his arms over his chest,

“You’re just avoiding the new kid.”

“He’s awake?” Interest leaked through Minghao’s tone, frustratingly. So much for aloof disinterest. Seokmin cocked a knowing eyebrow at him, looking smug.

“Not yet, but soon. Seungcheol wants you back, he thinks it’ll settle him to see who rescued his sorry ass.” Minghao rolled his eyes. Typical Seungcheol - so obsessive about keeping the fragile balance in the Institute, yet so blind to the one thing that was throwing him all out of whack. The whole Institute was on a knife's edge, waiting for the tension between Seungcheol and Jeonghan to break like the dawning of spring.

“Can’t he wait until I've finished my run?”

“No. Because I can’t run fifteen miles, and I’m not going back without you. You come back with me, or i’m calling Jihoon and getting him to chase you through the streets of Seoul with a machete.” Minghao snorted, cupping his hand around the top of his foot to stretch out his quad and resigning himself to quitting his run early. Maybe Soonyoung would be willing to help him do a make-up session later. Not doing enough training made his skin itch.

So, he found himself winding his way through the streets of northern Seoul with Seokmin, making their way back to the Institute. It was always quiet between them - Seokmin was much more reserved at his side than he was with anyone else in the group. It wasn’t entirely his fault, but there was something about Seokmin that made Minghao irrationally angry. He put it down to the way his family adored him, dragging him home from the Institute weekly for dinners and parties and get-togethers. He was loved so openly, and didn’t see any value in being a perfect Shadowhunter, content with only being skilled enough to protect the people he cared about. They were fundamentally different, separated by a thousand miles of upbringing, and yet he seemed enamoured with the idea of breaking down Minghao’s walls, persistent no matter how hard Minghao tried to push him away. He didn’t understand it at all - as far as he was concerned, there wasn't anything behind those walls worth knowing, but Seokmin was determined anyway.

“I saw a class online for beginner watercolour painting. I was wondering if you wanted to go with me?” Seokmin cut through the silence, “I know how much you love painting.” Minghao grit his jaw. He meant well, he knew he did. He and Minghao were the same age, it made sense for the two of them to hang out. But the idea of spending a second more than what was absolutely necessary hearing about Seokmin’s awesome family and all the awesome shit they did together made Minghao wish he was facing a nest of Dahak demons.

“I think I’m busy.” Minghao said mindlessly. He did actually like painting, and had been considering learning how to use watercolours. Seokmin looked visibly crestfallen, deflating like a sad balloon,

“I haven’t even said what day it is yet.”

Minghao paused for a second, trying not to feel guilty. It wasn't personal - not directly at least. He just couldn’t face the idea of hearing all about a part of life he had missed out on so entirely. Seokmin was everything he wasn't, and he resented it.

“I’m going to run home.” He declared, desperate to shake off the gnawing sense that he was being an asshole. He broke into a swift jog, not giving his companion time to protest before he had melted into the growing crowds of Seoul’s morning traffic.

***

The Seoul Institute was never quiet, and today was no exception. No sooner had Minghao walked through the front doors than he was accosted by the bouncing, gear-clad figure of Chan, his chestnut brown hair sticking to his forehead and his eyes shining with excitement.

“He knows Wonwoo.” He hissed, a grin dancing on his lips. Minghao allowed the sweaty kid to bounce around him, his shortsword concerningly unsheathed as he waved it around. Had it been anyone else, Minghao might have snapped at him for such blatant disregard for weapons handling, but Chan was oddly disarming. He made you want to listen to him, to help him. He was, by a long margin, Minghao’s favourite.

“Most of us know Wonwoo.” He said mildly, gently pushing the point of the blade away from his face with two fingers. Chan blinked, as if just realising he had been pointing a weapon at Minghao, and hurriedly sheathed it,

“Sorry, I came straight from the training hall when I saw you come back.” He said sheepishly, “and what I meant was that the guy you saved last night knows Wonwoo.” That was news. Minghao had never seen the guy before, neither had Jeonghan and Seungcheol, who seemed to know every Shadowhunter that had even been born in South Korea. For quiet, reserved Wonwoo to know him was not just bizarre, it was suspicious.

“Knows him from where?”

“Not a clue. Apparently the guy freaked out and threw a lamp at Wonwoo, refused to speak to him. Cheol kicked him out, and Wonwoo’s been polishing swords ever since.”

‘Polishing swords’ was a Seoul Institute-ism, coined by Soonyoung. He used it liberally in training when he accused his students of lacking focus. Over time, it had grown to encompass any situation where a person was lost in thought and completing a mindless task. Though in Wonwoo’s case, Minghao suspected he was quite literally polishing swords, holed up in the armory.

Jeonghan limped through the door that led to the gym, a suspicious eyebrow raised at Minghao,

“Wasn’t Seokmin out after you?”

“I wanted to run home. He’s walking.” Jeonghan kissed his teeth,

“Let me guess, you didn’t want to go painting with him?”
“I’m just busy.” He protested weakly,

“You’re busy in a month on Tuesday? I make the patrol schedule. I can force you to be free.” Minghao looked at his trainers, not wanting to provoke Jeonghan. Chan blinked in surprise, looking back and forth between the two Shadowhunters as Jeonghan tapped the metal tip of his cane against the floor in a disapproving sort of way,

“You should be nicer to the poor kid. He spent hours looking for an activity you might want to do with him.” Guilt dribbled miserably down Minghao’s spine. Maybe he was being too much of an asshole - especially since he was a guest in this Institute. There was a sliver of him that wanted to be friends with Seokmin, to have someone to rely on in the institute the way Soonyoung and Jihoon relied on each other. But a bigger, louder part of him was cowering in the shadows, snapping and snarling and demanding to be left alone. At least if he was alone, no one would hurt him anymore.

“Go shower, Hao. Seungcheol wants you to meet Mingyu.”

“I don’t know if I want to meet him. He seems to throw lamps at people.”

“He threw one lamp. We’ve all thrown a lamp at someone before.” Jeonghan rolled his eyes, “Besides, you haven’t given him grounds to throw a lamp yet.”

“Can I meet him?” Chan asked, giving Jeonghan his best pleading eyes.

“You haven’t even finished training yet. Soonyoung’s planning on making you run a lap for every second you’re not in that gym.” Chan paled, his eyes flickering back to Minghao,

“Tell me everything, promise?” Minghao said nothing, but Chan seemed to take that as agreement and fled back through the door to the gym, his boots heavy on the tiled floor. He turned back to Jeonghan,

“Do I have to go meet his guy?”

“Just quickly, so he can thank you for saving his life. It’s good manners.” Minghao huffed,

“Fine.” He slipped off his shoes, padding towards the stairwell and leaving Jeonghan alone in the hallway to watch his retreating back. The late morning sun was lancing through the stained glass window at the front of the building, casting patterns on the marble stairs. Blinking shades of jade and ruby and bright saffron yellow painted the space like watercolours as he made his way towards the second floor infirmary. On every wall, thick tapestries and colourful ink paintings adorned the space - the largest, taking pride of place at the apex of the stairs, an enormous seven foot piece depicting the Angel Raziel rising from Lake Lyn. Minghao considered it briefly, shrinking under the scrutiny of its measured gaze. It was easy to forget the blood of angels that ran through his veins - holy was not a word he often used to describe himself. Sometimes, it was easier to feel closer to the Downworld than it was to touch the Heavenly Fire within. He might have been Nephilim, but Raziel did not speak to him in the way he spoke to the others - that door had firmly closed long ago, back when he was a naive child who thought those you loved could never truly be lost. No, Raziel had no affection for him. Not anymore. Minghao was alone against the great, wide dark.

Chapter Text

Seungcheol’s favourite memory was the day Jeonghan had asked him to be his parabatai. They had been studying at the Academy together for two years. It was the same year Jeonghan had decided to start working with throwing knives, and not even a month after Seungcheol had cropped his hair embarrassingly short in his frustration at the summer heat. That day, Jeonghan had asked him to skip out on lunch to go and sit by the lake and bask in the baking sun. He remembered every moment of it vividly, everything from the bright bubbles of the can of lemonade they had split to the way the hot sweat ran down his back under his shirt. They were fifteen, fresh faced and growing into themselves still and to Seungcheol, it felt like a million years ago. He thought of the moment often, cradling the memory softly in his mind. There was a little box for it, its edges soft and plush and far, far from the bitter present.

Jeonghan had scrunched up his nose in discomfort at the newfound sincerity, and had started yanking fistfuls of long grass from the ground. Seungcheol hadn't pressed, letting his friend come to him. He already knew what his answer was going to be; Jeonghan was a true north to him, a guiding light to ground him when things got difficult. It was undeniable that the life of a Shadowhunter wasn't a long one - both of them had already lost both friends and family to the fight - but Seungcheol was certain that he wanted to spend however many more years he had at Jeonghan’s side.

A year and a bit ago, when his parabatai had been dancing the line between life and death, Seungcheol had found himself toeing the ledge of the Institute roof. He had felt like a fraud, a betrayer of the oath he had taken in fire and blood,

For whither thou goest, I will go.

It was bullshit. Seungcheol had been a coward. He had taken a moment's pause when Jeonghan had thrown himself into the fray, and it had cost his parabatai everything. If Jeonghan ever woke up again, he would be disgusted with Seungcheol. Their bond would never be the same, and the idea of living a faded half-life in which the person he loved more than anybody in the world despised him made him desperate for the courage to pitch himself over the edge.

Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried.

But again, he had been a coward. Too afraid to die, too afraid to live. He had shuffled back from the edge and collapsed against the wall, his knees to his chest and his parabatai rune on his right forearm pressed to his heart. For the first time in his life, he resented the world he had been born into. His eyes had streamed with tears, his throat burning as he choked through heaving sobs. How was it fair that he was twenty-four, about to lose his best friend to a wound he could have prevented? How was it fair that he had been called up to run an entire Institute when it felt like he could hardly get himself out of bed in the morning?

Even now, a year down the line, he ran himself on energy drinks and the deep seated fear of failing the people he had come to call family. His bond with Jeonghan ached like a bruise, raw and mottled with months of disconnect. Every night, he woke in cold sweats from dreaming of the agony on his friends face as Seungcheol had knelt helplessly in the rubble. Jeonghan had survived, had walked again, but that didn’t matter. To Seungcheol, he had never felt farther away - he could see the visceral loathing in his parabatai’s eyes, the accusation. Jeonghan had been an excellent Shadowhunter, a master of his knives, and he had been ruined by the cowardice of the very person who had sworn an oath to protect him.

Seungcheol shook his head, trying to dislodge the thoughts as he pushed open the door to the Institute armory. It was a long, slender room with a large table in the middle, meticulously organised weapons lining the walls. On the wall closest to the door, a large, golden mirror hung. He didn’t remember the last time he had seen his own reflection. He had taken down the floor length mirror in his room months ago, so seeing himself properly now something of a shock. He looked exhausted - the bags under his already deep set eyes were prominent and purpling. His hair, bleached an embarrassingly bright shade of blonde, was unkempt and curling around his neck like lambs wool, the roots dark and prominent. He would have to ask Jun to help him dye it back to black when he finally returned from Idris. Even his clothing was a mess - his gear rumpled from sitting in the infirmary armchair all night waiting for Mingyu to wake up. He didn’t look twenty-five, he looked haggard. More than anything, he wanted Jeonghan to fuss over him the way he had when they were children together, clicking his teeth in disapproval and forcing Seungcheol to eat something other than instant ramen with a soft ‘Seungcheollie’ and a stubborn, guiding hand.

Instead, he sighed and clawed a hand through his unkempt hair, turning away from the mirror to face the bigger problem in the room. Jeon Wonwoo was frowning so hard his forehead looked like brain matter, his glasses slipping down his nose as he furiously buffed an already glittering broadsword.

“You know him.” He opened bluntly, pressing his weight through his palms as he leaned on the long table. At the other end, Wonwoo didn’t look up, his forearm flexing as he ran the cloth up and down the flat of the blade,

“I knew him. Once.” He said finally.

“How long ago?”

“A long time.” Wonwoo’s replies were clipped, tight. Seungcheol had known the boy long enough to know he was holding something back. He softened his tone, trying to get Wonwoo to let his guard down.

“I need you to tell me about him. We want to help, but none of us have ever even heard of him, and it’s my job to know who the Shadowhunters in–” Wonwoo cut him off, slamming the blade down on the table with a ringing clatter. His eyes were flinty behind his glasses, like he had been puzzling away at a problem for hours and found no answer.

“Thats the thing, Cheol. When I knew Mingyu, he wasn't a Shadowhunter.” Seungcheol blinked. That didn’t make sense. Ascensions were permitted, of course. But they were meticulously recorded. Seungcheol could tell you in depth about every single one of the four that had occurred in South Korea in the past twenty-five years, and none of them had involved a boy called Kim Mingyu. It wasn’t possible that he had Ascended without the Clave knowing.

“What do you mean?” He said, a little dumbly. Wonwoo looked down at the broadsword, refolding his rag to mindlessly rub at some invisible mark upon the metal,

“I moved to Anyang with my parents as a kid - they were charged with looking after the city, you know how it is. They still live there.” Seungcheol knew this, of course. Wonwoo’s parents were kind people, good Shadowhunters. Anyang had very little demon activity, so it was an ideal place for a young Shadowhunter couple to raise their kid,

“They sent me to a mundane middle school there, and Mingyu was moved up a class, so we used to sit next to each other. We were close, but my parents didn’t think it was a good idea to be friends with a mundane. I didn’t care though; Mingyu made me feel normal. I was a shy kid, but he made it easy for me.” He took a deep breath, steadying himself, “We went out one day without telling our parents. Mingyu wanted ice cream. Walking home, we were attacked by a demon. I don’t remember what kind, everything happened so fast. It completely ignored me, like I wasn’t even there, and grabbed a hold of Mingyu. It dragged him away, down into a sewer. I didn’t go after them, and I never saw him again after that, and they never found his body. It was as if he had never existed at all.” His voice was trembling as he spoke, the rag and sword forgotten in his hands. Seungcheol felt sick. Their world was full of shadows and monsters, but it was designed that way to protect those who needed protecting. Mingyu must have been so afraid, being dragged away into the dark, with no idea of what was going on.

“You went to the Academy after that, right?” Seungcheol remembered Wonwoo from Idris. Small, bespectacled, consistently second in his class to Soonyoung.

“I did,” Wonwoo nodded, adjusting his glasses, “I didn’t want to go back to Anyang, not after everything.” Seungcheol leaned back on his heels, thinking hard as he wiped at his face with his sleeve. The armory was one of the only rooms in the institute without working air conditioning, and Seungcheol was beginning to feel the creeping heat as they spoke. His hairline felt damp, beads of sweat crawling towards the neck of his shirt.

“So mundane Mingyu disappears ten years ago, presumably killed by demons. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, reappears on the streets of Seoul - suddenly a Shadowhunter - and seems to want nothing to do with you.”

“That's about the measure of it, yeah.” Wonwoo nodded, dabbing at his sweaty temples with his polishing rag as he hung the broadsword back on the wall. His shoulders were rock hard with tension, bunching up as he turned back to Seungcheol.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Insightful.” He deadpanned.

“It’s not possible that Mingyu just became a Shadowhunter. Are you certain his parents aren't just deserters?” Wonwoo shook his head,

“I researched him when I went to Idris. It didn’t make sense to me why they went after him and not me, but from what I could tell he doesn’t have a shred of angel blood in his veins. He’s just a mundane. Or he was.” Seungcheol was getting uncomfortably hot now, making a mental note to prioritise getting a new AC unit fitted in the room,

“I’ll speak to him about it - maybe shed some light on who the hell he is.” He decided, “thank you for sharing, it can’t be easy for you to talk about.” Wonwoo looked sombre, his cheeks pale and his dark eyes downcast,

“Look after him.” He said.

“You know I will.” Seungcheol replied gently, closing the armory door behind himself as he left, stepping out into the merciful cool of the corridor. His body relaxed, but his mind was spinning. What the hell was going on? What had happened to Mingyu in the years he had been missing? What had he become, and why? Part of him wanted to call the Gyeongju Institute and get the Enclave involved, but Mingyu was so skittish and cagey that he had a sneaking suspicion it would do more harm than good.

He cracked his neck, pondering the tapestry of the Angel Uriel that hung opposite the armory entrance. It was one of the older works in the Institute, an image of the angel leaning benevolently out of the clouds, reaching down towards the rapturous mortals below. A glowing heavenly light fanned out behind him, making the tapestry feel lit from within. It was his favourite, actually, of the dozens that hung on the walls. Uriel was depicted as a gentle force - a strong warrior softened by his adoration for humanity. It reminded Seungcheol of the kind of leader he wanted to be - powerful, yes, but gentle. Someone who could be trusted. His gut twisted, the image of Jeonghan flashing in his mind's eye. One day, the two of them would correct the damage done, he hoped, but for now he would have to set himself and what he wanted aside. Something was brewing - something dangerous - and Mingyu was the missing link. It was Seungcheol’s job to figure out exactly what it was.