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Chapter Text

The encrypted line buzzed at midnight.

On three separate screens, a single word bloomed in white against the dark: DIVAZ.

It wasn’t a name. It was a summons.

The Black Ops Agency didn’t call unless they needed their deadliest assets—those who could slip through cracks in glass fortresses, charm a confession out of a tyrant, or dismantle an empire with a single keystroke.

The Divaz were exactly that—untouchable, seductive, sharper than the blades sewn into their designer suits.

Outside, the city sprawled like a jewel box scattered across velvet. Towers pierced the night, glass facades catching light from neon rivers below. Wealth and power hummed beyond the windows as if the skyline itself held its breath.

Inside the penthouse meeting room, three chairs waited around a polished obsidian table. The air smelled faintly of steel and whiskey—of business conducted in shadows.

☆

Jay Lawrence arrived first.

He moved like someone accustomed to rooms like this, but he hadn’t been born into them. His family had believed in discipline before affection. His father broke dawn with drills, his mother with ledgers. Martial arts had been forced into him before language fully settled on his tongue, and every bruise was treated not with comfort but with sharper instruction. Grit lived in every line of him, hard-earned, hammered in.

Later, he tried the honest path—an accountant in pressed shirts, quietly excelling in offices where people underestimated him. But behind the polite smile, he was already dissecting the hidden structures: shell companies, cooked books, the way greed always left a decimal dangling loose. A chance meeting with Zhang Shuaibo changed everything—an accidental brush with Black Ops surveillance that turned into recruitment. The Agency saw the predator hiding under the politeness. They sharpened him, and Jay never looked back.

Now he lounged in a leather chair, his watch glinting in the low light, eyes flicking across the room as if cataloging weaknesses in the walls themselves. Every angle, every reflection, every possible exit lived already inside his mind.

“As usual,” he muttered, voice dry as bone, “I’m the only one who respects punctuality.”

The glass doors whispered open.

♡

Zhang Shuaibo walked in like the world was a runway.

Because for him, it always had been.

Born with cheekbones that had sold out magazines and a smile that once made agents whisper star, Shuaibo had lived a life most dreamed of. He had been plastered across billboards and fashion spreads, adored by strangers who thought beauty equaled belonging. But the glamour was camouflage. Behind the silk and flashbulbs, he’d learned the world’s ugliest truths: how men in suits could buy careers, how power dressed itself in sponsorships and contracts, how a charming smile could disarm better than a gun.

When Black Ops found him, they didn’t need to train him in seduction. He already knew how to dismantle pride with a glance, how to slip past defenses with a laugh. They only taught him how to use it like a blade.

He slid into the chair opposite Jay with feline ease, his jacket falling into place as if gravity obeyed him differently. His voice was as smooth as his stride.

“You’re early,” Shuaibo said, lips curving in lazy amusement. “How boring of you.”

Jay smirked, but didn’t bite. “Someone has to keep this team grounded.”

Before Shuaibo could reply, the last member arrived.

◇

Cha Woongki strolled in with a tablet under his arm and a grin that spelled trouble.

He didn’t belong in a boardroom, not at first glance. Soft features, playful eyes, the kind of smile that made people underestimate him. But under that boyish charm lay the mind of a digital arsonist.

Woongki had once hacked the Agency itself—not for power, not for money, just because he was bored. He’d broken through layers of encryption that had kept governments blind for decades, humming to himself as if playing a game. By the time the Agency tracked him down, they realized punishment was wasted talent. Recruitment was the smarter choice. And so Woongki, who once treated hacking as a prank, was handed the keys to global chaos.

He thrived in it.

“Mom, Dad, quit arguing,” he teased as he dropped into the chair between them, tablet already flickering awake. “You’re ruining the family portrait.”

Jay sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Woongki said brightly, “you’d both be dead without me.”

Together, they were something more than a team.

Jay read the field like a ledger, every weakness a number waiting to be cashed. Shuaibo slid past walls of ego and self-importance, dismantling pride the way he dismantled locks. Woongki ghosted through servers and surveillance, twisting code until reality itself bent in their favor.

They didn’t need to talk. A flicker of an eyelid, the twitch of a wrist—these were their conversations. In the field, they weren’t improvising. They were choreography: sharp, seamless, lethal.

The far wall flickered.

A faceless silhouette appeared, voice wrapped in static.

“Divaz,” it rasped. “You’ve been assigned your next mission.”

Dossiers slid onto the display one by one, faces and bios bleeding into the screen.

Magnate One: Jeongwoo Seo

CEO of Seo Technologies. A strategist who built empires on ruthless innovation, dismantling rivals with surgical precision. Investigations into corruption always collapsed, evidence conveniently erased, witnesses discredited. His power wasn’t luck—it was design. He never lost.

Assigned to Woongki.

Woongki tilted his head at the photo, smirk curling. “A control freak. I do love breaking plans.”

Magnate Two: Han Park

Head of Park Entertainment—the world’s largest modeling empire. Outwardly glittering, inwardly rotten. Recruitment doubled as grooming. Contracts included silence clauses, and models were steered into “arrangements” with tycoons who purchased both their image and their silence. Whispers haunted every hallway, but proof never surfaced.

Assigned to Shuaibo.

Shuaibo’s laugh slid like velvet over steel. “A modeling magnate? Poetic. He runs the kingdom I’ve already conquered. Let’s see how he fares when his brightest star shines against him.”

Magnate Three: Steven Kim

Heir to Kim’s Financial. Banks, investments, global currencies bent under his thumb. Rivals called him a tyrant; victims called him a butcher. He dismantled competitors with surgical cruelty and enjoyed watching their ruin. Power was his playground, money his noose.

Assigned to Jay.

Jay’s eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. “A financial tyrant. Perfect. Let’s see how he handles real numbers when I’m the one holding the ledger.”

Woongki gave a low whistle. “Three at once? Someone’s feeling generous.”

“They are untouchable,” the faceless figure warned. “No law, no government dares cross them. But they are men—and men can be tempted.”

Jay’s voice was flat, edged. “And the catch?”

Static veiled the figure. “Each will test you. Each will hunt for weakness as much as you hunt for theirs. This is not three separate missions. It is one game. High risk, high reward. Your freedom is the prize.”

The word freedom pressed into the room like weight.

For them, freedom wasn’t abstract. It was survival.

Jay remembered the warehouse—ribs split open, blood slick on his shirt, Woongki dragging him over shattered glass while Shuaibo emptied his last clip to keep death at bay.

Woongki remembered the alley ambush—bullet grazing his arm, Jay hotwiring a getaway while Shuaibo stitched him steady in the backseat as engines screamed.

Shuaibo remembered the fire—smoke clawing into his lungs, both men hauling him through collapsing beams, refusing to let him fall even when the world itself came down.

Ride-or-die wasn’t a phrase. It was their truth.

The Agency owned their bodies, their skills, their lives. But if this mission cut the leash for good—if freedom was truly on the table—then the risk wasn’t just worth it. It was inevitable.

Shuaibo’s smile turned lethal. “Three magnates. Three empires. Three men who think they’re gods.”

Jay leaned back, a dangerous light in his eyes. “Let’s show them divinity is overrated.”

Woongki’s fingers danced across his tablet, codes already whispering into existence. “And make them beg while we dismantle everything they own.”

Their laughter curled into the night—soft, dangerous, seductive.

When the Divaz moved, empires crumbled.

And these magnates had no idea what was coming.

Chapter Text

The Divaz chat buzzed alive.

Shuaibo: Party tonight. Park Entertainment. Exclusive club. Models, clients, the whole peacock parade.

Jay: Security?

Shuaibo: Lax. Flash a smile, they wave you through.

Woongki: You’re not invited.

Shuaibo: Since when has that stopped me?

Woongki: Fixed it. Your name’s on the list now.

Shuaibo: Knew I kept you around for something.

♡

The club gleamed like money made physical—ice chandeliers dripping light, velvet walls swallowing sound, champagne towers catching the glow of camera flashes. Every table whispered a brand, a fortune, or a scandal.

Shuaibo entered dressed like temptation itself. A white silk suit, cut sharp enough to wound, the jacket loose and effortless, chest half-exposed beneath sheer lace. The fabric caught the light with every step, soft where the angles of his body were sharp. He looked less like a guest and more like the reason the party existed.

And the crowd agreed.

Models leaned in, laughing too brightly. Clients pulled him into circles like they already knew him. Every word from his lips turned strangers into confidants, every touch on an arm or shoulder left people wanting more. He wrapped the room around his fingers with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times—and made it look like instinct.

From the second floor, Park Han watched.

He stood at the balcony rail, drink untouched, gaze never straying. Noticing how Shuaibo turned power brokers into admirers, rivals into allies, the whole crowd shifting their rhythm to match his. Han’s eyes didn’t hold surprise—only the sharp calculation of a man measuring a new variable.

And when Shuaibo’s eyes finally lifted to him, that dangerous, knowing smile curling across his lips. Han stayed still, posture perfect, expression unreadable—but his mind refused to obey. He’s… impossibly pretty. Every line, every subtle movement, pulling at something inside him he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—admit. So damn distracting. And Han hates distractions.

A test would come. But not yet. For now, Han was content to observe the storm taking shape below.

The party shifted like invisible strings were tugged. One moment, Shuaibo was drowning in attention, the next—faces slipped away, conversations died mid-sentence, laughter dulled. The crowd was still around him, but thinner, looser, as if the spotlight had narrowed just to frame him.

Han never moved from the balcony, but Shuaibo felt it—every barrier, every redirection, orchestrated from above. He smirked into his glass, letting himself be led like a pawn, all the while knowing pawns could flip the board.

Then came the slip.

A drunk, bloated client staggered too close, reeking of whiskey and entitlement. “Pretty boy,” the man slurred, a hand lunging for Shuaibo’s chest, fingers grazing the lace. “Bet you’re for sale like the rest—”

Shuaibo’s body coiled. He could have ended it in a heartbeat—bone snapping, silence restored. But tonight wasn’t about brute force. So he held the wolf behind his teeth and smiled instead, cold and perfect.

The client shoved harder, loud enough to draw eyes. The crowd slowed, hungry for spectacle.

And that was when Park Han moved.

From the balcony, down the stairs, through the crowd. The shift in the room was immediate—people straightened, voices hushed, as if gravity itself had changed hands. Han’s hand closed on the drunk’s shoulder, grip calm but merciless.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Han said, voice carrying without effort. “Leave.”

The man sputtered something about knowing people—then faltered under the weight of Han’s stare. He slunk off into the shadows, partygoers pretending not to watch but failing miserably.

Han turned then, his gaze falling on Shuaibo up close for the first time. Silk suit gleaming, chest framed in lace, smirk curving like a blade. The tension snapped tight enough to hum.

Shuaibo raised his glass slightly, tone smooth as smoke. “Didn’t think I needed a knight in shining armor.”

Han didn’t blink. “You didn’t. I don’t like my parties getting messy.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the nearby crowd—soft, nervous, waiting. Shuaibo stepped closer, invading the silence with deliberate ease.

“Messy can be fun,” he murmured, just loud enough for those lingering ears. “Unless you prefer your toys obedient.”

The verbal blade landed clean, sharp enough to draw sparks. The crowd leaned in. Han’s lips curved the faintest fraction, not in humor but in recognition—this was no ordinary guest.

And then, with the same precision he had used to orchestrate the entire night, Han tipped his head toward a side hallway, voice dropping low.

“Walk with me.”

It wasn’t a request.

Shuaibo smirked wider, letting the pause drag, savoring the attention of every pair of eyes on them. Then he drained the last of his drink and fell into step beside Han, the crowd parting like water around them.

The game had shifted. The real match was about to begin.

The private wing of the club was a different world—soundproofed walls, dim amber light, the pulse of music from outside reduced to a heartbeat. Han pushed the door open and gestured Shuaibo inside without looking at him.

Shuaibo obeyed, but not meekly. He moved like he belonged everywhere—silk suit gleaming under the low light, lace teasing at the hollow of his chest, glass still in hand. He dropped into one of the leather chairs as though he owned it, smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

Han closed the door. Silence stretched.

He didn’t sit right away. He circled—slow, measured, a predator testing the edges of the cage. Shuaibo lounged, every shift of his body deliberate, showing no sign of intimidation.

Finally, Han’s voice cut through the stillness.

“You weren’t invited.”

Shuaibo’s eyes lifted, lazy but precise. “Of course I was.” He swirled the drink, the faint chime echoing. “I don’t crash parties. An invitation came to me—why else would I waste a night?”

Han’s expression didn’t flicker. He crossed to the sleek desk in the corner, the screen already glowing faintly. Fingers moved across the keyboard, efficient, exact.

A guest list filled the display. Han scrolled. Stopped.

There it was. Zhang Shuaibo. Not in the standard column, but at the very top—VVIP.

His jaw tightened, just barely. Someone had placed Shuaibo in the highest tier, without his knowledge.

Behind him, Shuaibo reclined further, enjoying the silence stretching between them. “See?” he said softly. “Wouldn’t miss your little party for the world.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “Though I admit, I was bored.”

Han turned, gaze sharp, calculating. He studied Shuaibo not as a guest, not as a model, but as a problem wearing silk.

He stayed composed, face unreadable as he looked back on the glowing screen. Zhang Shuaibo. It didn’t add up.

A model of Shuaibo’s stature—global campaigns, headlines, a brand in himself—had no reason to be here at a party crawling with clients and mid-tier names clawing for attention. Models came here to climb. Shuaibo was already on the summit.

And yet… Han knew him. Of course he knew him.

His eyes flicked to Shuaibo across the room, lounging with infuriating grace, and for a split second, memory bled through the surface.

The memory surfaced before he could stop it.

Years ago. Another night. Another room, just two of them.

Shuaibo had been a rookie then—too beautiful, too raw. The industry had chewed at him fast, as it always did, leering hands, whispered ultimatums, cruel jokes dressed as favors. Han had found him after, in the corner of a dim-lit room, hugging his knees, silent tears streaking a face that had just learned how ugly beauty could be.

Han hadn’t offered comfort. He hadn’t spoken at all. He’d only stood there in the doorway until Shuaibo’s swollen eyes lifted, meeting his. The look they exchanged was wordless but absolute: you’ve seen it now—survive, or leave.

Shuaibo had survived. More than that—he had mastered.

And the boy in tears had become this man in silk, smirking at him like the world belonged to him.

Han closed the memory off, sealing it behind his usual composure. His voice, when it came, was cool as stone.

“Tell me, Zhang Shuaibo—what do you gain from being here? My parties aren’t for the bored.”

Shuaibo’s smile didn’t falter. “Maybe I wanted to see if it’s true that the great Park Han always watches from balconies.”

Their eyes locked, silence pressing tight, the past and present colliding in the low-lit room.

Han finally sat. The chair creaked under the weight of precision, his spine straight, one leg crossing over the other. He didn’t look at Shuaibo right away, letting the silence fold tighter, testing how long the man in silk would enjoy his own performance before it frayed.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Han said at last, voice low, even. “What are you really doing here?”

Shuaibo swirled his drink, eyes glinting in the amber light. “Enjoying the party, obviously. Isn’t that what you throw them for? Or are the champagne towers just for decoration?”

Han didn’t blink. “Parties are instruments. They measure people—ambition, desperation, loyalty. Which are you offering me tonight?”

Shuaibo’s smile deepened, playful on the surface, blade-edged beneath. He leaned back further into the leather chair, lace shifting as though the fabric itself was mocking restraint. “You make it sound so serious. Maybe I just missed the music. Or maybe I wanted to show everyone what a room looks like when I walk into it.”

Han’s gaze sharpened. “Ego is cheap. You’ve already bought it a hundred times over. That’s not why you’re here.”

A pause. Small. Barely a breath. But Han caught it—the fraction of a heartbeat Shuaibo needed to recover his smirk.

He leaned forward slightly, enough to let the dim light carve shadows across his face. “There are handful of magnates with too much money and not enough restraint. Their names come up often. And suddenly you appear at my party, on my list—without my permission. Coincidence?”

Shuaibo raised his glass in a mock toast, hiding the flicker in his eyes. “You give me too much credit. Maybe your secretary just has excellent taste.”

Han let the words hang, dissecting them, then countered with silence sharp enough to sting.

At last, Shuaibo set his glass down, leaning forward, voice dropping into a purr meant for the small distance between them. “Careful, Mr. Park. Keep staring at me like that, and people will think you’re interested in something other than answers.”

The room seemed to pulse once, heavy with implication.

Han didn’t flinch. “Interest,” he said flatly, “is something I can afford. Lies are not.”

For the first time, Shuaibo’s smirk curved slower, deliberate. He rose from the chair without hurry, silk catching the amber light as though the room itself bent to watch him. “Then keep watching,” he murmured, brushing past Han on his way to the door. “I promise you won’t be bored.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Han remained seated, still as stone, eyes fixed on the glass Shuaibo had left behind. A smudge of condensation marked where his hand had lingered too long.

Not an accident.

A message.

♡

The city streaked past the windshield, neon and streetlights melting into long, liquid ribbons. Shuaibo’s hands rested lightly on the steering wheel—calm, but al‍ert, the quiet before a storm that churned in his chest. The engine hummed beneath him, steady and indifferent, while his thoughts raced, tangled with images he hadn’t expected to revisit tonight.

Fragments of the party flickered behind his eyes, the glint of champagne towers, the flash of cameras, the murmured admiration of clients and models alike. And Han—always Han—moving through the crowd like a predator with invisible strings, commanding without touching, directing attention without effort. The memory pressed against him, sharp and impossible to shake.

He exhaled slowly, letting the cool night air seep through the cracked window, chasing the pulse of tension in his chest. Gratitude and irritation tangled together, wrapped around curiosity and something darker. Han had protected him once, silently—and now he returned, not as a guardian, but as a challenger.

The memories came unbidden, relentless.

He remembered his first months in the industry—too young, too beautiful, too unguarded. Studios had been battlefields. Harsh lights, cold floors, leering hands, whispered ultimatums promising favors but delivering humiliation instead. Cheap coffee stained his fingers, cheap perfume masked the smell of exploitation. He crouched in corners, hugged his knees, trying to make himself small, trying not to cry.

And sometimes, even in the loneliest moments, he hadn’t been entirely alone. A shadow in the doorway, a figure standing silently—watching, waiting, making sure he didn’t break. He hadn’t known the name then.

Then came the rise, campaigns stacking faster than he could count, doors that had slammed shut opening wide. Fortune, skill, grit—perhaps. But someone had been pulling the strings. Park Han.

The name alone made his pulse flicker. A splinter of memory rose, unwelcome, sharp.

The day Woongki joined Divaz came back clearly. Jay and him testing the new recruit's skills. Shuaibo had leaned back in his chair, smirking.

“Alright,” he said, casual, edged with control. “Tell me something interesting about me that no one knows. Don’t lie.”

Woongki had laughed nervously, fingers flying over laptop and tablet, tension stiff in his shoulders. Then his eyes widened, the truth striking him.

“All those years you thought you fought alone… Park Han? He was there. In the shadows. Making sure you didn’t get chewed up by the industry. Without a word, without recognition… just guiding you.”

The words hung in the air, vibrating in Shuaibo’s chest. Disbelief tangled with something warmer, heavier, something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. He had no argument—Han had been there all along.

That was why, when the Divaz mission came and Park Han’s name appeared as his assignment, his world crumbled—but he could not show it. Not when the commands are watching. Not now.

His hands brushed against Jay and Woongki’s in quiet assurance. Neither looked directly at him, but the contact was enough, he was not alone.

♡

By the time he pulled into the hotel garage, rain-slick asphalt glimmering under neon reflections, his mind was a tempest. The elevator ride to the suite was silent but charged, the weight of past cruelty, manipulation, and silent protection pressing down with each floor.

Room 925. The door clicked shut behind him, muffling the distant heartbeat of the city. He let the silk jacket fall to the chair, ran his fingers along the edge of the bed, and finally sank into himself, letting memories and emotions coalesce.

Then his phone buzzed. Divaz chat.

Divaz Chat – Encrypted Line

Jay: Hyung, you good?

Woongki: You okay? You’ve been quiet since the party.

Shuaibo stared at the messages, thumb hovering. Words felt inadequate. Finally, carefully, he typed:

Shuaibo: I’m… thinking.

Jay: About Han?

He didn’t reply. Thinking wasn’t just about the party—it was about the storm Han had stirred in him. The man who had watched him suffer, protected him, and now challenged him in ways no one else could. Past and present collided in Shuaibo’s mind, debts unspoken, silent guidance, dangerous allure—the magnetic pull of someone always just out of reach.

Another buzz, different tone. 

Unknown Sender: Meet me. Now. Don’t make me wait.

Shuaibo’s pulse flickered. No guessing needed. The phrasing, the precision, the weight behind it—Park Han. Always direct. Always exact.

He rose smoothly from the bed, silk brushing against his shoulders, fingers grazing the lace at his chest. Keys in one hand, phone in the other, every movement precise, deliberate. Rain whispered against the window, neon reflections winking across the floor. His breath caught, chest tight.

Tonight, he stepped into Han’s world—and the game had already begun.

♡

Park Han sat alone at the bar in the private wing of the club. Dim amber light pooled over polished wood and leather, reflecting faintly off the array of crystal glasses behind him. The music from the main floor had faded; he had cleared the establishment. Silence remained—a space carved deliberately for observation.

Earlier, as Shuaibo had exited the main floor, Han leaned slightly toward his assistant, Jian Chihen, and whispered just once, “End it. Everyone—send them home.” Chihen nodded almost imperceptibly, setting the club in motion. Within minutes, the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the thrum of bass—all gone. Only the curated silence remained.

Han’s glass of whiskey rested untouched. Fingers tapped lightly against the rim. A faint scent of cologne—or was it just the memory of him?—tingled in the air, pricking his senses.

Did he already know? Han wondered. Did Shuaibo realize all those years I was there—

He remembered the first time he truly saw the boy. Not in magazines, not under studio lights, but raw and unguarded. Han had been shadowing his father, preparing to take over the company, learning the ruthless calculus of business. That day had hit him hard.

Storming out of his father’s office, frustrated and sickened by the cruelty he’d witnessed—the way the industry chewed up models, discarded them—he had needed air. He had run down buzzing hallways until he found an open door. Inside, a young model sat huddled in the corner, hugging his knees, tears streaking a face too fragile for the world he’d been thrown into.

Zhang Shuaibo.

The boy lifted his eyes meeting his. Harsh flashes, cruel remarks, exploitation—they had all caught up with him at once. Han had simply stood there, memorizing everything, fear, resilience, raw talent. A silent promise formed in him; I will make sure you survive. No one will break you until you are ready to fight back.

Years later, that promise had shaped the man now poised somewhere in the city tonight—smoldering confidence, precise control, a smirk that could disarm the most calculating adversary. And now he was here again, summoned by nothing more than a message, stepping into the orbit Han had maintained for years.

Han took a slow sip of whiskey, letting the warmth spread through him. Control had its comforts—but curiosity gnawed at the edges.

The door clicked softly, almost reverently. Han’s gaze lifted. Shuaibo stepped in—silk brushing against skin, confidence radiating from every deliberate movement. The faint brush of fabric across the wrist of his sleeve, the way he moved without hesitation, set something taut in Han’s chest.

Han did not move. His eyes mapped Shuaibo, decoding every precise motion. A memory flickered—once, he had seen the boy trembling in a dim-lit room. Now, it was gone.

Shuaibo’s eyes met his, sharp and unreadable, scanning with the same instinctive precision Han had observed develop over years. A smirk curved his lips—deliberate, testing. Han’s own expression shifted fractionally. A breath caught somewhere he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“You cleared the room,” Shuaibo said, voice smooth, teasing, edged with fire. “I should be flattered.”

“Distractions are expensive,” Han replied, tone low and precise. “I don’t tolerate them.”

A subtle shift in Shuaibo’s posture—barely perceptible—drew Han’s gaze, tracing the line of shoulder and neck, the effortless poise of him even in stillness. Always observing. Always measuring.

Shuaibo settled into a chair across from the bar, silk shifting effortlessly, fingers brushing the rim of the glass he hadn’t touched. He leaned slightly forward, just enough for Han to sense the tension in the air between them. “I didn’t expect an empty room,” he murmured, eyes scanning polished surfaces and controlled lighting. “I thought you’d enjoy chaos.”

“Chaos is for amateurs,” Han said smoothly. “I prefer to see how people perform when the noise is gone. What do you need from me, Zhang Shuaibo?”

Shuaibo let the silence stretch, fingers tapping lightly on the glass rim. Han noticed the small movement—the flex of his wrist, the angle of his shoulder—as if every detail had been calculated to draw attention.

“I’m here,” he said finally, voice even, professional, “to sign with Park Entertainment.”

Han narrowed his eyes. Simple words, yet the calm precision set his senses on al‍ert. Is that all this is? Or a carefully crafted facade?

“Signing,” Han repeated, slow, deliberate. “Here. Now. With no prior introduction. You walk into my space unannounced, and this is your reason?”

Shuaibo’s posture remained perfect, unflinching. “Yes. I understand the process, the expectations. I’m prepared. That’s why I came.”

Han tilted his head, amber light catching the edges of his face. He didn’t smile. He didn’t move. He simply watched, cataloging every fraction of motion, every subtle inflection—the faint flare of nostrils, the shift in chest, the way a thought might tremble across lips that didn’t speak it.

“Tell me,” Han said, steady, precise, “why Park Entertainment? You’re doing very well independently. Why step into our space?”

Shuaibo’s gaze held steady. Fingers tapped lightly on the glass rim, deliberate and controlled. “I need more,” he said evenly. “Park Entertainment has always been the benchmark—the company that defines what modeling should be. I want to push myself further, reach heights I can’t achieve alone. That’s why I’m here.”

Han’s mind flickered, struck by the unwavering confidence before him. Nothing like the trembling boy he had first seen. Shuaibo had evolved, sharpened, honed into someone almost untouchable. Yet the weight of the industry’s cruelty pressed harder, imagining the dark path Shuaibo had navigated to survive—and now excel.

Even so, another thought flickered quietly: Zhang Shuaibo was breathtaking. Not just world-admired beauty, but the subtle details—poise, precision, effortless presence. Part of Han wanted to see more, to understand it, up close, not from a distance. The air between them hummed faintly, charged with something neither dared name.

The silence stretched, deliberate, measured. Han let Shuaibo speak without interruption. Every instinct told him to remain cautious. Every sense warned that appearances were rarely what they seemed.

“Very well,” Han said finally, calm and precise. “We’ll see if you’re ready. Actions matter more than words.”

Shuaibo inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the words without concession. Professional. Controlled. Detached.

Han’s amber eyes remained fixed on him. Intentions, not words.

Chapter Text

The glow of multiple screens lit Cha Woongki’s face, painting him in soft blues and neon reds. Headset snug, fingers dancing across keys with effortless speed, he was in his element.

“Again? Really?” a voice crackled through the mic, sharp and slightly frustrated.

Woongki grinned. “What? I’m just warming up. You’ve lost like five rounds in a row, Jeongwoo.”

“Not my fault you’re cheating!” Seo Jeongwoo’s voice was indignant, clipped—the kind of perfect tone for a CEO—but completely useless in a competitive online shooter.

“Cheating? Oh, come on. You call that dodging skill? That was pure art,” Woongki teased, leaning back in his chair, the corner of his hoodie sliding down as he stretched. “Or maybe you just need more practice not dying on spawn.”

“Excuse me? I am tactical,” Jeongwoo barked. “And I demand—”

“Demand?!” Woongki laughed. “This isn’t corporate, Jeongwoo. It’s war. And in war… you die. A lot. Like… a lot-a-lot.”

Jeongwoo groaned into the mic. “I will destroy you next round. You’ll regret—”

“Sure, sure,” Woongki interrupted, smirking, “just don’t rage-quit before I get my kill streak. Again.”

They bickered for another twenty minutes, Jeongwoo’s sharp tone clashing with Woongki’s casual teasing. What Jeongwoo didn’t know was that Woongki wasn’t just playing for fun.

If you asked Cha Woongki why he was in this situation—sitting in his room, headset snug, playing silly computer games with the above‑the‑law CEO of Seo Technologies—he would have laughed. Or cursed. Probably both.

He hadn’t expected this.

When the Black Ops sent him the detailed files of Seo Jeongwoo, the plan had been clear: use his tech skills to infiltrate the company, get on the internal data team, and—boogsh—ruin their database from the inside, expose Seo Technologies’ shits. Clean, precise, satisfying. Professional sabotage.

But the universe had other plans.

◇

One night, while playing his favorite ridiculous online game, he met a sixteen-year-old newbie named dainini_25—he later found out his name was Daisuke—in the middle of one of their matches. Fumbling, eager to improve—an ideal partner for mentoring. Woongki guided the kid, laughed with him, and watched him slowly grow more confident in the game.

And then there was the silent player: kwatatto. Quiet. Careful. Constantly dying but clearly learning, observing, adapting. At first, Woongki assumed he was just another random player.

Woongki leaned forward, adjusting his headset. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as the lobby loaded. Daisuke was nervously checking his controls.

“Alright, kid,” Woongki said, voice casual but sharp, “lesson one: survive. Lesson two: don’t wander into corners alone. Lesson three: follow me, or I will roast you mercilessly.”

“I… I’ll try,” Daisuke said nervously.

Across the map, kwatatto wandered silently, respawning every few seconds.

“Ohhh, look at you,” Woongki muttered, leaning closer to the mic. “Silent, careful… and still dead. You’re like a ghost that trips over everything.”

Daisuke giggled. “He’s… really quiet.”

“Quiet?” Woongki snorted. “More like ‘permanently confused.’ Come on, kwatatto, you’re supposed to survive the spawn, not invent new ways to die!”

Every round, Woongki found new ways to mock the silent player:

“Wow… you just fell off the map again. Amazing talent.”

“Kwatt, maybe try moving before the enemy sees you. Just a thought.”

“Dead again? You’re giving respawn points to everyone!”

Meanwhile, he coached Daisuke patiently:

[dainini_25 → chachawoo]

> Thanks… I usually just die a lot

[chachawoo → dainini_25]

> You listened! You followed directions! Unlike some people… cough kwatatto cough.

“Step back! Step back! And—oh wait, kwatatto’s already dead. Classic.”

“Seriously, I’ve seen potatoes move faster than you in this game. I don’t even know why your username is about potatoes when clearly your display pic is a radish.”

Daisuke laughed, snorting through his mic. “You’re… really mean to him!”

“Mean?” Woongki grinned. “I call it mentoring by example. Silent players need tough love. And, let’s be honest, it’s hilarious watching him flail.”

By the final round, kwatatto—still silent, still careful, still dying—managed to survive slightly longer than before.

Woongki shook his head. “Wow… you’re like a human tutorial. Silent, slow, and somehow still alive. I almost respect it… almost.”

Daisuke laughed nervously. “He’s… actually learning too!”

“Exactly,” Woongki said. “Silent ones are the hardest to read. And kwatatto… well, he’s secretly brilliant at failing. Pay attention.”

[dainini_25 → chachawoo]

> I… survived! Thanks!

[chachawoo → dainini_25]

> Told you. You’re officially not trash anymore. Now, watch and learn how a pro roasts silently struggling teammates.

◇

After the game, they said their goodbyes, promising to play on weekends again since Woongki had told Daisuke weekdays are for school only. Daisuke seemed to follow him willingly, still laughing at the harsh mentoring and teasing.

But kwatatto… that player stayed in Woongki’s mind. Always there whenever he and Daisuke played. Silent, careful, impossible to read. Daisuke clearly stated he didn’t know the player personally, which only made Woongki more curious.

Woongki might be a game nerd—but he was also one of Black Ops’ deadliest weapons, trained to treat every curiosity as a potential threat. And kwatatto was now a puzzle demanding investigation.

He dove into kwatatto’s profile, fingers flying over keys, running scripts and queries. Fake IP. Blank breadcrumbs. Nothing.

“This is… ridiculously annoying,” Woongki muttered, rubbing his temples. “You can hide from the world, but you can’t hide from me, potato!”

The room darkened further as he pulled up his heavy-duty data tools—the kind reserved for Black Ops deep dives. Screens multiplied, windows overlaying windows, streams of raw code scrolling too fast to read. His eyes flicked across lines, searching for anything out of place.

A bead of sweat slid down his temple. Fingers hovered over keys. He typed, erased, typed again. The messy, scribbled code mocked him.

“Why does this look like my little cousin’s math homework?!” he muttered, leaning closer. “Seriously… who writes like this… a caffeinated squirrel?!”

He toggled scripts, tried decoding algorithms, cross-referencing with obscure metadata. The hum of fans and soft mechanical clicks of the keyboard filled the room. Each failed attempt made him grind his teeth—but also made him laugh under his breath.

“This is like trying to squeeze a cat through a keyhole,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Why am I doing this… oh yeah… curiosity. Deadly curiosity.”

Finally, after several rounds of frustration and muttered insults, a breakthrough. Scribbled code resolved into legible text. Woongki’s eyes narrowed, pupils dilated, heart thumping just a little faster.

—

*I really wasn't planning on explaining this in such detail, but…

Kwat is a potato that grew up in the shadows, unable to receive sunlight from the outside world, which is why it's white.

You all are so generous when it comes to dramatic interpretations, but why won't you allow some character-based interpretations too? Yoooooo!!

Even if it's buried, it's still a potato!

I can't overlook comments like this anymore. I will be watching you.

—Seo Jeongwoo*

—

“What the actual fuck…”

Seo Jeongwoo? Here? In the code? No. No. No way. Impossible. How the hell— Woongki’s brain was on fire, circuits sparking, words scrambling, thoughts colliding. His fingers itched to type, to hack, to tear the system open, but every second he hesitated, the code seemed to laugh at him.

Try this. Try that.

Nothing. No data found. Again. Again. AGAIN. It’s like the program knows me. It sees me. It’s alive.

Alive and untouchable, mocking him with perfect silence.

Why can’t I get in? Why won’t it let me see? I need to see. I have to see.

And… damn. Damn it. It’s beautiful. It’s so damn beautiful. The way it erases itself, the way it locks every move, the way it dances just out of reach. Infuriating. Inspiring. I hate it. I love it. I… I can’t— focus.

Pulse pounding, chest tight, every nerve screaming, Woongki wanted to scream, to laugh, to throw the keyboard across the room and kiss the screen at the same time.

It’s insane. It’s fucking genius. How does someone even make this? Seo Jeongwoo… this is your signature, isn’t it? You smug little bastard…

He leaned closer, nose almost to the screen, eyes wide. Fingers twitching.

I’ll break you. I’ll break you and see every last secret.

But a tiny, terrified part of him knew he couldn’t. Not yet. And that made it burn hotter—rage, awe, obsession, all mixing into a fever he couldn’t cool down.

Woongki’s mind was spinning, chaotic, brilliant, furious. He was alive. And he was on fire.

Woongki always had ways. Always. That was the rule of the game he’d lived by: if you couldn’t attack head-on, there was always a secret passage, a hidden route, a backdoor waiting for someone clever enough to find it.

And right now, Kwatatto—no, Seo Jeongwoo—was a locked fortress he couldn’t touch. Nothing but Daisuke connected him to this enigma, this code ghost, this unreal presence in the system. So that was his angle. If he couldn’t go straight for Kwatatto, he’d trace the thread through Daisuke. Follow the path. Find the seam.

Firewalls. Protocols. Restrictions thicker than the walls of a bank vault. He had to navigate them like a sniper moving through shadows. Not as flawless, not as alive as Kwatatto’s self-defending masterpiece—but enough. Enough for Woongki. He had patience, persistence, that unshakable faith that if a system exists, there’s a way in.

And he found it.

Daisuke’s computer—his mind, his pattern—opened to Woongki like a map. Not cleanly, not perfectly, but it yielded. Every firewall a puzzle, every encryption a challenge. His pulse raced, not just from the thrill of breaking in, but from the knowledge of what this could lead to. One misstep, one oversight… and Daisuke would know. But Woongki didn’t care. He needed to see where Kwatatto’s thread led, to trace Seo Jeongwoo’s fingerprints in digital dust.

He dove until the edges of the map thinned, until the neat file trees frayed into smudged fingerprints. Basic stuff first—birth records, school names, a string of mundane logins. Nothing that screamed monster, just the bones of a life. And then—his stomach lurched. Adoption paperwork. Stamped, dated, branded with Seo Technologies’ old letterhead curling like ash at the corner.

Daisuke—adopted by the previous CEO. Granted the wish of their one and only child.

Woongki froze, then grinned, sharp and electric. Confirmed. Kwatatto is Seo Jeongwoo. Seo Jeongwoo is Kwatatto. The impossible knot had finally unraveled, and in its place—a golden thread leading straight to the man himself.

I’ve got you. I finally, finally—

His fingers flew, sweeping up data, logs, anything, everything. Each copied file felt like a trophy.

This is it. This is my path in. This is how I get closer to you, Seo Jeongwoo.

And then—

"SYSTEM AUTOMATIC FORMATTING"

The words roared across his screen in brutal, unmissable red.

Woongki’s grin only widened, eyes sparkling like a madman’s. “WOW. He found me!” He laughed, half-thrilled, half-terrified. “So fast! Oh, genius.” His pulse hammered. The system was already erasing itself, burning the trail clean, burying every footprint.

◇

Seo Jeongwoo had always been expected to inherit Seo Technologies—the empire of his parents, infamous tyrants who ruled both boardrooms and back channels. Surrounded by cutting-edge machines since childhood, he didn’t just use technology—he bent it to his will. 

Raised under the careful love of his powerful parents, Seo Jeongwoo lived a life wrapped in protection. For the sake of his safety, his face was hidden from the public, his identity guarded as fiercely as the empire he was meant to inherit.

At ten years old, loneliness began to gnaw at him. Surrounded by technology and walls of security, he longed for something more ordinary—a brother. When he wished for one, his parents granted it, adopting a boy from Japan. Jeongwoo chose his name himself: Daisuke—“a great support.”

From then on, Daisuke became Jeongwoo’s anchor. Jeongwoo shielded him from the shadows of corporate life, ensuring his little brother could grow up free, happy, and normal—the kind of childhood Jeongwoo had been denied. In return, Daisuke unknowingly gave him something greater than protection or power: family.

By thirteen, he had already engineered a defense system so intricate it bordered on a data-borne virus, something no rival mind could replicate.

At twenty-one, he claimed the throne of the corporation. Too young, many whispered. Too dangerous, others feared. Yet respect followed him, swift and unquestioning. Curiously, no one outside the inner circle had ever seen his face. With clients, allies, and enemies alike, he appeared only through hyper-advanced holograms, a flawless projection of power without presence—leaving the man himself shrouded in perfect mystery.

Jeongwoo spent most of his days sealed inside his self-made fortress buried in data streams, codes, and holograms that only he seemed to understand. To the outside world, he was untouchable. To Daisuke, he was simply Hyung, the big brother who could outsmart entire corporations.

Naturally, Daisuke believed Jeongwoo was the best at everything that had to do with computers. But there was one exception—games. Ironically, the same boy who could bend firewalls and invent unbreakable defenses couldn’t land a proper headshot or time a jump in the simplest platformer. Every time they played, Jeongwoo’s avatar would tumble into pits or get wiped out embarrassingly fast, while Daisuke laughed until his sides hurt.

For Jeongwoo, it was a small humiliation. For Daisuke, it was proof that even his perfect Hyung had cracks—funny, human cracks that made him even more lovable.

Daisuke had found someone online—an anonymous gamer, a hyung patient enough to guide him through clumsy mistakes and turn him into a surprisingly sharp player. Over dinner one night, he casually mentioned it, laughing as he told Jeongwoo about the strategies he’d been learning.

Jeongwoo, spoon paused midair, said nothing. But something in him prickled. Best Hyung—that was his title. No one else was supposed to fill that role, even in games.

That same night, back in the glow of his room, Jeongwoo quietly created a new account. No flashy username, no traces of who he really was with of course the self destruct virus if in case someone tries to hack on his system. Pure stealth. He slipped into the digital battlefield not as the untouchable heir of Seo Technologies, but as an anonymous shadow—determined to spy, measure this so-called mentor, and prove that even if he was terrible at games, he was still Daisuke’s number one.

Under the alias kwatatto, Jeongwoo always slipped silently into Daisuke’s online matches. He never announced himself—just hovered in the background, respawning again and again, half guardian, half spy.

Daisuke’s friend chachawoo was always there too. Their voice was smooth, almost too pleasant for the words they wielded. Every jab landed clean, and Jeongwoo—prodigy in everything else—couldn’t dodge a single one. He died, they roasted. He respawned, they roasted harder.

At first, it was tolerable. Almost funny. But tonight, they’d crossed a line.

“Step back! Step back!—oh wait, kwatatto’s already dead. Classic.”

A beat later:

“Seriously, I’ve seen potatoes move faster than you in this game. I don’t even know why your username is about potatoes when clearly your display pic is a radish.”

Jeongwoo froze, eyes narrowing at the screen. In his head, the comeback was instant:

A radish? Really? This is clearly an extraterrestrial starch-based lifeform. Show some respect.

Chachawoo kept talking. Jeongwoo’s grip on the mouse tightened.

Oh sure, laugh it up. Easy to talk when you’re hiding behind pixels and a microphone, sweetheart.

Another death. Another roast.

Pretty voice, sharp tongue… annoying combination. If I weren’t undercover, I’d bury you in your own respawn screen.

Daisuke was laughing, completely oblivious. Jeongwoo forced his comms to stay muted. Out loud, he said nothing. Inside, he was already scheming.

Fine. Enjoy your fun. But I’ll get good at this. And when I do… you’re going to eat those words about Kwat.

The great Seo Jeongwoo, heir of Seo Technologies, silently swore vengeance… not against a rival company, but against one merciless gamer with a too-pretty voice.

◇

When the match ended and the comms went quiet, Jeongwoo didn’t log off immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, the glow of his monitors reflecting in narrowed eyes.

Chachawoo.

The gamer who mocked his aim, disrespected Kwat, and somehow made him laugh at the same time.

A few keystrokes later, firewalls parted like curtains before him. Tracing an alias was child’s play for someone like Jeongwoo. Within minutes, the mask of “chachawoo” dissolved into lines of data.

Name: Cha Woongki

Background: Computer Science graduate. Unemployed.

Digital footprint: messy. Silly posts on social media, memes and half-baked rants, fragments of songs, snapshots of takeout meals. But the gaming records… those were undeniable. From Tetris to the most complex MMOs, Woongki’s usernames stacked across platforms like trophies, each attached to impossible scores and flawless records.

Jeongwoo stared at the screen, lips quirking into something between annoyance and amusement.

So. Not just a sharp tongue. A real gamer.

For the first time in a long while, Jeongwoo felt… challenged. Not by an executive or a rival company, but by some unemployed graduate with bad jokes and too many online accounts.

Scrolling through Cha Woongki’s messy trail of digital crumbs, Jeongwoo couldn’t help but scoff.

A computer science graduate, unemployed. Meme dumps on social media. Cringe posts about late-night ramen. A graveyard of old game accounts spanning from Tetris to impossible dungeon crawlers.

Pathetic, Jeongwoo thought, smirking. All that skill poured into leaderboards, yet no direction in real life. A talent wasted on cheap dopamine hits.

And then—his cursor hovered over a photo. Bad lighting, a half-eaten cup of ramen balanced on the desk, Woongki grinning at the camera like he didn’t care about the mess around him. Jeongwoo’s smirk faltered.

…Pretty.

The word slipped into his mind before he could stop it.

A sudden notification popped up on his screen.

Unauthorized attempt detected.

His pulse didn’t spike. He didn’t panic. Instead, Jeongwoo smiled. Someone was breaking in. Into his system.

Most hackers flailed against the first wall, their attempts sloppy, predictable. He almost enjoyed watching them crash and burn. But this intruder—this one moved differently. Their code threaded with rhythm, sidestepping traps, slipping through decoys like water through cracks.

Jeongwoo leaned forward, elbows on the desk, letting them try. Amusement flickered in his chest. Maybe even admiration.

“Well… aren’t you interesting.”

Then the intruder reached the second wall. Not brute-force encryption. Not an impenetrable fortress. Something far more personal—petty, sarcastic, deliberately mocking.

His monitors flared, text blooming across both systems in a flare of neon:

* I really wasn’t planning on explaining this in such detail, but…

Kwat is a potato that grew up in the shadows, unable to receive sunlight from the outside world, which is why it’s white.

You’re so generous with your dramatic interpretations—why not allow some character-based ones too? Yoooo!!

Even if it’s buried, it’s still a potato!

I can’t overlook comments like this anymore. I will be watching you.

—Seo Jeongwoo

Not just a firewall. A declaration. A signature carved into code.

Jeongwoo smirked, certain that would end it. No one ever made it past.

But then—movement. No retreat. No crash. No silence.

His masterpiece virus—quiet, lethal, inevitable—should have already latched onto their machine. Instead, he watched in disbelief as it began to fold in on itself. Line by line, stitch by stitch, dismantled as though someone were unraveling his work by hand.

“…Impossible.” His voice was low, sharp. No one had ever seen his virus before, let alone survived it.

And then, the coup de grâce. Mockery scrawled itself across his own monitors in pulsing neon pink, taunting him like a heartbeat:

> YOU ARE SO BAD AT GAMES.YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO DIFFERENTIATE VEGGIES.

For a long moment, Jeongwoo sat frozen, the kaleidoscope glow painting his face in fractured colors.

Cha Woongki. The gamer who roasted him nightly. The voice too pretty for its own good. The intruder who had just danced through his defenses.

Slowly, a grin split across Jeongwoo’s face. Not annoyance. Not anger. Something sharper.

Challenge.

“Well, Woongki…” he murmured, eyes gleaming, “…looks like you’re not just talk.”

For the first time since inheriting Seo Technologies, Seo Jeongwoo wasn’t defending an empire.

He was defending his pride.

◇

The next strike came fast—snippets of code stitched into a taunt, blooming across Jeongwoo’s screen in elegant loops:

// Nice try, Potato King. Maybe next time.

Jeongwoo barked a laugh, the sound bouncing off the cold walls of the Kwat Cave. Even he startled at it—he hadn’t laughed like that in years. No one had ever dared mock him here, inside his fortress of firewalls and mirrored glass.

His fingers flew across the keys, keystrokes ringing like percussion. A reply unraveled in shimmering syntax:

## Potato King accepts no peasants. Kneel before starch.

A pause. Then the screen flickered, unraveling another line, smooth and cocky:

// Starch rots. Long live the radish.

// Potato.exe has stopped working.

// Recommend uninstalling your gaming career.

Jeongwoo’s grin widened. His pulse beat harder, excitement curling through his veins. He typed back without hesitation:

# Error: Radish module not found.

# Please check your sense of humor and try again.

The reply landed in seconds, sly and smug:

// Humor installed successfully.

// Your skill package still missing.

Jeongwoo tipped his head back and laughed—sharp, genuine, electric. Nobody ever spoke to him this way. Not in boardrooms, not in networks. Not even Daisuke. This stranger wasn’t just roasting him—they were dancing with him in code.

He leaned closer to the glow, eyes bright.

## Teach me, then.

## Just make me good enough to beat my brother.

A long pause. The kind that stretched just enough to make anticipation prickle down his spine. Then—

// Fees apply. Lessons don’t come free.

// Are you sure you can afford me, Potato King?

Jeongwoo’s smirk was pure arrogance as his hands danced across the keys:

# I can afford anything.

# Name your price.

The cave filled with his laughter again, echoing against steel and stone. It was a rare sound, startlingly alive.

Across the city, Cha Woongki leaned back in his chair, neon glow catching the curve of his grin. Jeongwoo’s playful genius spilled across the screen in every line—bright, reckless, unguarded.

He let him laugh. Let him feel clever.

Because between those jokes and vegetables, Woongki’s real work bloomed: probes tucked into syntax like needles sewn into silk, breadcrumbs threaded through harmless loops of code. Harmless to the eye. Fatal to the system.

And as Jeongwoo laughed alone in his fortress, Woongki smiled.

This was the first step.

The first crack in the walls.

The first move in his game.

Chapter Text

Divaz Chat – Encrypted Line

Woongki: Check-in time. Any progress?

Jay: None. Steven Kim’s too private. No parties, no public indulgences. Only business. I can’t get close.

Woongki: Want me to dig? I can crawl through his systems, see what he’s hiding.

Jay: No. Jeongwoo’s already keeping you busy. One slip and he’ll know you’re inside his servers. We can’t afford that risk.

Woongki: Tsk. Multitasking is my middle name, ledger-boy.

Jay: Not this time. Stay on Jeongwoo. I’ll find Kim myself.

Shuaibo: I’d kill for your kind of problem. I’m stuck in Japan, glued to Park Han. Shoot schedules all day, investors and sponsors all night. The man keeps me on a leash like I’m his golden trophy.

Woongki: Well… technically you are his golden trophy.

Shuaibo: Don’t remind me. I can’t even sneeze without three sponsors handing me tissues.

Jay: Stay sharp. The closer he keeps you, the more he’ll slip.

Shuaibo: Mm. Let’s hope he slips before I do.

Woongki: Bring us souvenirs when you break him, starboy.

Jay: Just focus. I’ll dig my own way into Kim’s shadows.

[Chat Ended]

---

Unlike Shuaibo, who moved in the same glittering industry as Park Han and could slip into his orbit with little more than a smile, and unlike Woongki, who stumbled into Seo Jeongwoo through the reckless luck of online games, Jay Lawrence had no such opening.

Steven Kim was different.

The man lived like a shadow—present, powerful, but unreachable. Outside of Kim’s Financial, there was nothing. No charity galas, no indulgent parties, no whispered scandals. No hobbies leaked to the press, no photographs beyond stiff business spreads. His life was reduced to balance sheets and boardrooms, polished statements that revealed nothing of the man himself.

Jay had tried the usual angles. Surveillance turned up nothing but endless meetings and silent car rides between skyscraper and penthouse. Financial reports were sterile, deliberately scrubbed clean, with no dangling decimals left to tug at. Even whispers in the industry dried up before they could reach him. It was like chasing a ghost carved out of glass—transparent enough to see but impossible to hold.

And Jay hated it.

He could have asked Woongki to help, to dig into servers and force doors open. But Woongki was already running himself thin against Seo Jeongwoo, a man who treated firewalls like playthings and games like warzones. One mistake there could blow the entire mission. Jay wouldn’t risk it. He wouldn’t risk him.

So he worked alone.

Days blurred into nights, his desk littered with printouts, ledgers, scraps of leads that died in his hands before they could form a trail. Where Shuaibo was drowning in Park Han’s attention and Woongki was locked in a digital tug-of-war, Jay sat in silence, staring at a blank wall of privacy that refused to crack.

Steven Kim wasn’t just private.

He was fortified.

Jay started with the obvious: his network. Every executive, assistant, and junior analyst at Kim’s Financial became a potential node. He trailed them, discreetly photographing entrances and exits, monitoring habits, noting lunch breaks and cab rides. Every movement recorded. Every conversation in public spaces cataloged.

Nothing.

Everything around Steven Kim moved like clockwork, precise and antiseptic. Assistants were trained, guards were trained, even the barista at the private coffee shop outside the building seemed aware of an invisible script. Every lead ended at a polished wall of courtesy and professionalism.

Next, Jay tried the corporate angle: filings, shareholder reports, subsidiary transactions. He traced subsidiaries across continents, scanned trust filings, cross-checked board memberships. If there was a misstep, a dangling decimal, a whisper of mismanagement, he would find it.

He didn’t.

Everything was clean. So clean it almost hurt to look at. Each report was meticulously audited, each transaction double-verified. The financial empire gleamed with sterility, leaving Jay to feel like he was standing in the middle of a vacuum, trying to catch something that didn’t exist.

He tried surveillance, tailing Kim’s executives as they left private meetings or corporate events. He staked out entrances, noting patterns. But the executives were shadows themselves—professional, loyal, and utterly unremarkable. Any attempt to press them ended with smiles, polite refusals, and tightly closed doors.

Days turned into nights. Jay’s apartment became a war room: printouts pinned to walls, spreadsheets open across every monitor, digital maps of the city dotted with potential sightings. And yet, the man himself never appeared, never left a trace large enough to follow.

Frustration settled in his chest like a weight. This was nothing like Shuaibo, who could ride the same industry currents as Park Han and slip through lines of investors and sponsors, or Woongki, who could stumble upon Jeongwoo through a random online match and instantly start weaving the digital trap.

Jay had no luck. He had to earn every scrap of information, and Steven Kim gave nothing willingly.

Steven Kim’s world was fortified, but nothing was truly unbreachable. Jay just had to find the place where numbers, not people, would fail him.

And that meant patience. Endless patience.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the map of connections he’d painstakingly compiled. One decimal. One account. One tiny irregularity. It wasn’t much—but it was enough.

☆

Jay had followed Steven Kim from a distance all afternoon, noting the meticulous way the man moved, the precision in his schedule. But until now, he had never seen him without a buffer of bodyguards. Today, by some rare stroke of luck—or perhaps Kim’s own overconfidence—the man walked alone.

Jay kept to the shadows, every step measured. His training had taught him to blend into darkness, to move like an extension of the night itself. Black clothes, cap low over his eyes, a mask covering the lower half of his face. Almost invisible, almost nothing—but enough to survive this kind of close observation.

From the street, he watched Kim leave the sleek parking garage of a corporate building. Instead of heading toward the main entrance of the high-end bar as expected, Kim veered down a narrow, dimly lit alley followed, silent as a ghost. Every instinct sharpened. Footsteps measured. Breathing controlled. He had trained for situations like this countless times, but the human unpredictability always added a sliver of danger.

Halfway down the alley, Steven stopped.

Jay froze.

Jay’s footsteps faltered the moment Steven’s presence closed in behind him. Strong hands gripped his wrists, lifting them just enough to pin them against the rough brick wall. Steven’s chest pressed lightly against Jay’s back—firm, controlled, but not crushing. The contact was enough to restrict movement, to make escape impossible, but not enough to hurt him.

“Careful,” Steven murmured, his voice sharp yet measured, each word deliberate, sliding near Jay’s ear. “Following me… it doesn’t end well.”

Jay’s pulse raced. Every instinct screamed escape, yet the way Steven held him—the way he anchored Jay against the wall—made every attempt futile.

With a controlled motion, Steven released Jay’s wrists, letting them drop, only to pin his hands tightly against his back, caging him in a way that left him completely at Steven’s mercy. Jay’s body was pressed flush against the wall, trapped, exposed, yet alive with the hum of tension.

“Do not follow me,” Steven said, low, precise, dangerous. His lips barely moved, yet the words carried weight—more than a threat, a soft, lingering reminder that sent a shiver down Jay’s spine.

Jay’s thoughts spiraled. He expected fists, blood, chaos—but instead, Steven’s tone softened, almost human. “Please… don’t follow me. Whoever sent you—they should know better.”

Steven raised his left hand. Jay tensed, ready to block, to strike. But instead of a punch, a gentle pat landed on his shoulder. A jolt ran through him—not pain, but something else, something that made his heart stumble.

“Save yourself,” Steven said, calm, precise. “If they paid you to do this… get out. Get this.”

Then, almost casually, Steven reached into his wrist and took off something, a heavy watch. Jay recognized it instantly—not just expensive, absurdly so, the kind that carried silent weight.

“Take this,” Steven said, sliding it into Jay’s hand. “Sell it. Live. Peacefully.”

Jay’s fingers closed around the watch. His mind refused to process it—fear, disbelief, and a strange, reluctant fascination collided inside him. The alley felt impossibly still. Words failed him. Questions lodged in his throat. His chest was tight, his head spinning.

Finally, with the watch heavy in his palm and his heart still hammering, Jay turned and left. Each step echoed disbelief. Each heartbeat carried the strange, lingering calm Steven had left behind—a reminder that the real danger wasn’t fists or blood, but the man himself. And for some reason, that thought made Jay’s stomach twist in ways he hadn’t expected.

Jay moved through the city like a ghost, each step careful, controlled, yet strangely numb. He reached his penthouse without incident, body moving on autopilot. Once inside, he allowed himself to collapse into the cold embrace of the shower, water pounding against him, shocking his senses—but failing to wash away the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind.

He stood under the spray, muscles tense, heartbeat still erratic. It actually happened. Steven… the alley… the watch. Every detail replayed in his mind, impossible to reconcile.

Finally, shivering and exhausted, he stepped out, wrapped himself in a towel, and made his way to the bathroom sink. The watch sat there, gleaming under the harsh lights, heavy with an unspoken weight. Jay picked it up, turning it over in his hands, still dumbfounded.

The gift—so unexpected, so absurdly valuable—settled there like a quiet, impossible reminder of everything he couldn’t fully process. He didn’t know whether to be grateful, suspicious, or terrified. All he knew was that the world felt subtly… shifted, and Steven’s presence lingered long after he had left.

☆

Unknown Groupchat — Encrypted

♡: I have him close and keeping him busy. Nothing solid yet.

☆: I think I met mine last night. Could be useful, but need confirmation.

◇: Give me some time… we’ll know what’s up.

☆: Time’s slipping. If they moves too fast, we lose the window.

♡: Understood. I won’t push. Just… careful. Patience. Timing matters more than force.

☆: Keep eyes open. Patterns, habits, vulnerabilities. Everything counts.

◇: Noted. I’ll report anomalies immediately.

♡: Same. This network… it’s bigger than we thought.

☆: Then we adjust. Stay adaptive. One wrong move and it’s over.

◇: Copy that.

[Chat Ended]

☆

Jay sank into the chair by the window, city lights bleeding through the glass, but his eyes didn’t see them. His mind was elsewhere—on patterns, routes, schedules, small tells that might reveal Steven’s next move. Every detail mattered. One misstep, one miscalculation, and he wouldn’t just lose his freedom. Shuaibo’s. Woongki’s. Their futures hung on his choices, fragile as glass.

He opened his notebook, scribbled notes, sketches of alleys, possible escape routes, timing estimates. He replayed the alley encounter over and over—Steven’s grip, his voice, the weight of that impossibly expensive watch. That moment, that precise control, haunted him.

He’s always two steps ahead, Jay thought, chest tightening. Two steps, maybe three. I have to anticipate four.

Jay exhaled slowly. He would wait. He would watch. He would learn. And when the time came, he would act—not recklessly, not for himself, but for those he could still save.

☆

Steven always knew. Always.

Competitors, business partners, clients—he stayed three moves ahead of them all. It was the rhythm of his life, the pulse beneath every deal and betrayal. So when the faint echo of a shadow began to dog his steps, he noticed. He always noticed.

But this one was different.

No name. No face. Not even his private security could pin them down. The figure behind him left no traces, only the faintest ripple of presence at the edge of his instincts.

It irked him.

It intrigued him.

So he set the board himself. He dismissed his convoy, shut off the cameras, and stepped into the city as if he were just another man leaving the office after a long day. No bodyguards. No tinted cars. Just him, alone.

A message to the phantom in the dark:

I’m right here. Come closer.

Because Steven Kim knew the kind of predator who followed in silence. Give them a glimpse of vulnerability, and they’d come closer. They’d lower their guard. They’d reveal themselves. And when they did, he’d be waiting.

Steven knew he was being followed. Not by a single twitch in the shadows, not by a careless reflection. No, this one was precise—methodical, like a whisper in his peripheral vision. Impossible to spot, impossible to catch. And yet… he could feel it.

He watched the shadow tilt toward him and gave the warning like a blade—quiet, precise. His voice cut the alley's hush and his eyes, bright and unreadable, lingered at the back of the intruder’s head like a promise and a verdict all at once. Those eyes were pretty in a way that unsettled—a civilized thing that could still kill.

He believed people didn’t fall into this kind of cruelty without being pushed. Pressure bent most bones, desperation made quiet thieves. There were lines he understood; most who crossed them were victims of circumstance or a cruel turn of fate. But then there were those who had sold their souls for coin or for power—heartless, practiced in cruelty. Those men, he thought, deserved what followed. Not out of sport, but out of a cold arithmetic of justice: some debts must be repaid in kind.

So he offered the intruder a choice that was nothing of the sort. Walk away, he said—soft, final. Or stay and learn exactly what happens to people who make a business of other people’s suffering. The watch in his palm weighed like a sentence. Take it, sell it, disappear. 

Every action was measured. Every choice deliberate. He never gave anything for free. Even this act of apparent mercy was a controlled equation, a tool to observe, manipulate, and anticipate the next move. The intruder might think they held a token of freedom—but in reality, they had just stepped into a thread Steven was already weaving.

☆

Almost a week had passed since the incident with Steven, and Jay still couldn’t shake the shock. Every move he made was always calculated, meticulously planned for perfect results—but what happened a week ago wasn’t part of any calculation. Steven had been too far ahead, anticipating his every step. That moment shook Jay to his core, leaving him unsettled in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. Grounded and precise by nature, this—this chaos—left him momentarily unmoored.

Now, he stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his luxurious penthouse, the watch Steven had given him heavy in his hand. He needed confirmation. He needed to understand what he had just faced.

Determined, Jay made his way to the Rendezvous, an exclusive high-end bar tucked beside a narrow alley, the same place where his encounter with Steven had occurred. He knew the rules—he couldn’t just walk in. Access required a connection, a member’s introduction. The establishment belonged to Park Han, a man who didn’t welcome strangers lightly.

Jay had prepared for this. He used Zhang Shuaibo as his pass. At the door, the security team scrutinized him, suspicion flickering in their eyes. A new face, unregistered in the files vetted by higher-ups, always drew attention. Phones were checked, calls made. After a tense moment, a nod allowed him passage. He was inside.

Divaz Chat – Encrypted Line

Shuaibo: Jay, what the fuck are you doing? Park Han just asked if I know a JAY LAWRENCE… apparently you want to party at Rendezvous??

Woongki: Whoa… maybe we should chill a bit.

Jay: Hyung, I need to confirm something. This is part of my plan.

Woongki: Read that, ZhangShu babes? You seriously need to calm down.

Shuaibo: I’m telling you, that place is not for parties. Just… make sure you come out alive from that hell.

[Chat Ended]

☆

Jay stepped through Rendezvous’ velvet entrance. Dim golden light, polished surfaces, whispers of deals and secrets—every detail a test. Eyes followed him immediately, sharp and assessing.

He moved with calculated ease, letting Zhang Shuaibo’s name act as armor but trusting only his own vigilance. Every gesture, every glance was precise. Patrons laughed softly, some genuine, some a performance—he couldn’t tell which.

He was guided to a VIP area, settling alone into a circular velvet sofa. His dark-blue, almost sheer top blended seamlessly with the luxurious surroundings. The watch on his wrist caught the light—a constant reminder of why he was here.

A few expensive drinks had been served, but he sipped slowly, deliberately. Every movement was measured, every glance calculated. In this space of opulence and hidden agendas, patience was as lethal a weapon as any.

Almost an hour had passed when he arrived. Steven Kim. Dressed in an impeccable black suit, his presence alone radiated authority. Handsome, intimidating, every step screamed money, power, control—no one dared meet his eyes.

Jay shifted his eyes, he let his gaze drift elsewhere, appearing casual, disinterested. The plan was clear: show Steven he didn’t care, that he was here for drinks, for the party… and nothing more. Every detail was calculated; one wrong expression could unravel it all.

Even from across the room, Steven’s gaze swept over the bar like a predator scanning territory. It lingered—just slightly—on Jay. Not long enough for most to notice, but Jay felt it. The imperceptible shift, the fraction of a pause in Steven’s stride, told him everything: he was seen.

Jay’s body remained relaxed, almost languid, as he lifted his glass and took a slow sip. Nothing betrayed him. His eyes remained casually distant, his posture unassuming.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Steven’s lips, just noticeable enough that the air between them thickened. A silent acknowledgment had passed—two predators recognizing each other across the room. Neither moved, neither spoke, yet the tension was palpable.

Steven settled into one of the VIP seats, three tables away, with a clear view of every subtle movement Jay made. Jay knew he was being watched.

Not wanting to linger under the weight of those scrutinizing eyes, the shiver crawling up his spine, he stood. Smoothly, deliberately, he readied himself to exit the establishment.

As Jay made his way out of Rendezvous, two bodyguards intercepted him—not aggressively, but with unwavering respect. Force wasn’t necessary; if it were, he could snap them both in an instant.

Instead, they guided him to the second floor, west wing, into an even more exclusive room. He knew it was Steven. When Jay had stood to leave, his eyes had caught a flicker in his peripheral vision—a subtle, almost imperceptible flinch. That single, unconscious reaction said it all. Steven had noticed him. And now… the real hell was about to begin.

☆

When Jay settled into the room, the door swung open. Steven was already there, seated with an almost casual composure, eyes locking onto him across the table.

“Jay Lawrence, right?” Steven’s voice was smooth, measured—but underneath, it carried a dangerous edge, a subtle provocation.

Jay smirked, expecting this. “Yes, Mr. Kim. Flattering… that you took the time to look me up.”

“Steven. Call me Steven.”

Jay froze for a fraction of a second—just long enough to notice the weight behind the words. Something about the casual insistence, the way his eyes held Jay’s, suggested more than mere politeness. It was a test, a challenge, a subtle invitation. He felt the heat rise under his skin, a flicker of amusement, a pinch of caution.

“Steven,” he repeated, almost savoring the sound, letting it roll off his tongue. It felt different—intimate, like crossing a line without actually stepping over it. And yet, it was also… disarming. He realized he was smiling, just slightly, and that smile held a promise: the game was no longer just observation; it had become participation.

The city lights filtered through the blinds, casting fractured shadows over the walls and stretching across their faces. Steven leaned back, fingers steepled, eyes locked on Jay with quiet intensity.

“So,” Steven said, voice casual, almost teasing, “you were following me. That was the plan, right?”

Jay leaned back, slow, deliberate, his arm brushing along the back of the chair. “Yeah. Thought I’d… keep an eye on you,” he said lightly, as if discussing the weather. “You move fast. Not exactly the type to be caught off guard.”

Steven tilted his head, studying him. “And you weren’t worried about… consequences?”

Jay chuckled, low and easy, letting his gaze linger. “Depends on what you mean. My freedom? Minor inconvenience. Yours? Potentially… uncomfortable. But hey, that’s life.”

The silence between them thickened, charged. Steven leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, close enough that Jay could feel the subtle shift in the air between them. “Just a hobby of yours, then? Watching strangers? Following them?”

Jay held his gaze, pulse quickening despite himself. “Something like that. I like knowing what people are up to. Keeps things… interesting.”

Steven’s lips curved in the faintest, sharpest smirk. He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping just enough to brush against Jay’s awareness. “Interesting. And do you… enjoy it? Watching me? The game of it all?”

Jay’s smirk widened, slow and deliberate. “Enjoy? Maybe. Thrilling? Always. Predictable? Never. And the risk…” He let the pause stretch, tilting his head, letting Steven feel the weight of his words. “…that’s part of the fun.”

The corner of Steven’s mouth twitched, almost involuntarily. Then he leaned back, but not entirely, his eyes following Jay’s movements like a predator savoring the chase. “I see. So my life isn’t boring for anyone.”

Jay raised his glass, slow, teasing, letting the tension thrum in the small space between them. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But he didn’t look away. The air between them was taut, magnetic, almost unbearable in its intensity.

Steven’s gaze lingered, sharp, piercing. Then, for the briefest moment, a small, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The lights flickered once, briefly, and the room shrank around them, tighter, closer. Every breath, every glance, carried the unspoken understanding: this was no longer just a game. 

☆

After that conversation, the truth hung between them like smoke—unspoken, undeniable. Every word, every tease, every half-smile had been a lie, and both of them knew it. Steven knew Jay’s intentions the moment he stepped into the room. He had known all along: from Jay’s childhood, to Shuaibo and Woongki, to Black Ops operations, even down to the secrets of his closest friend, Park Juwon—who had no idea about the darkness lurking behind Jay’s easy charm.

Jay, of course, knew it too. He knew that Steven knew everything. Every plan he had ever made, every move he thought was secret, Steven had anticipated. And yet… nothing was said.

There was a rule. Silent. Absolute. Neither would speak of what they knew, and neither would betray it. It was a fragile truce forged from respect, fear, and something uncomfortably close to curiosity.

And yet, they always found each other in the same place. Not by coincidence—Steven wanted Jay close, wanted to monitor him, to study him, to predict him. Jay, for his part, wore the watch willingly, knowing full well that Steven could track his every move, every breath. The knowledge did nothing to stop him; if anything, it amused him.

They were tangled together by the strangest of threads. Enemies, allies, predators, prey—sometimes all at once. Each interaction was a game, but not just any game: a dangerous dance, a collision of minds and wills. Every glance, every smile, every carefully measured word carried the weight of the truth they refused to voice.

It was a collision of wills, one that neither could—or wanted to—walk away from.

☆

It had been three days. Steven had tracked Jay relentlessly, yet the GPS stubbornly insisted that “JL” was still at home, motionless, doing nothing.

Through the faint telemetry, all he could hear was the low hum of music, looping endlessly, day and night—the kind of repetition that could lull someone into complacency—or madness.

The watch had been a gift, crafted by one of Steven’s closest friends. Expensive. Advanced. A reward for something Steven had done… something that couldn’t be celebrated openly.

Steven knew Jay wouldn’t run, wouldn’t try to escape. He didn’t know where that trust came from, didn’t question it, didn’t try. All he knew was that Jay would follow the unspoken rule—and somehow, that was enough.

Then the alert came.

A loud bang, detected by the watch, vibrating through Steven’s phone with a jolt that tightened his chest.

Without thinking, he slammed the car into gear, tires squealing as he tore through the streets. Every instinct screamed that Jay was in danger, though reason tried to argue otherwise. But Steven ignored it. Not this time.

He had to check on Jay. Now.

☆

Steven arrived at the building. Security barely glanced at him before waving him through. The elevator carried him upward in near silence; the penthouse button pressed with deliberate precision.

He knew Jay’s door code. Always had.

The door swung open. Darkness swallowed the room. Steven stepped inside, each footfall measured, almost inaudible against the polished floor.

Click.

Cold metal pressed against the side of his head. Sharp. Immediate. A warning wrapped in quiet authority.

Jay had been waiting—a shadow among shadows. The gun rested there with lethal intent—not hard yet, but enough to claim possession. Every muscle in Jay’s arm was taut; every shallow breath betrayed the storm coiled beneath his control.

Steven’s back met Jay’s chest, rigid but calm. Jay’s left hand gripped the weapon, steady in appearance but trembling where it counted. His right arm looped over Steven’s shoulder, neck locked, pulling him close. He tried to appear in control, but his body gave him away.

“You… why are you still keeping me alive?” Jay demanded, his voice low, rough with frustration and disbelief. Every word carried weight, a question that clawed at the tension between them. The gun pressed against Steven’s head, but the threat now felt fragile, almost secondary to the question burning in the air.

Steven didn’t move. Didn’t struggle. Didn’t speak. His stillness was heavier than the gun, a counterweight to the chaos Jay carried. The silence pressed against Jay harder than any threat could.

“You know everything,” Jay muttered, voice almost swallowed by the tension. “About Shuaibo… Woongki… Black Ops… the Mission… and still…” His grip tightened. “…you’re here.”

Steven tilted his head, brushing his lips against Jay’s shoulder. The touch was innocuous, mundane even—but the warmth, the closeness, sent an involuntary shiver down Jay’s spine.

“You don’t kill me,” Steven murmured, low, teasing along the sensitive line of Jay’s neck. “I think… that’s the same reason I keep you alive.”

Jay’s eyes flickered—anger, frustration, something raw and untamed—warred within him. The gun felt heavier now, pointless against the magnetic pull drawing them together.

“What are we doing, Steven?” His voice softened, losing its guard, almost a plea rather than a command. Hands hovered at Steven’s sides, no longer threatening, only acknowledging their closeness.

Steven shifted, threading his arms around Jay, pressing fully against him. His head rested along Jay’s shoulder, lips brushing the delicate line of his neck. Their bodies fit together with a familiarity that was almost unbearable. Every heartbeat, every breath, every slight movement carried weight.

Jay’s chest tightened. Hands twitched, unused to yielding, yet drawn by the pull of Steven’s closeness. The gun slipped in his grasp, forgotten.

Steven’s hands rose, cradling Jay’s face with careful reverence, thumbs brushing the planes of his cheekbones. The tension between them coiled tighter, electric and insistent. The gun, the threats, the games—all faded, leaving only heat, proximity, and shared breaths.

His lips hovered a fraction above Jay’s, teasing, before pressing softly. The kiss was deliberate, gentle at first, a quiet exploration speaking of restraint, curiosity, and unspoken hunger. Jay’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed, the gun clattering softly to the floor, lost in the moment.

Steven’s fingers threaded through Jay’s hair, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, savoring the softness, the warmth, the pulse beneath his fingertips. Every second stretched, charged with desire neither could deny. Jay’s hands rose instinctively, pressing against Steven’s chest, the conflict of anger and longing visible in tense lines.

Without breaking the kiss, Steven guided them toward the large sofa dominating the penthouse. Jay went willingly, sliding onto the cushions. Instinctively, Steven settled behind him. Jay shifted, pressing fully against him, and with a subtle, almost imperceptible movement, straddled his lap.

The weight of him was intoxicating. Steven’s hands roamed Jay’s sides, cupping, memorizing, while Jay’s lips never left Steven’s—teeth grazing, tongues teasing, the kiss deepening into something consuming.

Steven’s lips trailed down Jay’s neck, each kiss slow and measured. Hands stayed firmly on Jay’s waist, anchoring him, allowing every motion to press naturally against him.

Jay tilted back instinctively, lips parting, soft moans escaping as Steven’s mouth traced the sensitive line of his neck. The contrast between firm grip and teasing pressure sent shivers down Jay’s spine—a delicious tension of control and surrender.

One hand slid along Jay’s side, thumb brushing his hip, grounding, steady, while the other cupped his lower back, drawing him impossibly closer. Jay’s moans grew—frustration, longing, surrender—mixing into a heat neither could contain.

Steven’s lips nuzzled, pressed, occasionally nipped, leaving Jay trembling. Every moan, gasp, movement fanned the fire between them.

Jay instinctively pressed his hips forward, grinding against Steven’s clothed hardness. Hands tightened slightly around his waist, steadying, holding flush, feeling every friction, every urgent press.

Every subtle movement sent sparks through Steven, who responded with a low, roughened hum, capturing Jay’s lips again in a deep, consuming kiss. Lips and hands worked in sync—one hand gripping hip, the other tracing back, guiding without restraining.

Jay’s moans merged with Steven’s, echoing in the penthouse. The rhythm built naturally, private, desperate—a cadence of tension, need, and mutual surrender.

Steven’s lips found the sensitive skin of Jay’s chest, kissing and nibbling along the collarbone before teasing his nipple. Jay gasped sharply, fingers threading through Steven’s hair, pulling him closer as heat pooled between them.

Steven’s hands stayed firm on Jay’s waist, pressing him flush, guiding every motion with tenderness and hunger. Their bodies pressed together, grinding in unison, each subtle movement, shiver, and moan fueling the fire.

Jay’s breaths came fast, uneven, exhaling desire and surrender. Steven responded with low, rough murmurs of his name, the intensity of their closeness unrelenting. Every kiss, touch, brush of skin became a wordless conversation of need, trust, and electric longing.

The sofa became a sanctuary of heat and sensation. Their bodies perfectly synced, the world outside fading to nothing, lost entirely in each other’s presence.

Neither predator claimed victory. Both had lost—to each other, to the game they had built, and perhaps, in some quiet way, to themselves. They stared across the ruins of their challenge, breathing hard, bruised but unbroken. The game was over, yet respect and understanding lingered. Some battles weren’t meant for triumph—only for the acknowledgment of shared emotions.

Chapter Text

The press had barely finished applauding when the announcement hit every headline. Zhang Shuaibo was officially part of Park Entertainment. Cameras flashed. Reporters whispered. Social media erupted. The industry reacted with predictable frenzy—offers flooded in, other companies scrambling to secure contracts, collaborations, and partnerships with Park Entertainment, now elevated by Shuaibo’s presence.

Han watched it all from his office, the faint hum of the city below a steady pulse beneath his thoughts. He had expected this. The public’s reaction, the scramble of opportunists—he had seen it countless times—but theatrics held no interest for him. He had a test to run.

Zhang Shuaibo.

Within days, Han threw everything at him: simultaneous photoshoots, fittings, runway shows—local and international—projects overlapping with no room to breathe. He sent him across cities, countries, continents—planes, hotels, events, deadlines stacked back-to-back.

The industry called it grueling; most would have cracked.

But not Shuaibo.

Each shoot executed flawlessly. Runways walked with precision and power. Fittings completed on schedule. Press appearances delivered with effortless charm. Not a single misstep. Not a single complaint. Only results.

Han tracked him meticulously, quietly noting every move, every detail. Late-night calls from his assistants, updates from the international coordinators—Shuaibo was everywhere. And behind that flawless surface, behind the professional poise, Shuaibo was working quietly, relentlessly. Collecting evidence, mapping opportunities, learning the inner workings of deals—preparing, always preparing.

Han allowed himself a faint acknowledgment: the boy had grown into a man as ruthless as he was talented. And yet… there was discipline, control, elegance. A weapon hidden beneath calm.

Then came the Japan deal.

Park Entertainment had a high-stakes negotiation scheduled in Tokyo—a partnership that could redefine their position in the Asian market. Shuaibo was booked to be on a flight to Japan the same day. But the flight never left the ground. Mechanical issues. Delays stretching into hours.

Han made a swift decision. His private jet was already cleared, waiting. And now it would carry only two passengers: himself and Shuaibo.

They boarded in silence. The cabin smelled faintly of leather and polished wood, the low hum of engines vibrating through the floor. Han glanced at Shuaibo, noting the subtle fatigue behind the man’s eyes, the faint crease where stress met concentration.

“You’re pushing yourself,” Han said quietly, not a rebuke, only observation.

Shuaibo’s gaze lifted, calm, controlled. “You set the pace,” he replied evenly. “I keep it.”

Han smirked faintly. The tension between them was like electricity; two wolves in a confined space, each measuring the other, testing limits. He found himself staring—always did at things he found pretty, letting the shape of a face, the curve of a jaw, or the gleam in an eye hold his attention longer than necessary. Shuaibo knew. He had always known when Han’s gaze lingered.

The cabin hummed softly as the jet sliced through clouds. Han leaned back, reviewing documents for the Japan deal, eyes flicking occasionally to Shuaibo. For hours, the man had remained flawless—posture perfect, eyes sharp, responses measured.

♡

The streets of Tokyo were bathed in neon and shadows, the city alive even as night deepened. After landing, each retreated to the sanctuary of their separate hotels—Shuaibo to his suite, Han to his own.

Shuaibo’s room was immaculate, every surface reflecting perfection. He dropped his luggage with practiced efficiency, ran a hand through his hair, and let himself sink into the momentary calm. Travel had drained him more than he liked to admit, but he didn’t allow it to show. He sat at the window for a moment, watching the city awaken below, recalibrating his thoughts and energy for the day ahead.

The hotel suite door opened softly. Shuaibo’s gaze lifted. Secretary Jian Chihen, stood there, tall and composed, clipboard in hand.

“I’ll be your assistant for all your Japan projects,” Chihen said, voice firm, precise. “Call me just Chihen.”

Shuaibo blinked once, straightening instinctively. “Chihen,” he acknowledged evenly, voice measured, controlled.

Chihen stepped aside, gesturing for him to follow. Shuaibo rose, adjusting his crisp suit, each movement polished, precise. The temporary calm of the hotel room now gave way to purpose—the pulse of work and observation returning, sharp and focused.

Meanwhile, in a suite down the hall, Han stood by the window, coffee in hand. The morning city spread beneath him, alive and indifferent. His amber eyes, sharp and calculating, followed Shuaibo’s departure—not intrusively, just observing. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. The boy was ready. Flawless, prepared, unstoppable.

♡

The day unfolded like clockwork. Shuaibo moved through the studio with seamless precision—posing, walking, adjusting to the camera’s lens, every movement deliberate, polished. Chihen hovered nearby, clipboard in hand, tracking every assignment, every location. His role was clear: ensure Shuaibo’s schedule ran like a well-oiled machine and report back to Han whenever necessary.

Halfway through a photoshoot, the client arrived unannounced. Shuaibo’s eyes caught him immediately—the subtle curl of his lip, the calculated tilt of his head. Predatory. Experienced. Familiar.

Shuaibo’s gaze sharpened. He didn’t need words to identify the intent behind those eyes. He kept his exterior calm, flawless, posture perfect, but every micro-expression registered, stored, calculated.

Chihen, standing discreetly at the edge of the set, noticed the subtle tension in Shuaibo’s shoulders. His fingers brushed over his earpiece, sending a quiet update to Han: Client X on set. Predatory vibe. No direct interference yet.

Shuaibo continued with the shoot, each pose executed with effortless control. But inside, the gears were turning, mind mapping escape routes, contingencies, and exposure tactics.

Shuaibo had barely closed the door behind him when the intruder stepped in, assuming entitlement, assuming control.

For a heartbeat, Shuaibo froze—but only as a measured delay, a fraction long enough to gauge distance, posture, and intent. Then, in an instant, his body moved with precise efficiency.

The intruder lunged, overconfident. Shuaibo sidestepped, twisting his opponent’s momentum, using it against him. A sharp strike to the shoulder, a wrist lock to redirect leverage—all executed in silence, flawlessly, practiced. Within seconds, the intruder was subdued—not injured, but immobilized, threat neutralized.

He took a steady breath, muscles coiled, eyes scanning the room, heart rate calm. Then, as the faintest sound at the door signaled Chihen’s arrival, Shuaibo shifted. His stance softened, shoulders dropped, eyes widened—calculated panic now painted on his flawless mask.

“Chihen!” he exclaimed, voice pitched just right. “Someone… broke into my room!”

Chihen stepped inside, eyebrows raised, clipboard in hand. “Situation under control?” he asked, tone calm but commanding.

Shuaibo swallowed, tilting his head, maintaining the illusion. “Yes… I think so. I—didn’t expect anyone to—” He faltered just enough, lips pressing together, eyes wide, convincing.

Inside, both Han and Chihen recognized the choreography: skill, control, misdirection. Shuaibo had depended on himself entirely, neutralizing the threat before outside help arrived—and then carefully staged panic.

Chihen’s lips twitched, almost a smirk. “Good,” he said simply. “Stay alert. I’ve updated Han.”

Shuaibo exhaled quietly, letting the adrenaline settle. He straightened, posture perfect again, eyes sharp, flawless once more. Cameras, crew, lens—nothing outside mattered. But inside, beneath every polished gesture, Shuaibo carried proof of his own capability, silent and undeniable.

♡

From his suite across the hall, Han leaned casually against the window frame, the city sprawling below him in streaks of neon and morning light. His coffee sat untouched. Every update came through Chihen’s discreet messages: Intruder in Shuaibo’s room. Threat neutralized.

Han’s amber eyes flicked to the skyline, unfazed on the surface—but inside, a small, almost imperceptible acknowledgment passed through him. Shuaibo had handled the situation entirely on his own. No intervention. No hesitation. Pure skill, precision, control.

A faint smirk touched Han’s lips. The boy—no, the man—had orchestrated the entire encounter: combat, misdirection, deception. Han wondered just how far Shuaibo had pushed himself, what lengths he’d gone to develop the ability to move, fight, and calculate with such flawless precision. How much of himself had he honed into this edge?

♡

Weeks in Japan had become a blur of meetings, conferences, photoshoots, and high-profile parties. Zhang Shuaibo never left Park Han’s side—everywhere they went, the world followed. Cameras flashed, whispers followed, and industry figures bent and leaned to catch a glimpse.

Tonight, before a gala in a towering hotel, they prepared in their suite. Han’s presence was constant. Each time Han leaned close to adjust a cuff, straighten a collar, or simply observe, a quiet tension lingered between them.

The low hum of the city outside was broken by Han’s phone. He glanced at the screen—Rendezvous security—and answered with his usual calm authority.

Shuaibo watched, adjusting his tie, heels clicking softly. Then Han spoke, voice low: “Do you know a Jay Lawrence?”

Shuaibo stiffened, a flash of internal panic igniting. Jay Lawrence…. their mission. He forced himself to relax, shrugging lightly. “Yes,” he said evenly. “He’s a friend.”

Han’s gaze flicked to him briefly, amber eyes sharp. No judgment, just observation. The pause stretched, heavy with unspoken weight.

Shuaibo exhaled almost imperceptibly, muscles tensing briefly under the tailored suit. If security checked the guest list too closely… if Jay’s presence triggered suspicion… The thought raced, yet his exterior remained flawless.

Han returned to the call, tone commanding. Shuaibo’s hands adjusted the folds of his jacket, heels clicking as he shifted weight, the practiced poise masking a mind running a hundred calculations per second. He took note to make sure to ask what is up with Jay and Woongki.

♡

The gala was ablaze with energy. Lights shimmered off crystal chandeliers, cameras flashed incessantly, every eye on Park Han. He moved through the crowd with unshakable authority, shaking hands, exchanging measured words, commanding the room without a single wasted gesture.

Zhang Shuaibo walked beside him, poised, polished, observing. As Han dealt with negotiations, introductions, and deals, Shuaibo’s gaze drifted across the venue. Every detail was noted: exits, staff, cameras, the movement of attendees. His curiosity was methodical, his instincts honed.

Then he saw her.

A young model, barely twenty, staggered near a secluded lounge. Her movements uneven, laughter forced and too loud. Around her, a cluster of men leaned in too close, whispering with intent Shuaibo recognized immediately: exploitation disguised as opportunity.

Shuaibo’s pulse steadied, eyes narrowing. He didn’t hesitate.

The first man reached for her. Shuaibo intercepted with fluid precision, redirecting momentum and knocking him off balance. Another drew a weapon—Shuaibo reacted instantly, twisting, disarming, a gun clattering across the marble floor. Blood ran from cuts and scrapes, but the young model remained untouched, shielded by his presence.

By the time Han and Chihen registered the commotion from across the hall, it was too late. Shuaibo knelt over the young model, stabilizing her, assessing her pulse, ensuring she could breathe. Blood streaked his tailored suit, dark against silk and fine wool—but he barely noticed. His focus was absolute: life first, everything else second.

Chihen moved through the gala behind the scenes, silent and efficient, cleaning every trace of the confrontation, ensuring no evidence remained—his presence invisible, his work complete.

♡

The car doors slammed. Han’s expression remained unreadable, professional—but Shuaibo felt the weight of everything he had seen pressing against his chest. The hotel room door closed behind them, shutting out the world.

Shuaibo sank to the edge of the bed, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around them. His chest heaved, a storm of anger, disbelief… and a heat he couldn’t name. He had been honed to act, trained to control every flicker of emotion, to execute the perfect performance. Every gesture, every expression, calculated. And yet… tonight, something had slipped. He remembered that random night with Woongki and Jay, when Woongki had asked their star signs, teasing him about Cancerians being emotional. He had scoffed then—but now, he didn’t know if the stars had abandoned him tonight, or if all the training, all the talent to act, had simply failed, letting every suppressed feeling rush out at once.

Han knelt before him, calm, unshakable, and pressed a hand against his back. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward, forehead brushing Shuaibo’s. The warmth, the quiet weight of him, pressed in a way that made Shuaibo’s pulse spike.

“I know what you saw tonight,” Han murmured, voice low, deliberate. “And I understand why it feels like betrayal.”

Shuaibo’s hands gripped his knees, but he couldn’t pull away. The brush of Han’s breath, the steady pressure of his chest—it ignited something deep inside him. “Not feels like—it is betrayal! People suffer… and you! You sit on top of it all while pretending it’s gold!”

Han’s amber eyes held him, unwavering. “I didn’t build this empire to shield predators. I work within the system, quietly dismantling it step by step. I’ve always been here for you. Quietly. Silently. Protecting you. What makes you think I condone such doings?”

Shuaibo’s breath hitched. The memory of Han’s silent protection, combined with the press of his body, made him shiver. The warmth radiating from Han was suffocating, intoxicating, impossible to ignore.

Han pulled Shuaibo into a hug that was firm, enveloping, and impossibly intimate. Shuaibo’s chest pressed against his chest, and he could feel the steady strength beneath the fabric. Han’s lips grazed the bare curve of his shoulder—soft, teasing, electrifying—and Shuaibo shivered violently, breath catching in his throat.

Then Han’s hands moved deliberately along his sides, sliding slowly, tracing every contour, every line, making Shuaibo tremble. His body reacted before his mind could. Every subtle touch, every press of Han’s chest, every whisper of warmth against skin threaded a tension through him that was almost painful.

“I'm here,” Han murmured against his ear, low, husky, deliberate. “Always here.”

Shuaibo’s hands moved to Han’s back, gripping, pressing, needing the heat, needing the closeness. Han’s thumb traced the small of his back, slow, teasing, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Han’s lips brushed the bare curve of Shuaibo’s shoulder—soft, fleeting, yet searing. The contact was barely there, but it ripped through Shuaibo’s body like fire, every nerve raw, every muscle trembling.

Before the shock could settle, Han pulled back—slow, deliberate—bringing his forehead to rest against Shuaibo’s once more. Their breaths tangled in the thin space between them, mouths so close it felt like a kiss waiting to happen, held hostage by restraint.

Shuaibo’s lips parted, breath shallow, trembling under the heat of it. He could feel the shape of Han’s mouth against the air itself, so close, too close, unbearable.

And then Han whispered, voice low and rough, the word slipping out like a secret he had no right to speak:

“Pretty.”

Han’s whisper lingered in the space between them—Pretty—the word still vibrating in Shuaibo’s chest like it had been carved into his bones.

Shuaibo’s whole body jolted. Heat flushed through him, wild and uncontrollable, tearing at the fragile composure he had clung to. He gasped, sharp and broken, and before he could think—before he could stop himself—his hands shot out. They clutched at Han’s body, desperate, trembling. His fingers curled into the fabric of Han’s shirt, dragging him closer, betraying the panic in his veins and the craving he couldn’t name. He didn’t mean to hold him like this, didn’t mean to let the weakness show—but his body had already chosen.

“Han…” His voice cracked, low, caught between anger and plea. His forehead pressed harder against Han’s, his breath shaking as though the closeness itself might burn him alive.

Han didn’t move back. His chest rose steady against Shuaibo’s frantic breathing, a solid wall of warmth and strength. His amber eyes flickered, softer now, yet edged with something darker—something that answered the chaos trembling through Shuaibo’s veins.

Shuaibo’s fists twisted tighter in Han’s shirt, dragging him close as though distance itself was unbearable. His breath came in shallow bursts, uneven, frantic, trembling against Han’s mouth.

Han didn’t flinch, didn’t break—he simply let Shuaibo burn against him. But then, with a slowness that was maddening, he lifted one hand. His thumb brushed along the sharp line of Shuaibo’s jaw, feather-light, coaxing his face upward. The touch was devastating in its restraint—barely there, yet commanding everything.

Shuaibo’s breath hitched, his body seizing at the intimate stroke. His lashes fluttered, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide. The heat rushing through him had nowhere to go, and he clung harder, shuddering with the betrayal of his own body.

Han leaned closer. His lips ghosted over Shuaibo’s—close enough that the warmth of them made Shuaibo’s head spin, close enough that every tremor in his breath shivered across Han’s skin. But he didn’t close the distance. He lingered, mercilessly patient, letting the ache stretch, letting the anticipation suffocate.

Shuaibo’s lips parted on instinct, helpless, his body betraying him again with the silent plea for contact. The space between them was charged, electric, the almost-kiss a torment more unbearable than any touch could have been.

Han’s forehead pressed firmer against his, voice low, husky, threading into the heat that bound them.

“Pretty,” he whispered again, slower this time, deliberate—like he wanted the word to brand itself into Shuaibo’s skin.

Han’s thumb stroked along his jaw, steady, deliberate. Their lips hovered a breath apart—charged, inevitable.

And then Han shifted. Instead of closing the distance, he tilted forward and pressed a soft kiss to Shuaibo’s forehead.

Han’s lips lingered against his forehead for a breath, then eased back, leaving warmth in their wake. Their foreheads stayed pressed together, eyes closed, breaths uneven but shared.

Neither moved to break the fragile closeness. Neither pushed it further.

In the quiet, they stayed like that—tethered, burning, but restrained.

And slowly, the storm outside the room, the chaos of the night, fell away, leaving only the weight of their bodies leaning together, the steady rhythm of breath, and the unspoken promise between them.

♡

After that night, the distance between them no longer exists.

Outside, they remain CEO and model—Park Han, untouchable in tailored suits, and Zhang Shuaibo, his highest-paid star. Professionalism is their armor, gleaming beneath the cameras and headlines.

But inside the hotel room—Shuaibo’s room, now also Han’s, since he no longer bothers with his own suite—they strip all of it away.

Here, Han never lets him go. They sprawl across the bed, Shuaibo tucked firmly against his chest, as if Han can’t stand to let him drift even an inch away. Han touches him constantly—fingers threading through his hair, tracing the slope of his back, cupping his jaw with a possessive tenderness. Every brush of his hand says the same thing: mine to protect, mine to hold.

And Shuaibo, who has never known this kind of closeness, melts under it.

The kisses start quiet, almost tentative—Han’s lips brushing Shuaibo’s temple, his cheek, his jaw. But restraint only lasts so long. Soon, Han’s mouth finds his, and the kiss deepens, slow at first, then hungrier. Shuaibo fists his hands into Han’s shirt, pulling him closer, answering every press of lips with a shivering need of his own.

Their nights blur into this—breathless kisses, hands roaming in unspoken hunger, bodies tangling until there is no space left between them. Han kisses him like he never wants to stop, like each touch is both promise and claim. His mouth trails down Shuaibo’s throat, across his collarbone, to the bare slope of his shoulder, lingering in the places that make him gasp.

Han presses another kiss there, soft but possessive, and whispers against his skin, “Pretty.” Another kiss, lower, more lingering, and his voice roughens with certainty: “Mine.”

Shuaibo trembles under every touch, every word, undone by the contrast of Han’s gentleness and the simmering heat beneath it. And when Han finally pulls him tight against his chest, lips pressed to his hair, Shuaibo feels the tension in him—the restraint, the need, the devotion—all bound into the way he holds him.

♡

Steam clung to the tiles, fogging the mirror in the hotel shower room. Shuaibo ran a trembling hand down his face, water dripping from his hair, and stared at his own reflection. Eyes wide, chest tight, he could barely recognize himself.

His original intent had been clear—follow Black Ops’ assignment, eliminate the man who had rescued him from the cruelty of the modeling industry. But now… the truth clawed at him, sharp and insistent: the same man had been quietly purging the industry of its predators.

He pressed his palm against the cold glass, leaving a smear across the mirror, and swallowed hard. What was he supposed to do? Protect him? Kill him? The lines blurred, twisting in his mind until nothing made sense. The one he had been sent to kill—the one who called him pretty, who claimed him in ways that made the world outside fade—was the one he wanted to keep.

Panic surged through him, a dizzying loop of fear and longing. Every choice felt like a trap, every thought a betrayal. Just like those first brutal months in the industry, nothing felt certain, nothing felt safe, nothing felt real. He sank to his knees on the wet tile, gripping the edge of the bathtub, staring at his reflection until the steam blurred it into someone he barely recognized—a man torn between instinct and desire, duty and devotion.

♡

DIVAZ CHAT – ENCRYPTED

Shuaibo: Sun., 5/10, 2200hrs. Ki’s Pod. Be there.

Chapter Text

The glow of midnight bled into the room, and for once, the legendary CEO of Seo Technologies wasn’t hunched over empire-defining code or tightening firewalls. Instead, he was staring at a respawn screen. Again.

Daisuke already knew Kwatatto was his Jeongwoo hyung. He had even admitted he lurked before asking Woongki to teach him, just so he could join in. The kid was grateful, thrilled he could play with both his Jeongwoo hyung and Woongki hyung.

“You’re hopeless,” Woongki declared through his mic, voice syrupy with mockery. “How can the Potato King, inventor of the scariest data virus alive, not figure out WASD? W means walk forward. It’s literally walking.”

“I am pressing it,” Jeongwoo snapped, tone imperious as ever—but it couldn’t hide the flush creeping into his ears. “The terrain is faulty. This game has poor design. A CEO shouldn’t waste time on this trash interface.”

“Faulty?” Woongki leaned back, laughter spilling out. “Oh my god. You’re blaming the map. What’s next—the bullets were defective?”

“They were defective,” Jeongwoo said instantly, dead serious.

Woongki wheezed, slapping his desk. “Unbelievable. I should record this: ‘CEO of Seo Technologies versus the basic act of walking.’ You’d go viral faster than your dumb virus.”

Jeongwoo didn’t bite back this time. He just respawned in silence, gripping his mouse, jaw set. And Woongki noticed.

Because this wasn’t just a game. Every roast, every “lesson” in strafing and crosshair placement—it was also Woongki slipping threads of code into Jeongwoo’s world. Tiny probes hidden in patches, breadcrumbs tucked into updates. Nothing deep enough to trip alarms. Just testing. Just waiting.

Seo Technologies was a fortress. But through Jeongwoo? Through this nightly cycle of dying, respawning, roasting, and dying again? That was the seam. The crack.

And Woongki was patient.

“Again,” Jeongwoo ordered, clicking Ready. His voice was sharp, boardroom sharp—the kind that made underlings tremble. Here, it just made Woongki smirk.

“Sure, boss. But maybe this time, try not to walk into a wall for ten seconds.”

“I was testing collision physics,” Jeongwoo muttered.

“Yeah, sure you were.”

The match started. Daisuke sprinted ahead, brimming with new confidence. And behind him, predictably, Kwatatto tripped off the edge of a platform and respawned.

Woongki’s grin widened. On the surface, just laughter. Inside—razor focus.

Piece by piece, joke by joke, Cha Woongki was crawling deeper into Seo Technologies. Not enough to touch the core. Not yet. But enough to prove one thing:

Seo Jeongwoo wasn’t untouchable anymore.

◇

“Hyung…” Daisuke’s voice chimed brightly through the mic one evening. “Woongki hyung… I want to see you in person.”

Woongki froze mid-roast. “…What?”

“In person,” Daisuke repeated, shy but steady. “If we’re in the same room, I can learn better. You’re really good at teaching me. I’ll improve faster if I watch you play right there.”

That wasn’t casual. That was a door opening.

“No,” Jeongwoo cut in flatly. Final.

Daisuke huffed. “Hyung… you always say no. I’m not a kid anymore. I want a real friend. Not just pixels on a screen.”

Woongki leaned back, grin curling. He didn’t need to see Jeongwoo’s face to know the CEO’s armor had cracked.

Because Seo Jeongwoo never revealed himself. Not to rivals, not even to half his employees. His face was known only to family—and in his fortress of steel, family meant exactly one person.

Daisuke.

Sweet, oblivious Daisuke had just handed him the perfect invitation.

“Oh, come on, Potato King,” Woongki drawled. “It’s just games. What’s the worst that could happen? Afraid I’ll beat you harder in person?”

“Woongki,” Jeongwoo warned.

“Hyung, please? Just once. We’ll set it up here. It’ll be fun!”

Woongki chuckled. “Relax, kid. I’m not gonna bite.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Jeongwoo muttered.

“Ohhh?” Woongki’s grin sharpened. “Afraid I’ll see your face? Don’t tell me you’re secretly hideous. That would explain a lot.”

Daisuke gasped. “Woongki hyung! Don’t say that!”

“No, think about it!” Woongki barreled on. “He dies every five seconds, can’t aim, and his display pic looks like a potato-radish hybrid. If that’s really him, he’s hiding the ugliest face in the hemisphere. Am I wrong?”

Silence. Heavy.

Woongki’s smirk widened. “See? Not denying it. Confirmed: Potato King is ugly.”

“…You’re insufferable,” Jeongwoo muttered at last. Controlled, but cracked.

“Hey, don’t be mad. Ugly guys can be cute if they’re funny. I’ll accept you.” Woongki’s grin turned knife-sharp. “Besides, when I see your face, I’ll know the truth. And honestly? I’m betting on potatoes. At best, radish.”

“Hyung’s not ugly!” Daisuke protested, laughing despite himself.

“Then prove it,” Woongki pressed. “Let’s meet. One room, three computers. No excuses.”

Silence again. And Jeongwoo’s silence was never just silence.

“Please, hyung! One time. Just once.”

“No.” Too fast. Too sharp.

Woongki pounced instantly. “Alright, if you don’t want me in your luxury mansion—”

Jeongwoo’s knuckles have become white. 

“—then café. PC bang. Wherever. Three setups, some fried chicken, and your ugly mugs across from me.”

Daisuke lit up. “Yes! That’s perfect! We can go out, hyung. Just a café.”

Just a café. The phrase scraped every defense Jeongwoo had. Strangers. Cameras. Exposure.

“…It’s not that simple,” Jeongwoo said at last.

“Sure it is. Unless you’re hiding something.” Woongki’s voice gleamed. “What is it? Wanted posters? Secret spy scars? Or just the potato-face situation?”

Jeongwoo’s throat tightened. Hiding. The word landed too close to the truth.

He said nothing. And Woongki’s silence on the line was all grin.

For the first time in years, Seo Jeongwoo was running out of excuses.

◇

The café hummed with neon and fans when Woongki pushed the door open. Rows of empty PCs glowed, sterile and waiting.

Figures. Jeongwoo probably set this up just to make him walk into an empty café. The guy would fake his own death before showing his face.

But then a door marked VIP Room creaked open. A boy stepped out—curly hair, soft sweater, wide eyes.

Daisuke.

The kid lit up. “Woongki hyung?”

Woongki smoothed his grin. “Yes, dainini underscore twenty-five.”

Daisuke laughed and barreled forward, hugging him. Warm. Sincerely, Woongki froze—then melted, ruffling curls.

“Damn,” he muttered with a helpless smile, “you’re way cuter in person.”

Daisuke beamed, cheeks pink. Woongki’s heart gave a traitorous thud.

He was still laughing when the door behind Daisuke opened again.

And Jeongwoo stepped out.

He didn’t announce himself. Just stood there, framed in shadow. Watching.

Woongki’s smile softened, unguarded. Daisuke pressed close, clinging.

And Jeongwoo’s chest tightened.

Because it wasn’t his brother’s joy that held him—it was the man who caused it.

Woongki.

Mischief-eyed, plum-mouthed. Sharp words, but here—gentle smile, too wide for Jeongwoo’s peace of mind.

Beautiful.

The word hit him before he could fight it. Pretty. Too pretty.

And when Woongki tilted his head, lips parting like he knew, Jeongwoo felt something dangerous tug at his restraint.

He’d been staring too long. Woongki’s grin turned sly.

“What,” he drawled, owning the neon-lit space, “never seen a handsome guy before?”

Jeongwoo blinked, but too late. The damage was done.

“Relax, Potato King,” Woongki went on. “Your face isn’t that bad either. I was expecting worse. Radish-man levels. But this?” His gaze swept him, slow, deliberate. “Manageable.”

Daisuke clapped with laughter.

Jeongwoo stayed silent. Composed outside, tangled inside.

Not that bad.

It should’ve meant nothing. Just another jab. But when he looked back—

Those lips.

Sharp, pretty, too soft for the words they carried. The prettiest lips he had ever seen.

He forced his voice steady. “Your imagination is louder than your mouth.”

Woongki only smirked. Like he’d already won.

◇

It slipped into routine faster than anyone admitted.

Every few nights, Woongki found himself walking the same streets, a convenience-store bag swinging at his side. Inside, something new always waited—things he’d never thought twice about before.

The first time, it was honey-butter chips. He plopped them down on the café table like an offering.

“Try these, barnacle.”

Daisuke blinked. “I’ve… never had those.”

“Then you’ve been living wrong,” Woongki retorted.

The boy’s delighted laugh after the first bite lit Woongki up more than he wanted to admit.

Next time, it was bungeoppang, steaming red-bean pastries shaped like fish. Then ramyeon drowned in extra toppings, where Daisuke’s face flushed from spice and Woongki had to shove strawberry milk into his hands.

“You’ll thank me later,” he said, smirking.

And every time, Daisuke’s eyes went wide with that unfiltered joy, like Woongki had just handed him treasure.

It became a thing. Woongki arriving with food he’d picked out, Daisuke hugging him so tightly the bag almost ripped, and Jeongwoo—leaning in his chair, watching. Always watching.

◇

This time, Woongki had dragged them somewhere new.

The arcade’s lights blazed neon, machines chirping and chiming in a chaos that should’ve grated but somehow didn’t. Daisuke darted between claw machines and rhythm games, his laughter carrying over the din, while Woongki trailed behind like a smug older brother.

Jeongwoo kept his distance at first, wary eyes scanning the crowd. But when Woongki shoved a light-gun machine into his hands and declared, “C’mon, Mr. Radish, let’s see if your reflexes are worth bragging about,” something shifted.

To Woongki’s delight—and Daisuke’s wide-eyed awe—Jeongwoo won. Not just once, but several times. Each victory pulled the faintest smug curve to his lips, which only made Woongki banter harder.

“Hyung, don’t tell me you actually practiced this in secret.”

“Some of us don’t need practice,” Jeongwoo replied coolly, holstering the plastic gun like it was second nature.

By the time they spilled out of the arcade, Daisuke’s steps were dragging. His small hand clung to Woongki’s sleeve, eyes heavy, barely upright.

Rush hour hit hard. The mall was a storm of people and rideshare apps blinked with long wait times. Woongki scrolled, thumb flicking in irritation, then sighed. “Ugh. Forget it. Nothing’s coming for at least an hour.”

“You can’t wait out here,” Jeongwoo said sharply, eyes flicking to the restless crowd pressing through the mall’s exits. “Not with him like that.” His chin tilted toward the boy, already nodding off against Woongki’s arm.

Woongki raised a brow. “What, you volunteering to chauffeur me?”

“I’m not volunteering,” Jeongwoo replied flatly. “I’m telling you. You’ll stay at our place tonight.”

For once, Woongki was caught off guard. But with Daisuke sagging against him and no rides in sight, he only clicked his tongue and muttered, “Bossy,” before letting himself be herded along.

◇

The hum of the car engine was steady, a low rhythm filling the space.

Daisuke had fully surrendered to sleep in the back seat, cheek pressed to the window, curls haloed by passing neon. His soft breaths fogged the glass in little bursts.

Woongki leaned against the passenger window, arms crossed, gaze tracing the streaks of city lights racing past. Boredom laced his posture, but underneath, something restless sparked—an awareness of the man beside him.

Jeongwoo’s hands were steady on the wheel, his profile carved by the faint glow of the dashboard. For a while, silence stretched, thick but not uncomfortable.

Then Jeongwoo cut through it, voice low, deliberate.

“What do you want from Seo Technologies, Cha Woongki?”

Woongki blinked, then chuckled softly, tilting his head back. More amused than startled. “Straight to business. I knew you were boring, Hyung, but not this boring.”

Jeongwoo’s jaw tightened, but his eyes never left the road.

Woongki let his gaze drift to the window again, voice lazy, almost teasing. “You’ve been shadowing me. Every little server I touched, every breadcrumb I left—you were there. Watching.”

Jeongwoo’s grip on the wheel tightened fractionally.

“It’s almost flattering,” Woongki continued, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Boring, yes. But also… exciting. Knowing Seo Jeongwoo, Seo Technologies’ CEO, the mad man of the cyber world is paying such close attention. Makes me want to poke around more. Just to see how long you’ll follow.”

The words hung in the car, heavier than the city lights flashing outside.

And for the first time that night, Jeongwoo’s silence felt dangerous.

Jeongwoo’s silence stretched, taut as wire. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, jaw set in that unreadable line that had frozen boardrooms into submission.

Woongki tilted his head, watching him from the passenger seat, amused. “You’re not denying it. So you have been watching me.”

Finally, Jeongwoo spoke. His voice was calm, too calm.

“I don’t need to deny facts.”

“Mm.” Woongki smirked. “And here I thought I was the only one enjoying the chase.”

Jeongwoo’s gaze flicked to him, sharp as a blade before snapping back to the road. “Don’t mistake surveillance for interest.”

“Surveillance, huh?” Woongki chuckled, resting his chin in his hand, elbow against the door. “That’s such a cold word. You make it sound like I’m a criminal.”

“You’re acting like one.”

The words landed with precision, no rise in tone, no wasted breath.

But Woongki only grinned wider. “Maybe. But then, you’re the one sitting here driving me home, not turning me in. Doesn’t that make you an accomplice, Hyung? Betraying your own empire sounds exciting tho. I kinda get you.”

The faintest muscle twitched in Jeongwoo’s jaw.

Woongki caught it instantly, pouncing. “Ah. Got you. You are conflicted.”

Jeongwoo said nothing, his silence its own kind of wall.

But Woongki leaned closer, his voice dropping, silk edged with steel. “You could’ve shut me out a long time ago. Locked me out, erased my trails. But you didn’t. You let me dance around your system. You wanted me there.”

The car filled with the hum of the engine, the thrum of tires on wet asphalt, and Woongki’s words hanging between them like a challenge.

Finally, Jeongwoo exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes never leaving the road.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I keep you close because I need to know where you are. People like you don’t get freedom.”

Woongki smirked, unbothered. “Freedom’s overrated. Attention’s better.”

That earned him another glance, brief but cutting. Jeongwoo’s expression didn’t shift, but Woongki swore he caught a flicker—annoyance, maybe, or something deeper.

He stretched lazily in his seat, as if the tension were a game he’d already won. “Careful, Mister Potato-Radish. If you keep watching me this closely, people might start thinking you’re obsessed.”

Jeongwoo’s grip tightened on the wheel, but his voice stayed level, low.

“Maybe I am.”

The words were so quiet Woongki almost thought he imagined them. His smirk faltered, just slightly, before he caught himself, licking the corner of his lips and huffing out a laugh.

“…Dangerous thing to admit, Hyung.”

◇

The ride back was quiet, save for the low hum of the engine. Daisuke had surrendered to sleep in the back seat, his head lolling against the window, soft breaths fogging the glass. Woongki sat shotgun, chin propped in one hand, watching the city blur past in streaks of neon and rainlight. He looked bored, but his eyes were alive, tracking every ripple of color outside.

When they finally pulled up, Woongki blinked. He had expected—what? Gleaming steel gates, drones hovering, maybe a house that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi film. Instead, Seo Jeongwoo parked in front of a modest two-story house. A small garden hugged the porch. A two-car garage sat neatly at the side, and in it, a sleek black motorbike gleamed under the dim light.

Inside, the space was warm, lived-in. A soft couch in the living room, a tidy kitchen, four rooms branching off—three bedrooms and one clearly turned into a workspace. It was nothing like the glass-and-chrome empire Jeongwoo ran by day.

Jeongwoo carried his brother upstairs, tucking him gently beneath his blankets. Daisuke murmured something in his sleep, curling instinctively toward the warmth. Jeongwoo’s expression softened for a fraction before he closed the door quietly behind him.

Downstairs, Woongki had sprawled across the sofa, strawberry lollipop tucked lazily between his lips, thumbs moving quickly across his phone screen. He glanced up only briefly when Jeongwoo appeared.

“There are fresh clothes in the guest room,” Jeongwoo said evenly. “Towel, toothbrush. Charger’s by the nightstand.”

“Wow,” Woongki drawled, not glancing away from his phone. “You roll out the red carpet for all your strays, or am I special?”

Jeongwoo was already turning for the back door when Woongki called, “Where are you going?”

“To smoke,” Jeongwoo replied.

Nevertheless, Woongki followed.

The night air was cool, the garden damp with faint dew. Jeongwoo lit his cigarette, the ember flaring in the dark. Woongki leaned against the railing, arms crossed, the lollipop still sweet on his tongue.

“Where are your parents?” Woongki asked suddenly, tone light but eyes sharp.

Jeongwoo’s gaze cut sideways. “Why ask when you already know? They died when I was twenty.”

Woongki tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “I know the official line. What I don’t know is the truth. Records don’t say how. Just rumors—murder, some say. Others think they’re alive somewhere, using your name to buy their freedom.”

His grin was easy, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I mean… at least you had parents worth rumors. Mine? Jail. Drugs. In their eyes, getting high was better than raising a kid.” He clicked his tongue, twirling the candy stick before slipping it back between his lips. “Guess everyone’s got their version of a family legacy, huh?”

The smoke drifted between them. Jeongwoo’s lips parted, ready to snap back, but then he saw it—the shift. Just a flicker in Woongki’s expression, small enough most would miss it. The kind of crack that made silence the kinder answer. So he said nothing.

They went back inside together, steps muted against the hallway floorboards. At the end, they stopped—guest room on one side, Jeongwoo’s on the other.

For a moment, they simply stood there, not speaking.

Woongki broke the silence first, voice calm but laced with a sharp edge.

“I’m getting bored playing with your little playground,” he said, eyes glinting. “When I get bored, I do mad things. I want more.”

Inside, his thoughts twisted tighter—he wasn’t asking about firewalls or scraps of surveillance. He wanted Jeongwoo to peel back the layers of Seo Technologies, to show him the real structure beneath the baited lines. Jeongwoo wasn’t just tracking him; Woongki knew he was guiding him somewhere.

Jeongwoo didn’t answer. His silence said enough.

Woongki pushed open the guest room door and disappeared inside without another word.

Jeongwoo’s hand lingered on his own doorknob but never turned it. Instead, after a beat, he let go and walked down the hall, straight to another room—the one humming with computers and the dense heartbeat of data.

◇

Morning came.

Jeongwoo woke slumped in his chair, head heavy against the desk, screens still humming faintly in front of him. His neck ached, but he pushed himself up, dragging his feet out of the room.

The sound of laughter pulled him toward the kitchen.

Inside, Daisuke was already in his school uniform, happily eating breakfast at the table. Woongki stood by the stove, apron tied over his clothes—the same apron Jeongwoo had never once touched. He never cooked; it was always takeout for him and Daisuke.

Woongki noticed him first. “Well, look who finally woke up. The king himself,” he drawled. “Tell me, why didn’t you at least cook breakfast for your little brother before school?”

Daisuke spoke around a mouthful of rice, “We only ever eat takeout.”

Woongki whipped around with an exaggerated gasp. “What?! Only takeout? No wonder you’re both so hopeless. Homemade food is basic survival! How do you expect to have any strength in games—let alone in life—if you never eat real food?”

Jeongwoo, still sluggish, didn’t answer. Instead, he shuffled straight to Daisuke, wrapping his arms around him in a loose morning hug. “Good morning,” he murmured against his hair.

Daisuke smiled, used to it. “Good morning, hyung.”

Woongki, mid-rant, froze. His eyes darted between the two brothers, irritation forgotten for a moment, before he quickly turned back to the stove.

But then Jeongwoo drifted closer, reaching past Woongki for a glass. His hand brushed lightly at Woongki’s waist—almost an absentminded touch, almost a half-hug—as he reached the water from the fridge. “Good morning,” he said softly.

Woongki went stiff as a board, ears reddening instantly. “Wha—” He couldn’t even finish, glaring at the sink instead. His hands fumbled with the spatula, grip tight enough to snap it.

The air thickened, awkward and heated, until Daisuke’s ride honked outside. He jumped from his seat, grabbing his bag. “I’ll be late! Bye!” He bolted out the door, leaving the two of them stranded in the silence he abandoned.

Jeongwoo sipped his water lazily, like nothing had happened.

Woongki, meanwhile, felt his whole body locked up. He gripped the spatula tighter, fighting the heat burning through his face. The silence pressed on him until he couldn’t stand it.

“Y-yah,” he stammered, too quick, too loud. “Don’t—don’t just touch people like that first thing in the morning. What are you, some kind of oversized cat?”

Jeongwoo finally turned his head, blinking at him over the rim of his glass. Then he smiled—slow, knowing.

“Mm. You didn’t seem to mind,” he said softly.

Woongki nearly dropped the spatula. “I—I minded! A lot!” he blurted, waving it around like proof. “You’re insane, going around hugging people like that. Daisuke doesn’t count—he’s a kid!”

Jeongwoo only leaned his elbow on the counter, watching him. “Then I’ll save the hugs for you.”

But his ears burned bright red, betraying him completely.

“You really don’t like it?” Jeongwoo’s voice dropped, low enough to curl into Woongki’s ear.

The spatula slipped from Woongki’s grip and clattered against the pan. He froze, heat rushing all the way down his neck.

“I—shut up,” he managed, too strangled to sound convincing.

Jeongwoo chuckled under his breath, far too pleased, before finally easing back to sip the rest of his water.

For a few beats, the only sound was the quiet hiss from the pan. Then Woongki suddenly spun, eyes flashing.

“Seriously, what’s wrong with you?!” he snapped, shoving the spatula at Jeongwoo’s chest before yanking it back. “You think you can just—just… say things like that?”

Jeongwoo tilted his head, unbothered. “I just did.”

Woongki growled under his breath, ears still pink, and turned sharply back to the stove. He plated the food with more force than necessary and dropped one plate in front of Jeongwoo at the table.

“Eat. And choke on it if you laugh again.”

Jeongwoo only smirked and pulled the plate closer. The smell of fresh food filled the kitchen, and in the strange quiet that followed, they both sat down to eat—one pretending not to be flustered, the other pretending not to enjoy it too much.

◇

The kitchen settled into an odd quiet, punctuated only by the scrape of forks against ceramic. With Daisuke gone, the space felt smaller, strangely intimate.

Woongki hunched over his food, chewing like it was a battle he had to win, refusing to meet Jeongwoo’s eyes. But there was something domestic in the air he couldn’t swat away—the clatter of dishes, the warmth of fresh food, the faint sound of Jeongwoo’s low hum as he ate.

It was irritatingly… normal.

The kitchen was filled only with the sound of cutlery and the faint hum of the refrigerator.

Jeongwoo ate unhurriedly, sipping his water as if the awkward flare moments ago hadn’t happened at all. Then, in the same even tone he might use to ask someone to pass the salt, he said:

“You wanted to know more about Seo Technologies.”

Woongki leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, spatula still in his lap like a misplaced weapon. His expression twisted into a smirk, but the edge in his gaze gave him away.

“So the king finally wants to hand out secrets at the breakfast table?” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “How generous.”

But his foot tapped lightly under the table, betraying the attention he was giving every word.

Jeongwoo glanced up at him briefly, catching that spark. “Don’t pretend you’re not listening.”

Woongki clicked his tongue and stabbed his fork into the food again, muttering, “Tch. Who said I was pretending?”

“You want to know more, right?” he said again, this time deliberate. “Fine. But nothing comes free.”

Woongki’s smirk faltered just slightly. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

“Of course,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair. “The almighty king always has terms. What’s the price this time?”

Jeongwoo leaned back too, mirroring his posture with unnerving calm.

“A condition,” he said simply. “You give me something in return. Your skills, your access, your… cooperation.”

Woongki scoffed, twirling his fork in his fingers. “Cooperation, huh? Sounds like slavery dressed up in a pretty word.”

But his pulse betrayed him, quickening at the promise hidden between Jeongwoo’s lines.

“Think it over,” Jeongwoo murmured, picking up his fork again. “The more you want to know, the more you’ll owe.”

Woongki’s lips curved into a grin, but his eyes stayed sharp, locked onto Jeongwoo.

“And if I say no?”

Jeongwoo didn’t even glance up. He just kept eating. “Then keep playing in the sandbox I’ve already let you into.”

Jeongwoo’s fork scraped softly against the plate as he finished the last bite, then he finally looked up. His eyes were calm, but there was steel under the surface.

“You want into my system,” he said. “The real one. Not the walls I’ve let you play with.”

Woongki’s smirk widened, anticipation flickering across his face. But before he could bite back, Jeongwoo added,

“In exchange, I want into yours.”

The grin faltered. For the first time, Woongki hesitated.

“My system,” he echoed, voice low, a touch incredulous. He leaned forward, elbows braced against the table. “You want me to just hand that over? To you?”

Jeongwoo didn’t blink. “That’s the condition.”

Silence stretched, taut. Then Woongki’s lips curled again, slower this time, measured.

“Fine,” he said, leaning back. “I’ll let you in. But under one condition of my own.”

Jeongwoo’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice remained even. “Which is?”

Woongki’s grin sharpened, though the edge in his tone carried weight.

“You don’t get to poke around without me there. My system is mine. You want access, you take me with it.”

Jeongwoo met his gaze steadily. Then, without hesitation, he said, “Same condition. You don’t touch my system unless I’m there with you.”

Woongki blinked, caught off guard, before a short laugh slipped out. “Tch. Figures you’d say that.”

Jeongwoo leaned back in his chair, calm as ever. “Then we understand each other.”

Woongki dropped his fork onto the plate with a clatter and leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

“Then show me. Now.”

Jeongwoo arched his brow. “Now?”

“You think I’ll sit around waiting?” Woongki smirked, but the impatience in his voice was real. “You dangled it in front of me. You don’t get to pull back.”

Jeongwoo set his fork down with a soft clink. “You don’t even have your computer here,” he said at last, voice level. “Don’t act like you’re ready to do this.”

Woongki didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the chain at his neck, the one Jeongwoo had noticed before but never thought twice about. A small, brushed-metal pendant dangled there, innocuous, catching the morning light.

With a click, Woongki pulled it free. The pendant came apart with a subtle twist—revealing a sleek, matte-black flash drive no bigger than his thumb. He held it up between two fingers, grin curling slow and sharp.

“Who says I don’t?”

Jeongwoo’s brows twitched—barely—but the shift was there. His gaze flicked from the flash drive to Woongki’s face, calculating, weighing. Amazement flickered once in the depths of his eyes, quickly hidden under his usual cool.

“Prepared,” Jeongwoo murmured. Not a compliment. More of an assessment.

“Always,” Woongki said, his grin widening. “What’s the point of a break-in if you don’t bring your own keys?”

Jeongwoo rose from his seat, the scrape of the chair legs deliberate. “Fine,” he said evenly. “Follow me.”

But before he could take two steps, Woongki leaned back in his chair, fork dangling between his fingers like a baton.

“Uh-uh,” he drawled. “Dishes first.”

Jeongwoo stopped dead, turning slowly as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “…What?”

“The dishes.” Woongki gestured lazily toward the sink, grin widening. “You cooked absolutely nothing, so the least you can do is clean up. Don’t tell me the great Seo Jeongwoo leaves dirty plates lying around like a college freshman.”

For a second, Jeongwoo simply stared at him, disbelief flickering across his normally composed face. “…You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stalling.” Woongki spun the fork once before tossing it onto his empty plate. “Rules are rules, Potato King. No hacking session until the sink’s clear.”

Jeongwoo pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his teeth. “You break into my systems, drag me into arcades, invade my house—and now you’re dictating my kitchen?”

Woongki leaned forward, elbows on the table, grin all teeth. “Exactly. Welcome to democracy.”

For a beat, the air was thick with standoff. Then, to Woongki’s shock and amusement, Jeongwoo picked up the plates. Without a word, he carried them to the sink and began rinsing.

Jeongwoo didn’t look back, sleeves rolled up, water running over porcelain. 

Woongki laughed, loud and triumphant, before hopping up from his chair to trail after him. “Unbelievable. Seo Technologies’ untouchable CEO… reduced to kitchen duty. If only your board of directors could see you now.”

Jeongwoo set the last plate on the rack, shut off the faucet, and dried his hands with careful precision. Then he turned, meeting Woongki’s grin head-on.

“Done,” he said flatly. “Now follow me—before I reconsider and throw you out with the trash.”

Woongki only smirked, snatching up his flash drive by the chain and swinging it like a medal. “Lead the way, Hyung. You’ve already proven you can wash dishes. Let’s see if you can keep up with me in something harder.”

Jeongwoo dried his hands and didn’t give Woongki another second of gloating. He strode out of the kitchen, down the hall, his movements sharp enough to cut.

Woongki followed, still swinging the flash drive on its chain like a pendulum. “You know,” he said lightly, “for a guy who sulks through breakfast, you take orders real well.”

Jeongwoo didn’t answer. He stopped in front of what Woongki had always assumed was a closet, pressed his thumb against a recessed panel, and—click. The lock disengaged with a hiss, the door sliding open to reveal…

Rows of servers lined the walls, pulsing with quiet life. Screens glowed with shifting code and schematics. Wires snaked across polished floors like veins. The air was colder, sharper, alive with an electronic hum.

Woongki’s grin widened, a low whistle slipping past his lips. “Well, well. What do we have here?”

Jeongwoo stepped inside, voice low but clear. “My system,” he said. “Not the sandbox. Not the decoys. The core. Welcome to the Kwat Cave.”

There was no humor in his tone, but Woongki stopped dead—and then burst out laughing so hard he had to grab the doorframe for support.

“Kwat Cave?!” he wheezed, pointing at Jeongwoo like he couldn’t believe it. “You actually named it that? God, Hyung, you’re obsessed. Alien potatoes running your life, huh? You sleep with one under your pillow too?”

Jeongwoo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He walked calmly to the main terminal, hands brushing the keyboard with familiar precision. “Mock all you want. The alien potato hasn’t failed me once.”

“Alien potato,” Woongki repeated, still chuckling as he wandered deeper into the room, eyes devouring every glowing panel. “Of course. Seo Jeongwoo—CEO by day, galactic tuber fanboy by night. This explains everything.”

Jeongwoo’s gaze flicked to him, expression as flat as glass. “Done?”

Woongki grinned, swinging the flash drive once more before letting it dangle from his lips like a cigarette. “Not even close. But don’t worry—I like my men nerdy.”

For just a second, Jeongwoo’s fingers stilled on the keys. Then he started typing again, the glow of the monitors sharpening his profile. “Plug it in,” he said coolly.

And Woongki, still smirking, stepped closer to the heart of Jeongwoo’s cave.

Jeongwoo typed a few commands, monitors shifting to blank slates waiting for input. Without looking up, he said, “Plug it in.”

Woongki’s smirk faltered into something sharper, more guarded. He twirled the flash drive once around his finger but didn’t move closer.

“Yeah, no,” he said flatly.

Jeongwoo’s brows lifted. “No?”

“I’m not jamming my system into your fortress,” Woongki replied, slipping the drive back onto its chain. “You think I’m stupid? One wrong move and your machine’ll try to copy me, log me, maybe even trap me. I don’t trust you that far, Hyung.”

Jeongwoo stilled, then leaned back in his chair. His face didn’t betray anything, but there was the faintest flicker in his eyes—understanding. Respect, maybe.

“You’re right,” he admitted quietly. “You shouldn’t trust me that far.”

Woongki’s grin returned, slow and feline. “See? I knew we understood each other.” He stepped closer, scanning the room until his gaze snagged on something. “So. Give me a laptop. Something I can fry if your precious cave tries anything funny.”

Jeongwoo hesitated only a fraction too long. “I don’t have one.”

Woongki barked a laugh. He pointed across the room—toward a sleek black laptop sitting closed on a side desk, a faint blue LED blinking like an eye.

“You don’t have one?” Woongki echoed, eyes dancing. “Hyung, you really gonna stand there and gaslight me when the damn thing is winking at me from five feet away?”

For the first time that day, Jeongwoo looked almost… caught. His lips pressed into a thin line. “That isn’t—”

The laptop whirred awake, screen flaring to life. Woongki leaned forward lazily—then froze, blinking once before bursting into laughter.

“Oh. My. God.”

Jeongwoo’s body tensed before he even turned his head. He already knew what it was.

There, stretched across the lockscreen, was the arcade booth snapshot. Daisuke, beaming in the middle, arms locked around both of them, cheeks squished together like they were childhood friends instead of… whatever this was. Jeongwoo on the left, looking stiff but not resisting; Woongki on the right, caught mid-grin, eyes bright.

It looked… domestic. Stupidly domestic.

Woongki slapped the desk, howling. “Hyung—HYUNG. You’re telling me this is your lockscreen? Out of all the encrypted patterns and cool aesthetic wallpapers, you went with this?”

Jeongwoo’s ears burned, but his face stayed carefully blank. “It came preloaded.”

“PRELOADED?!” Woongki cackled harder, pointing at the screen. “What, did the manufacturer ship it with a bonus family album? Don’t lie, Potato King, you chose this.”

Jeongwoo’s lips pressed into a thin line, every inch of him radiating the silent wish to be swallowed whole by the floor. “…I forgot to change it.”

Woongki leaned back, still laughing, hands behind his head. “Oh no, you don’t get to play it cool. You could’ve had a galaxy background, a stock photo of mountains—hell, even your precious alien potato. But nooo, you went with us. Hyung’s first real wallpaper, a happy family portrait. I’m touched.”

Jeongwoo wanted to eject the laptop from the room. Preferably into the sun. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “If you’re done—”

“Not even close,” Woongki cut in, grin sharp and victorious. He leaned in close to the screen, tapping Daisuke’s smiling face. “Look at him. Hugging us like a kid with his parents. Cute, right?” He turned his gaze sideways, locking onto Jeongwoo’s with wicked delight. “So, who’s the mom and who’s the dad, Hyung? I’ll volunteer as mom, since you can’t cook.”

For a fraction of a second, Jeongwoo genuinely considered disconnecting the power, the internet, and Woongki from existence. Instead, he dragged a hand down his face, shoulders tight with restraint. “I want the ground to open and kill me,” he muttered under his breath.

Woongki heard it—and laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

Woongki smirked, sensing the weakness. He turned in the chair, lounging like he owned the place. “Too late. You’re not as untouchable as you think. Cold CEO, iron walls, the Kwat Cave—” he gestured lazily around the room, “—all of it’s just noise. But this?” He jabbed a finger at the lockscreen. “This is real. This is you.”

Jeongwoo’s throat tightened, though he forced his expression into its usual blankness. He wanted to scoff, to shut Woongki up with something cutting. But the words caught somewhere between his chest and his tongue.

Woongki caught that, too—oh, he definitely did. His grin softened at the edges, turning sly instead of mocking. “You act like you hate it, but you didn’t delete it. Didn’t even hide it. Means something to you, doesn’t it, Hyung? Means we mean something.”

Jeongwoo’s gaze flicked to him at last, sharp and warning, but there was a flicker there—something raw, something vulnerable he couldn’t quite smother.

And Woongki, predator that he was, leaned into it with a whisper-soft taunt:

“Guess the great Seo Jeongwoo’s got a heart after all.”

Jeongwoo looked away, jaw tight, the heat creeping at the back of his neck betraying him far more than his words ever would. “Shut up and log in,” he muttered.

Woongki only laughed, triumphant, spinning the laptop toward himself with a flourish. “As you wish, Daddy.”

Jeongwoo swore, for one fleeting second, that the earth really would split open just to spare him from this humiliation.

Jeongwoo dragged another chair over from the corner, not one of the sleek gaming rigs Woongki always gravitated toward but his own: a high-backed office chair, ergonomic, quiet—functional. Except the headrest caught the light, showing a subtle custom detail Woongki couldn’t miss: a tiny neon-green spout stitched into the leather.

Woongki’s grin snapped back instantly. “Don’t tell me,” he drawled, pointing. “You had your chair customized after that alien potato?”

Jeongwoo sat down without looking at him. “It’s efficient.”

Woongki burst out laughing again, leaning sideways against his own chair—the one sleek and black, leather shining under the monitors, trimmed with faint neon green, sharp and flashy compared to Jeongwoo’s restrained piece. “Efficient? Hyung, it’s literally cosplay furniture. You live and breathe tuber fandom and don’t even know it.”

“Shut up,” Jeongwoo muttered, tugging the laptop closer.

Woongki plugged in his flash drive, still chuckling. The wallpaper blinked once, forcing its glow over them again—Daisuke hugging them both, their cheeks squished together. Woongki wiggled his eyebrows. “See, even he approves of our little… domestic setup.”

Jeongwoo ignored him, jaw set, eyes flicking immediately to the streams of code flooding the screen.

Numbers, pathways, counter-scripts, defensive layers—an entire battlefield of algorithms unfurled before them. Woongki watched the initial results scroll across, then wordlessly slid the laptop toward Jeongwoo.

“You’re the host. You drive.”

Jeongwoo’s fingers met the keyboard without hesitation, precision in every stroke. His fortress reacted instantly—walls of encryption adjusting, alarms flickering, silent sentries moving across the data-field.

Beside him, Woongki leaned forward in his chair, his grin fading into razor-edged focus as he tapped into Jeongwoo’s primary system, fingers a blur across his own terminal. He didn’t bother hiding his movements; every packet, every push was out in the open, a challenge thrown straight across the space between them.

Five minutes.

The hum of the servers deepened, the air turning cooler. Jeongwoo’s jaw ticked as he countered Woongki’s push, not with brute force, but with elegant traps that rewrote themselves faster than they could be disarmed.

Ten minutes.

Woongki’s grin returned faintly, sharp but admiring, as he slipped past one of Jeongwoo’s decoys only to find another layered behind it. “Clever bastard,” he muttered, not realizing he’d said it out loud.

Fifteen minutes.

Their shoulders brushed, chairs drawn close without either of them noticing. The glow of their monitors bathed them in shifting light—green, blue, white—painting them as twin silhouettes against the hum of the cave.

Twenty minutes.

Neither spoke now. It was a rhythm, a current, Woongki weaving wild, reckless maneuvers, Jeongwoo countering with precision and control. Code blossomed and collapsed on the screens like fireworks, each line an unspoken conversation between them.

Thirty minutes.

Side by side, drowning in each other’s worlds—Woongki in Jeongwoo’s fortress, Jeongwoo in Woongki’s chaos—the outside vanished. No breakfast, no teasing, no walls. Just the two of them, tethered to the same fight, breathing the same hum of machines, their reflections caught and blurred together in the glass of the monitors.

Forty minutes.

The flurry slowed, keystrokes thinning into single deliberate strikes, then tapering into silence. The hum of the machines filled the void, steady and low, a pulse in the room.

Woongki leaned back at last, blinking at the screen. His breath caught. The answer he had clawed after for weeks—months—was right there, unfolding plain and brutal in the code. His shoulders stiffened, a shadow dragging across his expression as the realization rooted itself.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared, dumbfounded, at the truth on the monitor.

Behind him, Jeongwoo’s gaze never wavered. He wasn’t looking at the code. He was looking at Woongki. Calm, unreadable, the faintest weight in his eyes as if he’d been waiting for this very moment.

Because he had.

While Woongki fought tooth and nail for a glimpse of what lay hidden, Jeongwoo had already slipped inside his system—quiet, efficient, surgical. He’d dug deeper, faster, pulling the answers he needed minutes earlier.

He had them. All of them.

And now, he simply watched as Woongki caught up, watched the storm settle across his face, the edges of his grin gone, replaced by something rawer, heavier.

For once, Woongki didn’t notice the eyes on him. Didn’t notice the way Jeongwoo leaned back in his chair, hands finally still, letting silence finish the conversation their code had already had for them.

The silence stretched.

Woongki’s eyes dragged line after line, his mind racing to catch up with what his screen was feeding him. At first it looked like noise—lists, strings of data too dense to parse. Then the names resolved. Names he knew. Names anyone would know.

Ministers. CEOs. Military brass. Media moguls. From Seoul to Washington to Geneva.

Every profile unfolded like a living autobiography, not just their polished records but the marrow-deep truth: dates of birth, families, mentors, betrayals. The private corridors they walked, the payments they buried, the sins they inked in shadows.

Government contracts disguised as “missions.” Whole careers built on orchestrated failures. Lives tagged in red: exposed, bankrupted. Others marked in green: successful operations.

It wasn’t just corruption. It was legacy. An entire ledger of power—illegal trades, quiet assassinations, cover-ups tied neatly with dates and sums. It read like scripture, the secret history behind every collapse he had ever seen on the news.

Woongki swallowed hard, his throat dry. His chair creaked under the weight of his stillness.

Behind him, Jeongwoo remained quiet, unreadable. He already had the same files tucked away, dug from Woongki’s defenses minutes before Woongki himself reached them. He’d already seen how deep it ran, how dangerous it was to even know these names.

Woongki’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

He wasn’t sure what terrified him more—the sheer scope of what he’d just uncovered… or the steady gaze burning into the back of his head, belonging to the one person who had gotten there first.

The scroll of names blurred as Woongki’s focus scattered. His pulse hammered in his ears—too many names, too much power concentrated and exposed on one list. It felt impossible. And yet it was here, undeniable.

“Hyung…” His voice broke, thin with disbelief. “This is—”

“—real.”

Jeongwoo’s tone cut through him, steady and low. Woongki twisted in his chair, finally noticing the weight of Jeongwoo’s gaze.

“Seo Technologies wasn’t mine to begin with. It was my parents’. They built it from nothing—two visionaries who actually believed technology could be a shield, not a weapon.” His gaze flickered once, something raw surfacing beneath the calm. “And people saw that. Saw the potential. Saw the threat.”

The glow from the monitors cast a faint sheen over his face as his words sharpened. “One night, they came for us. Officials, contractors, people whose names you just read. My parents died protecting me and Daisuke.”

Woongki froze.

“Me and Daisuke survived because a man saved us.” Jeongwoo’s tone dipped, softer for a breath, almost reverent. “He pulled us out of that fire and told me to finish what my parents started. To take the company, hold it in my hands, and make it stronger than they ever imagined.”

His eyes locked on Woongki then, unwavering. “So I did. The world sees innovation. Progress. What they don’t see is the other half—me cutting the rot out of the system that murdered my family. One minister, one executive, one name at a time.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting against his knees, voice tightening. “I don’t forgive. I won't forget. Every collapse you’ve seen on the news, every dynasty brought to its knees—those weren’t accidents. That was me keeping my vow.”

The silence that followed pressed down like stone. Woongki could feel it—the weight of grief reforged into obsession, vengeance masquerading as efficiency.

And for the first time, he understood: Seo Jeongwoo wasn’t just guarding a legacy. He was waging a war no one else even knew existed.

The servers hummed, steady and cold. Woongki’s tongue felt like lead, words caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

Jeongwoo leaned back at last, the motion quiet but deliberate, his chair groaning softly. His eyes never left Woongki’s face.

“You don’t need to say anything,” he said, voice even, almost gentle. But there was steel beneath it, sharpened and deliberate.

The monitors flickered, lines of data fading into idle glow. Jeongwoo’s tone didn’t shift, but the air around it did—heavier, darker. “Now that you’ve seen this, you can’t unsee it. And if you think walking away is an option…” His eyes narrowed just slightly, the faintest ripple in his composure. “…you’re wrong.”

Woongki swallowed hard, but the silence pressed down on him again before he could speak.

Jeongwoo let it stretch just long enough to make the warning sink deep. Then, quieter, almost a whisper: “You wanted answers. Now you live with them.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze cutting through the glow of the screens. “Choose carefully, Woongki. Knowledge like this doesn’t just weigh you down. It marks you.”

The words hung heavy, more chilling than if he’d raised his voice—because Jeongwoo hadn’t needed to.

Jeongwoo watched him like a man watching a clock—patient, precise, inevitable.

“You’re good,” he said finally, almost casual. “You moved through my defenses like you’d been born in the seams of the code. Talent like that is rare.” His voice didn’t soften; the compliment was a tool, not a kindness. “And talent can be sharpened.”

Woongki’s face tightened at the praise. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or exposed.

Jeongwoo leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the monitors painting hard lines across his features. “I can do this alone,” he said. “I always have. But alone is slow. Reckless is slower. You—” he flicked his chin toward Woongki’s terminal, “—you could make it precise. Faster. Cleaner. You could turn a year into months, a risky gambit into a sure cut.”

He let the idea hang there, a measured proposition. Then he dropped the other part like a stone.

“If you want Jay and Shuaibo free,” Jeongwoo said, voice flat and without flourish, “if you want them out of whatever nets they’re caught in—then you help me. Not for them alone.” His eyes found Woongki’s and did not flinch. “For yourself, too. You came for answers. Those answers cost more than curiosity. They cost action.”

Woongki’s body went rigid. Jay and Shuaibo—names that pulled at him harder than any code. He’d chased rumors, fingerprints in dead services, small leads that went nowhere. He’d risked petty things. He had not risked the world.

“You’re blackmailing me,” he said, words brittle.

Jeongwoo’s mouth twitched—no smile. “Call it leverage, if you like. Call it what you need to sleep at night. The truth is simple: I can give you the path to them or I can give you the ledger that shows why they’re trapped. Knowledge without action leaves the people you love where they are.” He tapped the lip of his glass, slow. “Help me, and I’ll make sure ‘where they are’ is temporary.”

Woongki’s hands curled into fists in his lap. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you walk away with the list in your head and nothing else,” Jeongwoo said, voice like metal folding into velvet. “You’ll be marked. You’ll know things that will make you a target. And you’ll have watched the only person who could get them back decide not to help you.” He let the worst possibility sit between them. “I don’t enjoy giving ultimatums. I simply don’t waste time.”

The room seemed to tighten—servers humming, the screens’ glow steady. Woongki thought of Jay’s voice on the phone, stifled and careful. Of Shuaibo’s quiet humor that had always been the flimsiest armor. Of the way Jeongwoo had spoken of his parents, of vows made in blood.

He realized, with a slow, awful clarity, that Jeongwoo wasn’t asking. He was offering the only avenue that led anywhere close to what he wanted.

Woongki’s lips moved, barely, a whisper more to himself than to Jeongwoo. “If I help you… what then? What do you want from me?”

Jeongwoo’s eyes sharpened. “Everything this work asks for. Secrecy. Precision. Obedience when it matters.” He paused, then added, softer and unmistakable: “Loyalty. Not to me—though that will be useful—but to the cause. To the end of what hurt me. To making sure no one else pays what my family paid.”

Woongki looked down at his hands, at the faint calluses on his fingertips from late nights and faster typing. He thought of Jay and Shuaibo again and felt something in him snap into place—fear braided with a fierce, protective certainty.

He lifted his head slowly. The answer wasn’t a cheer or a brave grin. It was a nod. Small. Reluctant. Absolute.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll help.”

Jeongwoo’s face didn’t change at first—only his eyes registered it, like a machine logging input. Then he straightened, the faintest acknowledgement in the set of his shoulders.

“Good,” he said. “We begin tomorrow. I’ll show you where to start.”

Woongki swallowed the word tomorrow, felt its weight. There was no going back now. The servers hummed on, indifferent, as two people sealed a pact with a single, dangerous agreement.

Chapter Text

The share of heat had become a share of warmth.

Jay lay half-draped over Steven’s chest, the rise and fall of his breathing matching the slow rhythm beneath his ear. The world outside felt muted, distant; the only sound in the room was the quiet thrum of their hearts and the faint hiss of rain against the glass. Steven’s arm curled around him, not possessive but steady—fingers tracing idle patterns along Jay’s spine, gentle enough to feel like a promise rather than a claim.

Jay’s body ached from more than just the night; it was a strange ache of relief, dissonance, and confusion. This wasn’t the monster Black Ops had sketched on his briefings—no ruthless predator, no cold manipulator. This was a man who held him as if he were breakable, who kissed his hair instead of interrogating him, whose touch was slow, respectful, almost reverent.

He tilted his face up, eyes meeting Steven’s. “This… isn’t what I expected,” he murmured, voice low, uncertain.

Steven didn’t answer with words. He brushed his thumb over Jay’s jaw, then pressed a soft kiss to his temple. The kind of kiss that said stay, you’re safe. Jay’s chest tightened. He didn’t know whether to recoil or melt into it. Instead, he stayed.

Later, Steven coaxed him into the kitchen. Barefoot, both still in soft pajamas, they moved through the space like an echo of normalcy. Steven cracked eggs into a bowl, diced vegetables, let the scent of garlic and soy drift through the air. Jay sat at the counter, watching the man’s hands—those same hands that had pinned him in an alley now folding green onions with quiet precision.

“You didn’t have to cook,” Jay said softly.

Steven’s mouth curved in a small, unguarded smile. “I wanted to. You looked like you needed it.”

He slid a plate across to him, warm and fragrant. Jay took a bite without thinking, the taste grounding him in a way words couldn’t.

The next morning broke softer than Jay expected. He woke not to alarms or shadows but to the warmth of Steven’s arm heavy around his waist, the faint rustle of the city beyond the glass. For a long moment, he lay still, letting himself forget where he was, who he was supposed to be, just listening to the even rise and fall of Steven’s breathing.

When they finally pulled themselves out of bed, both still in rumpled pajamas, Steven didn’t suggest coffee or room service. He just smiled—an almost boyish smile that didn’t belong in boardrooms or under neon lights—and said, “Come with me.”

Jay didn’t ask where. He let Steven lead him down quiet streets in the cool of morning, his own hair a mess, their hands brushing but never quite touching. They stopped at a small chicken place tucked between two closed boutiques, the kind of place Jay and the Divaz used to order from at three a.m. after missions. Its sign buzzed faintly. The chairs were stacked. The world hadn’t woken yet.

Jay frowned. “They’re closed.”

Steven pulled a key from his pocket.

Jay blinked. “You—?”

“I booked it,” Steven said simply, pushing the door open. The lights flickered on, revealing the whole restaurant empty, waiting. “Last night. Thought you might want it… you mentioned it last night.”

It was absurd. Ridiculous. Over the top in a way only Steven could make feel effortless. And yet, standing there in his pajamas, Jay’s chest hurt with something he couldn’t name.

They sat at a corner booth, not polished marble this time but worn vinyl, the table etched with faint scratches from years of strangers’ elbows and laughter. A server, yawning but kind, brought out plates already waiting—golden chicken, steaming rice, kimchi, side dishes that smelled like comfort.

Jay picked up a drumstick, still warm, grease staining his fingers. He laughed before he could stop himself. “You really booked a whole restaurant for fried chicken.”

Steven leaned on his elbow, watching him with a quiet satisfaction. “You said you want some fried chicken.”

They ate like that—messy, unguarded, swapping bites of side dishes, arguing lightly over who got the last wing. It was so mundane, so ordinary, that it felt almost surreal. The kind of morning two college kids might have shared after oversleeping in each other’s dorms, not two men caught between shadows and betrayals.

Jay licked sauce from his thumb, catching Steven’s eyes lingering on him with something softer than hunger. Something that made Jay’s heart stumble.

For once, there was no mission, no enemy, no command in his ear. Just the quiet clatter of plates, the smell of garlic and soy, the warmth of a man across the table who had bent the world to give him this fleeting piece of normal.

Days began to blur, softened by a rhythm Jay hadn’t thought himself capable of.

Mornings meant Steven coaxing him out of bed with the smell of coffee, the clink of chopsticks against porcelain, the quiet scrape of toast on a plate. Sometimes Jay joined him in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair still mussed, chopping vegetables with an ease that felt borrowed from another life. Other times he just sat on the counter, legs swinging, watching Steven move through the motions of cooking like it was second nature.

Afternoons meant little things—Steven sprawled on the sofa reading over reports while Jay skimmed through a novel he hadn’t touched in months; the two of them taking turns dozing off in the quiet, the city muted outside their windows. Occasionally Steven insisting on teaching him simple stretches, the kind he said eased tension in the spine. Jay laughed at his terrible demonstration, but he did them anyway, letting Steven guide his shoulders down, his hands firm but careful.

Evenings were softer still. They ordered takeout or cooked together, sat barefoot on the couch with plates of pancit canton, Steven’s favorite instant noodles balanced on their knees, some half-watched documentary flickering on the TV. Steven never pressed conversation where Jay didn’t offer it; he filled silence with small remarks, never probing, never sharp.

It was mundane. So mundane that Jay sometimes caught himself staring at the curve of Steven’s smile, the way he touched Jay’s small part of his waist, the soft tone whenever he talks to him far from stern and authoritative voice when speaking with someone through phone or on screen mettings—this is dangerous. Not because Black Ops had marked him. But because Jay was starting to crave it. The stillness. The normal.

At night, the warmth carried over. The tangle of limbs wasn’t desperate anymore, not sharp with adrenaline, but heavy with comfort. Jay learned the shape of Steven’s breathing in the dark, the way his chest rumbled faintly when he laughed half-asleep at something Jay muttered. He learned how easy it was to rest a hand there, to pretend—just for a little while—that this was his life.

Reality came back not with alarms, but with Steven’s phone buzzing insistently against the nightstand.

Jay stirred, half-asleep, and Steven silenced the call with a swipe, his jaw tightening. He knew what it meant before he even looked—back-to-back meetings, the board demanding explanations, deals waiting to collapse if he didn’t show his face.

But when he glanced back at the bed, at Jay curled into the sheets, lashes casting faint shadows under his eyes, the weight of it pressed harder. Leaving him now felt wrong. Like setting a wounded bird back on the street and hoping the world would be merciful.

“You should go,” Jay murmured without opening his eyes, voice raw from sleep.

Steven sat on the edge of the mattress, brushing a hand through Jay’s hair. “I don’t want to.”

That earned a small, humorless huff from Jay. “Since when do CEOs get days off?”

“Since one showed up where he wasn’t supposed to and found something he doesn’t want to lose,” Steven said quietly, almost to himself.

Jay’s chest tightened, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his voice not to betray the way those words cracked him open.

When Steven finally dressed, it wasn’t the usual polished display of power. No tailored suit, no gleaming shoes. Just a dark jacket, simple slacks, sunglasses—meant to blend, not to command. He called his driver to meet them two streets over, avoiding the front entrance, avoiding cameras. The world didn’t get to see this part of him. Not yet.

“Come with me,” Steven said, hand hovering as though afraid to push too hard.

Jay blinked from the doorway, bare feet shifting against the hardwood. “To your office?”

Steven nodded. “Yes. Paparazzi won’t get near Kim Financial. And… I’d rather know you’re close.”

The words weren’t framed like an order. They were closer to a plea.

Jay should have said no. He should have pointed out that walking willingly into Steven Kim’s empire was the same as surrendering to it. But when Steven extended his hand—steady, waiting—Jay found himself taking it.

Outside, the city had sharpened awake. Cars hissed through wet streets, neon signs blinked, the hum of a thousand lives overlapping. Yet as they slipped into the tinted car waiting in the shadows, Jay felt the strange bubble of stillness cling to them.

He leaned against the window, watching the skyline blur past. Beside him, Steven sat with his hand still close, not touching this time, but near enough that Jay could feel the quiet offer of it.

For the first time, Jay realized it wasn’t just him falling. Steven was, too. And whether they landed or burned, neither seemed ready to let go.

☆

The elevator opened onto silence. The highest floor of Kim Financial was a world away from the streets below—black marble floors polished to a mirror’s sheen, walls lined with sleek panels of glass and steel. The air smelled faintly of leather and coffee, sterile and expensive, like power made tangible.

Steven’s office stretched wide, all sharp edges and minimalist perfection. The city unfurled beyond the glass wall, skyscrapers cutting the morning light into shards.

Steven moved behind his desk, settling into the leather chair that looked more like a throne than a seat. Jay didn’t follow. He lowered himself onto the long black sofa facing the desk, legs folding under him, eyes scanning the room like it was a cage dressed as a palace.

For a moment, silence stretched between them. The hum of the city below felt distant, like they were suspended above it all. Then Jay spoke, his voice cutting through the stillness.

“Why did you do it?”

Steven glanced up, brow furrowing. “Do what?”

Jay leaned back, arms crossing loosely. “Put entire companies into bankruptcy. I’ve seen the reports. You drained them until their accounts bled zero.” His gaze sharpened. “Why?”

Steven hesitated, his fingers drumming once against the armrest of his chair. For a second, it looked like he might deflect, drown it in corporate language. But then his shoulders eased, and something softer flickered across his face.

“Because you asked,” he said simply. Then, more carefully: “Whatever you want to see, I’ll show you.”

He reached into a drawer, pulled out a slim black folder, and laid it flat on the desk. With a flick of his wrist, he slid it open—rows of names, companies, and figures scrawled across the pages.

Jay rose, crossing the space to stand over the desk. His eyes skimmed the list. He recognized some names—powerful ones. Politicians disguised as businessmen, corporations funneling money into things never meant for light.

“These are people who bought their power,” Steven said quietly. “Corrupt officials, syndicates hiding behind clean logos, groups laundering money through shell firms. I don’t put them out of business. I strip them. Legally. Their banks run dry because I take back what they stole.”

Jay’s jaw tightened. His reflection stared back at him from the glossy desk surface. “And that makes you different from them?”

Jay’s gaze swept the office again, the black marble, the steel-and-glass walls, the view of the city sprawling beneath them. It felt like a fortress—cold, perfect, unassailable. A fortress built on toppled lives.

“These…” Jay’s voice trembled as he jabbed a finger at the folder between them. “…these companies you destroyed—they weren’t just corrupt CEOs. They had people under them. Clerks. Assistants. Drivers. You didn’t just take down monsters, Steven. You took down their shadows. You ruined lives that had nothing to do with their greed.”

Steven’s hands gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white. His voice, when it came, was low but steady. “Jay… do you think I don’t know that?”

“Then why do it?” Jay shot back. “Why keep doing it if you know innocent people get burned?”

Steven leaned forward, eyes locking on Jay’s. There was no polish in his tone now. Only raw steel. “Because they’re already burning, Jay. Those people you’re defending—the ones under those corporations—they’re already collateral. Their lives are already being traded by the same officials you think you’re protecting them from.”

Jay froze. “What are you talking about?”

“The government,” Steven said, his voice harsh, almost biting. “Your government. The officials you think you’re shielding the public from? They’re not just looking the other way. They’re feeding it. They funnel contracts to the syndicates. They hide their money in the companies I crush. They let people starve so their families can eat off gold plates. That’s who’s ruining those innocent lives—not me.”

Jay’s stomach dropped. For a moment, the world tilted. “No…” His voice cracked. “No, that’s not—Black Ops is supposed to—”

“Protect them?” Steven’s laugh was bitter, without humor. “Protect them from what? From the very people writing your orders? You’re a weapon, Jay. A weapon they point at whoever threatens their power. You think you’re saving people. They’ve just convinced you of it.”

Jay’s breath hitched. Everything he’d built his life on—every mission, every kill, every whispered order in his ear—suddenly felt hollow. “I…” He swallowed hard. “I thought I was protecting them. I thought I was…” His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms. “All this time…”

Steven’s voice softened, losing its edge, the plea creeping back in. “Jay, look at me.”

Jay did, eyes glassy, conflicted.

“I don’t do what I do to build palaces,” Steven said quietly. “I do it because no one else will. Because the law is a game for the powerful, and the innocent never win. You’re not wrong to care about the people who get caught in the crossfire. I care, too. But the only way to break the system is to strip it bare. And yes, it’s ugly. Yes, it hurts. But I’m not the one who built this. I’m just the one tearing it down.”

Jay’s heart pounded. He wanted to hate Steven. He wanted to walk out. But sitting there, staring at the man across the desk, he felt something else clawing at him—despair, confusion, the crumbling of everything he thought he knew.

“I don’t know what’s right anymore,” Jay whispered, his voice raw. “I don’t know who’s the monster anymore. You… me… them…”

Steven stood slowly, coming around the desk, his movements careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “Then don’t decide right now,” he said softly. “Just… stay. Let me show you. All of it. No masks. No lies.”

Jay’s breath shuddered out, his fingers trembling against the folder. The city below blurred, its noise distant. In that black glass office high above the streets, everything he thought he knew about good and evil fractured, leaving only the man standing in front of him—arms open, voice low, offering the truth even if it damned him.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was loaded with all the weight of their truths, their accusations, their fears, and the fragile thread of trust Steven was trying to hold out, trembling in front of him.

Jay stared down at the papers between them, but the numbers, the names, the neat columns of data swam in and out of focus. His head felt full of static. Every word Steven had just spoken reverberated in his skull, like someone had taken a hammer to the foundation of his life.

“You’re telling me…” Jay’s voice was unsteady. “The people I’ve been working for—the ones who promised me we were protecting the public—they’re the same ones feeding these companies? Protecting them?”

Steven didn’t look away. “Not all of them. But enough.”

Jay shook his head slowly, as if the motion might clear it. “Then why… why do they want you gone so badly? If you’re tearing down the people they fund…”

“They want to control the story,” Steven said quietly. “If I’m out of the picture, the money keeps flowing. The boardrooms stay full. The deals keep signing. I’m a threat not because I’m dirty—but because I’m clean.”

Jay’s breath caught. His hand went to his temple, massaging as though the pain might break loose. Everything in him wanted to believe Steven was lying. That this was some manipulation. But when he looked up, the man across from him wasn’t smirking, wasn’t gloating. He looked tired. Hollowed out. Real.

Jay stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the polished floor. “I—” His voice faltered. “I need to think.”

“Jay—” Steven started, stepping around the desk.

“No.” Jay held up a hand, eyes darting to the door. “Not now. Not here.”

He crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring at the city sprawling below. Cars like veins of light. Towers like black teeth. All of it suddenly felt alien. “I don’t know what’s real anymore,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if I’ve been protecting people… or protecting them.”

Steven stopped a few steps behind him, voice low, almost breaking. “You’re not the enemy, Jay. You’re a soldier who’s been lied to.”

Jay turned halfway, his expression a mix of despair and exhaustion. “I don’t even know if that’s true. I don’t even know who you are anymore. Who I am anymore.”

“Then stay,” Steven said softly. “Stay here. Let me show you everything. You don’t have to choose yet.”

Jay closed his eyes for a beat, then opened them again. “I can’t.” His voice was raw. “Not right now.”

“Where will you go?”

“I need… space.” He shifted toward the door, avoiding Steven’s eyes. “I need to breathe.”

Steven moved closer, but stopped himself, fingers curling helplessly at his sides. “Jay…” His voice was a whisper, almost a plea. “Please don’t shut me out.”

Jay didn’t answer. He reached for the door, his palm lingering on the cool metal handle. For a moment, he almost turned back. But the confusion was too heavy, the questions too loud.

“I’ll call,” he muttered. And then he was gone, leaving Steven standing alone in the black-glass office, the city roaring below them.

☆

Jay sat in the half-light of his apartment, the untouched glass of whiskey sweating rings into the table. His reflection trembled on the surface, warped and scattered, like he was already split into fragments. The room smelled faintly of metal and dust, the kind of stillness after a gunshot. He should be dead by my hand. The thought curled through him, jagged. His fingers twitched, phantom memory of a trigger pressed, pulled. So why can’t I move? Why is the silence heavier than the recoil would have been?

Across the city, Steven lay awake, the skyline carved in neon against the darkness of his room. The blinds leaked the city’s pulse in blue and red, each flicker cutting him into pieces of shadow and light. He hadn’t turned on a lamp; he didn’t need to. Jay’s face lingered like an afterimage burned into his vision, sharper than any photograph. Not the mask of a killer. Not the eyes that could gut a man without blinking. But that other face—the one left unguarded when everything else fell. A face Steven had no right to want, but couldn’t stop wanting.

Jay dragged a hand down his face, but the gesture only pushed the night deeper into him. The memories ran on loop, punishment without mercy: warmth pressed into him, breath ghosting across his throat, a voice so low it threaded right through the marrow. He could still feel it in the ridges of his palms, in the spaces where skin had touched skin. It left him cornered in ways no ambush ever had. The mission was clear, and had always been clear. His target had been marked long before he knew the shape of Steven’s laugh, the rhythm of his pulse under his hand.

Steven exhaled slow, deliberate, as if control were still his to hold. Freedom is only real when you stop running. He hadn’t meant it as confession. But it had been one. And in the silence that followed, when Jay hadn’t pulled away, Steven had realized how dangerous hope could be—how sharp, how blinding. Hope cut deeper than any blade.

The glass clinked when Jay shoved it aside. The sound startled him more than gunfire ever had. It was too human, too small, too final. It sounded like choice. He pushed himself to his feet, but his body refused to obey—paralyzed between vengeance and surrender. Both roads burned. Both ended in ruins.

Steven sat up, restless, his body taut with instincts that demanded maps, escape routes, calculations. He should have been sketching traps, measuring odds. Instead he stared at his door, as if expecting the knock. Or worse, the whisper of a lock sliding open. He imagined Jay there—weapon steady, or hand trembling. He couldn’t decide which vision terrified him more: the certainty of death, or the uncertainty of hesitation.

The city roared and quieted in turns, blind to the war tightening in its shadows. Between two men, the same invisible blade hovered, each with a hand upon it, neither ready to cut, both knowing the wound was already there.

Ding.

Jay’s hand snapped to his phone before his thoughts caught up. His pulse crashed against his ribs, breaking him open. He hated the way hope lit up automatic in him, hated the instinct that it could be from him—from the man who’d split him in two and left him half-mad.

But the screen told another story:

**DIVAZ CHAT – ENCRYPTED**

Shuaibo: Sun., 5/10, 2200hrs. Ki’s Pod. Be there.

The words landed like a blow to the sternum. Shuaibo. Woongki. His constants. The only ones who called him Jay without flinching, who had stitched him back together when the rest of the world saw only the weapon. His family in a life where that word had lost its meaning.

And in just days, he would sit across from them with this weight hidden in his chest—the night with Steven, the hesitation, the mission left unfinished. He would have to look them in the eye with the knowledge that he had faltered, maybe doomed them too.

Jay stared until the message blurred into unreadable shapes. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, but every word he thought of was a confession waiting to explode. He set the phone down, carefully, as if handling an armed charge. Beside it, the whiskey still sweated patiently, waiting, untouched. The only thing moving in the room was his breath—shallow, uneven, fogging the silence.

Across the city, Steven still sat at his window, unaware of the message that had already set the next pieces in motion. Unaware that Jay’s next steps would be toward his family, not him. And yet—Jay felt it anyway, that pull. The thin thread between orders and bonds, between bloodless duty and messy human ties. Between family, freedom, and the man he was supposed to kill.

Chapter Text

◇♡☆

When the Divaz chose to meet at Woongki’s place, it meant the agenda was too personal, too dangerous for public ears. His pod wasn’t just a hideout—it was the safest ground they had. Built like a fortress and veiled by layers of custom code, Woongki’s security system left no cracks for Black Ops to slip through.

Every sensor, every firewall, every false trail in the network was his handiwork. To outsiders, the pod was a dead zone—no signal leaked out, no trace leaked in. For the Divaz, it was the one place they could strip away masks and speak freely, without fear of surveillance or betrayal.

Inside, the air carried a different weight. Here, decisions were made that would never touch the grid. Secrets were traded like currency, plans whispered like confessions. And tonight, whatever had brought them together wasn’t routine—it was personal.

Shuaibo went straight to Woongki’s pod the moment they returned from Japan. Han had nearly made it impossible—clinging, overprotective, unwilling to let him out of sight. Shuaibo had laughed it off, reasoning that his friends would be furious if he didn’t show up, promising Han he would come back and stay at his place after. It was the only compromise Han accepted.

The keypad outside Woongki’s door blinked faintly. Shuaibo keyed in the code with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times. The door unlocked with a soft click, and the pod’s familiar quiet folded around him. Usually when they hadn’t seen each other in days—or even just hours—the first thing was always a hug, followed by playful sparring about who looked prettier, who missed the other more.

But this time was different.

When Shuaibo stepped inside, Woongki was already waiting. Their eyes met across the space. Not cold, not distant—but layered, unreadable. Beneath the silence, though, they knew each other well enough to catch it: the unspoken sorries, the helpless I don’t know what to do.

The tension lingered, heavier than the walls of security Woongki had built around this place.

And then Jay arrived—last. That alone unsettled them. He was never late, always the first one through the door, always the one lecturing them about punctuality like it was a survival skill. Seeing him enter now, behind schedule and carrying a quiet gravity none of them could miss, made the air in the pod shift.

Something had changed.

Woongki leaned back in his chair, the glow of half a dozen monitors painting his face in cold light. Numbers scrolled, maps pulsed, alerts blinked in quiet rhythm—but his attention wasn’t really on the code. It was on the two figures across from him.

Shuaibo lounged—or tried to—on the long leather sofa, arms folded, leg bouncing restlessly. Jay sat rigid in the single chair beside him, posture sharp but eyes shadowed, like he was somewhere else entirely.

The silence pressed in, thick and unnatural. Usually by now, they’d be throwing barbs, trading nonsense until one of them cracked a smile. Tonight, the air tasted like anticipation.

Woongki exhaled, drumming his fingers against the desk. “You know,” he said lightly, breaking the stillness, “you two look like an ad for insomnia. Or famine. Can’t tell which.”

His joke landed somewhere between genuine attempt and self-defense, the corner of his mouth twitching as he turned to glance at them. “What, did you forget how to eat while I wasn’t looking? Or is this the new Divaz fashion—sunken eyes, tragic stares?”

Shuaibo gave a soft huff, not quite a laugh. Jay didn’t even blink.

The joke fell into the room like a pebble into a deep well—the silence swallowing it, the echoes lingering.

The tension snapped into something sharp and immediate, like the snap of a circuit. Jay’s head turned slowly, eyes moving from Shuaibo to Woongki with an unnerving, clinical calm. The monitors’ glow painted his face in starker relief — cheekbones like blades, pupils dark hollows.

“If I do something stupid,” he said, voice low enough that it could have been a breath, “if I fuck up the mission—pull the trigger. Put a bullet in my head.”

The words landed cold. Shuaibo’s leg stopped mid-bounce. He actually laughed once — thin, surprised, and not at all amused — like a sound ripped from a throat that hadn’t expected to be needed. “Jay—” he started, and the sound of his own name came out small, fragile.

Woongki’s fingers went still on the keyboard. For a moment he couldn’t remember how to breathe; the code on his screens continued to scroll, indifferent. All the little safety checks, the redundancies they’d argued over for weeks, the rehearsed contingencies — they shrank into the hollow between Jay’s words and the air. He imagined a gun anyway, absurdly: its cold metal, the way it would warm. He imagined the impossible tally of consequences and felt bile rise.

“Don’t say shit like that,” Shuaibo managed finally, voice raw. He pushed off the sofa as if the movement could push the sentence back where it came from. “Don’t put that on the table, Jay. Not tonight.”

Jay didn’t flinch. His hands rested on chairs armrest; his jaw worked as though chewing on something bitter and necessary. “I mean it,” he said. No theatrics. No pleading. Just a compact, dangerous certainty. “If I do something that costs us — that costs you — I don’t want a second chance. I don’t want us to clean up after me. You do it, end it. Quick. Clean.”

Shuaibo’s laugh died. He rubbed at his eyes like he’d woken up in the wrong place. “You’re not sober enough for martyr speeches,” he said, but the humor didn’t stick. It slid off the tension and left the wound exposed.

Woongki pushed back from the desk with a noise that might have been a chair scraping but felt, to him, like a surrender. He walked the few paces between them and stopped, close enough to see the tiny tremor at the corner of Jay’s mouth. For an instant Woongki felt like a child again — responsible for choices he hadn’t made but suddenly tasked with executing.

“You don’t get to hand me the switch,” Woongki said, quieter than he’d meant. His hand hovered at his side, fingers empty, then curled into a fist instead. “If you think you can die to save us… you don’t know us at all.” He swallowed. “We’re not a team that wipes itself clean. We fix it, or we break it together.”

Jay’s stare softened — not much, but enough. There was exhaustion under the steel. “And if I can’t be fixed?” he asked.

Shuaibo stepped forward, the bravado melting into something tender and dangerously honest. He reached out and caught Jay’s shoulder like it was a fragile, live thing. “Then you’re stuck with us,” he said, voice thick. “And we will drag you across every damn broken street in this city until you learn how not to.”

Shuaibo's hand tightened on Jay's shoulder, fingers indexing like a promise. He met Jay's eyes, fierce and flat. "If anyone puts a gun to your head," he said, voice low and certain, "I'll put a bullet to theirs first."

The words were blunt, almost childish in their simplicity — a direct trade, a literal protection. But there was no joke in it. Shuaibo's knuckles whitened; his mouth flattened into a line that didn't leave room for argument.

Woongki felt something in his chest unclench. He stepped forward until he was part of the circle, close enough that they could all feel each other's heat. "I'll do that too," he said, and it wasn't bravado. It was a decision folded tight and offered without ornament. "If it comes to that, I put the gun on theirs."

Jay's mouth tilted, not quite a smile. It was softer this time, as if the iron had been sanded down just a little by their blunt, childish loyalty. "Christ," he muttered, and there was gratitude in it, messy and unpolished.

Shuaibo let go of Jay's shoulder and, in a gesture that was half comfort and half ritual, bumped his forehead against Jay's for a heartbeat. Woongki mirrored it, a fumbling, practical seal. The three of them stood like that for a grip of seconds — absurd, solemn, an unspoken covenant formed in the stale air and monitor glow.

An alert chimed again, sharper this time. Realities reasserted themselves: feeds, coordinates, windows into the world they stepped into.

"Okay," Shuaibo said, drawing a breath and letting the tension reorient into focus. "No heroic nonsense. We do our part. We watch each other's backs. And if any idiot tries to make a martyr out of one of us, they'll answer to the three of us."

Woongki nodded once. "Together," he said.

Jay's reply was a quiet, hard promise. "Together."

◇♡☆

They swung back into the real work with the easy, grim efficiency of people who’d rehearsed crisis more than they’d rehearsed breathing. The monitors blurred; the world outside narrowed to data and names. Shuaibo pulled up a feed and, without the theatricality he usually used to soften bad news, began to lay it out.

Shuaibo swallowed and shoved the file on desk. “Han… he tells me everything. I didn’t dig this up alone. He showed me the paths, the leaks, even the lists of names.”

Jay’s head lifted, eyes narrowing. “Why would Park Han let you see all this?”

For the first time that night, Shuaibo’s composure cracked. His gaze dropped, lashes lowering, a faint flush of something almost shy at the edges. He didn’t answer, not directly—his mouth pressed into a line, words bitten back before they could form.

Trying to ignore Jay’s question, Shuaibo continues “Park Entertainment isn’t what it says it is,”. His fingers danced over the keyboard, bringing up a string of profiles, shell companies, and a pair of flagged transfers that smelled like laundering. “They recruit models and influencers the way other places recruit informants—soft approach, public face, private terms. They get the resumes, the client lists, the Rolodexes. Then they funnel everything to people who want introductions—political appointments, board seats, offshore accounts.”

Woongki and Jay leaned in. Jay’s jaw tightened; Woongki’s eyes flicked from line to line, cataloging dates and names like a litany. Shuaibo didn’t bother with dramatic pauses. He knew the facts mattered more than his spin.

“They’ve been operating under the guise of talent management for years,” Shuaibo continued. “But it’s broader than fashion shows and photoshoots. They plant people at charity galas, charity committees, investment mixers—any place where names and favors get traded. The models are the vectors. They get access, play the charm, and the company grabs the metadata. I found a ledger with meetings scheduled between Park reps and three ministries, two think tanks, and one private bank.” He shoved the file toward them. “All anonymized, until it wasn’t.”

Woongki’s gaze snagged on a name halfway down the ledger. His pupils constricted; his breath stuttered before he forced it steady again.

“…I know this one,” he murmured, tapping the screen. “Jeongwoo showed me this list before. These are the same people—the ones who signed off on his parents’ deaths.”

Jay’s eyes dragged lower until they caught on a cluster of logos. His mouth twisted, almost a smirk, but bitter. “And these—Steven already gutted them. Years ago. Or I thought he did. He dragged their empires into bankruptcy one by one. Guess they learned how to shed skin.”

For a moment, the monitors hummed and the silence between them sharpened. Then the realization settled, mutual and heavy.

Woongki looked at Jay; Jay looked back. Neither needed to explain. Han’s reach, Jeongwoo’s vendetta, Steven’s crusade—it all pointed at the same set of names, the same cancer threaded through government, finance, industry. Different men, different reasons, but the same target list.

Shuaibo glanced up, eyes narrowing as he caught the unspoken current. “…You’re telling me they were all fighting the same war?”

Neither Jay nor Woongki answered. They didn’t have to. The files on the screen had already said it for them.

Woongki’s gaze lingered on the names glowing in pale blue across the monitors. His fingers tapped restlessly against the desk, the sound small but sharp in the stillness.

“…It’s the same set,” he said finally. “Jeongwoo’s targets. Steven’s ledgers. And now Park Han’s files. Different hands, same war.”

Jay leaned back, exhaling through his nose. His eyes never left the list. “If all three of them were dismantling the same network, then it isn't a coincidence. It’s coordination—or at least a shared enemy.”

Shuaibo frowned, unsettled. “But they’re not working together. Jeongwoo and Steven—sure, maybe in the shadows, but Han? He’s on a different stage entirely.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Woongki cut in, voice tight. “If their lists align, it means there’s a thread we haven’t pulled yet. Either they’re connected, or someone’s moving them like pieces.”

Jay straightened, decisive now. “Then we confirm it. Cross-reference Jeongwoo’s data with Steven’s old takedowns and Han’s current moves. If they overlap cleanly, we’ll know. And if they don’t…” His jaw set. “We’ll know that too.”

The glow of the monitors made the room feel like the inside of a vault. The three of them—half shadows, half data—looked at one another over the list.

Woongki broke the silence first. “If this is real—if Han, Jeongwoo, and Steven are moving against the same people—we can’t just assume. We need proof.”

Jay rubbed both hands over his face, dragging them down until they rested against his mouth. The screen full of names flickered, casting hard light across his tired eyes. “Enough of this,” he muttered. “Hints. Shadows. Maybe this, maybe that.” He straightened, jaw set. “If we want answers, we stop chasing ghosts. We get Park Han, Seo Jeongwoo, and Kim Steven in the same space. Same table. Same air. Make them look each other in the eye.”

Woongki’s head snapped up. “That’s—” he started, then stopped, mouth open. His brow furrowed like he was about to scold him, but instead he let out a noise somewhere between a squeak and a laugh. “That’s a crazy idea,” he said, voice a little too high. “Completely insane.”

Shuaibo’s grin was already spreading, bright and wolfish. “Insane,” he echoed, practically bouncing in his seat. “But also… exciting. Oh my God. Can you imagine the three of them, same room, same second?!”

Woongki pressed his palm to his forehead, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward. “We’re not actually considering this.”

Shuaibo leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “We are absolutely considering this.”

Jay just looked between them, calm and dangerous, the hint of a smile cutting across his face. “Good. Then let’s figure out how to make it happen.”

The three of them turned back to the screen. For the first time that night, the weight of the list shifted—from a burden of secrets to a blueprint for the boldest move they’d ever tried.

◇♡☆

The office smelled faintly of expensive coffee and something floral that tried too hard to be discreet. Sunlight sliced through the blinds in neat bars across the plush carpet; Han sat behind his desk like a king in a tailored suit, the kingdom of Park Entertainment folded into the files before him.

Shuaibo closed the door with the softest click and stepped forward, each movement deliberate, echoing lightly on the carpet. He didn’t take the guest chair. He moved around the desk until he was close enough that Han could feel his heat without looking up. Then, as naturally as breathing, Shuaibo eased onto Han’s lap, curling around him, spine pressed to chest, head tipped back to watch Han’s face.

Han’s first reaction was reflex—hand hovering, then settling on Shuaibo’s waist, uncertain. He didn’t push him off; he didn’t pull him closer either. He let the moment hang there, a quiet truce between control and surrender.

“Han,” Shuaibo began, voice small in a way that made the room tilt, “can I learn how to use a gun?”

Han’s eyes widened for a heartbeat. Then he closed them, inhaled sharply, and reopened them like a man recalibrating to bad news. “Shuaibo—” He stopped. Cleared his throat. “Chihen is with you. He’s there to protect you. If something—”

Shuaibo laughed, brittle, sharp, and honest. “I know Chihen is there. I’m not asking for a gun under my pillow.” He twisted a finger at the seam of Han’s suit. “I’m asking so I don’t… end up helpless again. I don’t want another Gala incident. I don’t want to wait for someone else to save me if things turn too morbid.”

Han’s face softened—rage, pride, fear folding into one. He remembered the aftermath, the small things exploding into ruin. He had watched Shuaibo close up after that night, smiling, leaving with shadows under his eyes.

“You don’t have to put yourself in that position again,” Han said, voice low, careful. “You don’t have to—”

Shuaibo tipped his chin, eyes blunt and honest. “I want to take care of myself. And… I want you to come with me.” It was both a dare and a plea. “If you insist on worrying, at least go with me so you know what I’m doing. Be there with me.”

Han stared, imagining every worst-case scenario—tight chest, racing heart—but the only thing standing between him and disaster was Shuaibo’s small hand splayed across his lap.

He hesitated because he should have said no; because guns could destroy pretty faces and good intentions. He hesitated because saying yes meant admitting fear. Then, in the way Shuaibo looked at him—vulnerable and unashamed—something broke.

“Fine,” he said finally, the word sealing the pact. He tapped the desk as if marking it in memory. “We’ll go together. If you want lessons, you get them.”

Shuaibo’s grin was immediate, bright enough to fracture Han’s sternness. He bumped his forehead against Han’s. “What pretty wants, pretty gets,” he said, soft and teasing.

Han huffed, a breathless, reluctant sound, and rested his chin atop Shuaibo’s head for a second, letting the world know this was settled. “Don’t make me buy couple gears,” he warned.

“We can be a couple too,” Shuaibo replied with a wink and teasing smile. “We’ll talk about matching gear at the range,” he laughed.

Han let out a short laugh, breathless at how much he’d already do for this small, loud, infuriating person. “Fine,” he said again. “But you promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“No martyr nonsense,” Han said, eyes hardening. 

Shuaibo’s hand squeezed his, quick and memorable. “I promise. But only if you promise to stop pretending you’re not terrified.”

“Deal,” Han said, the weight of it making the pact real.

They stayed like that a moment longer, the office shifting from authority to something domestic, fiercely guarded. Outside, Park Entertainment carried on; inside, a new plan began with three small words and a pair of reluctant, necessary agreements.

◇♡☆

DIVAZ CHAT — ENCRYPTED LINE

Shuaibo: Shooting range booked. [location attached]

Jay: Good. Steven will be there at the scheduled time.

Woongki: How sure are you he’ll actually show up?

Jay: I just know.

Shuaibo: And Jeongwoo? Can you even bring him, Ki?

Woongki: Trying. The guy still hates showing his face in public.

Jay: Then make it happen. Bring them both. We finish this once and for all.

[CHAT ENDED]

◇♡☆

Jeongwoo’s house smelled faintly of antiseptic and something faintly sweet—leftover from a hastily wiped counter or the air freshener he’d bought on impulse months ago. Woongki surveyed the pantry with theatrical horror.

“Jeongwoo,” he began, hands on his hips, “how do you raise a kid like this?” His gaze swept across the stacks of instant noodles, canned beans, and half-forgotten takeout boxes from last week. “Daisuke will grow up thinking the world has exactly three flavors: salt, soy, and regret.”

Jeongwoo leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “He’s not starving,” he said flatly. “And he’s not complaining.”

“Not complaining is one thing. Not knowing what fresh vegetables look like is another thing!” Woongki snapped, voice rising as if the pantry were personally at fault. “Do you even remember what a carrot is?”

Jeongwoo’s lips twitched at the corners, though he fought it. “I do.”

“Do you, though?” Woongki challenged, grabbing a random zucchini and holding it up like a trophy. “Have you ever sautéed one? Roasted it? Grilled it? Or is it destined to live its life boiled and sad?”

“I think it’s fine boiled,” Jeongwoo said, voice calm, eyes flicking to the counter. “And if it’s not—”

“You’re hopeless,” Woongki interrupted, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Absolutely, utterly hopeless. But lucky for you, I am here. Today, the sun rises and sets on my cooking skills, and you will witness it firsthand.”

Jeongwoo let out a small sigh, the faintest exhale of surrender. “Fine,” he said, his tone mild but carrying a weight of agreement that Woongki recognized as victory. “You cook. I’ll come along to buy groceries.”

Woongki clapped his hands once, loud and gleeful. “Victory! Finally! This house will smell of something other than despair and takeout, I promise you!”

They headed out, Jeongwoo slipping into a hoodie and mask as usual. He never revealed his face publicly, not even to neighbors—an ingrained habit from years of precaution. Woongki, on the other hand, wore a brightly colored jacket that could announce him to half the city and still not attract half the attention Jeongwoo feared.

Outside, the city hummed with evening traffic. Woongki’s voice rang as he jabbed Jeongwoo lightly in the side. “See, this isn’t so bad! Fresh air! Sunlight!”

In the aisle of Vegetable section, Woongki’s phone buzzed in his pocket just as he was about to lecture Jeongwoo on the spiritual importance of choosing unripe tomatoes. He glanced at the screen—Jay’s name flashing insistently—and his joking grin faltered.

“Hold on,” he murmured, already stepping aside, voice dropping as he answered.

Jeongwoo, still pushing the cart down the vegetable aisle, noticed the change immediately. The easy energy that usually clung to Woongki had shifted—his posture tightened, his tone low and clipped. Jeongwoo stopped the cart halfway between the zucchini and bell peppers, eyes narrowing behind his mask as he watched Woongki pace a few steps away.

Whatever Jay was saying, it wasn’t good.

Woongki’s usual brightness dimmed into something sharp, focused. “I’ll be there soon,” he said, voice firm before hanging up.

He turned back toward Jeongwoo, face set, all traces of humor gone. “Jay needs me. It’s urgent—I have to go.”

Jeongwoo’s hands stayed on the cart handle, unmoving. “What happened?”

Woongki shook his head. “He didn’t say. Just sounded… bad.” He exhaled, frustrated, scanning the crowd as if trying to plot the fastest route out. “I’ll grab a ride—”

“I’ll drive you,” Jeongwoo cut in before he could finish.

Woongki blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“It’ll be faster,” Jeongwoo said simply, already steering the cart back toward the exit. “You’ll lose time waiting for a cab, and you look too wired to think straight.”

Woongki hesitated, torn between gratitude and guilt. “You sure? I mean, you hate being seen—”

“Then it’s good I’m wearing a mask,” Jeongwoo replied dryly, pushing the cart harder. “Come on. Whatever’s going on, we’ll get you there faster.”

Woongki stared at him for a heartbeat, the words catching somewhere behind his ribs. Then he nodded, voice softer. “Thanks, Jeongwoo.”

They left the half-filled cart behind, the grocery store’s fluorescent lights fading behind them as they stepped into the dimming city evening.

Once inside the car, as Jeongwoo started the engine, Woongki stared out the window, letting his face stay tight with worry until they pulled into traffic. Then, when Jeongwoo wasn’t looking, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

He exhaled slowly, almost amused.

Damn, he thought, suppressing a quiet laugh. I really am a good actor.

◇♡☆

The private firing range was silent when Jay stepped in—no echoes, no chatter, just the faint hum of the ventilation system and the antiseptic scent of gun oil clinging to the air.

It was a members-only facility, the kind built into basements of office towers and luxury complexes—eight lanes, soundproofed partitions, and security cameras that didn’t store footage longer than a day. Shuaibo had booked the entire space. The reservation list showed six names. No staff on-site just those on reception.

Every lane was already prepared: different firearms neatly arranged on felt mats, boxes of ammunition stacked with mechanical precision. The setup screamed of Shuaibo’s hand—organized, deliberate, efficient.

Jay moved down the line slowly, his boots echoing against the polished floor. Each gun was a different kind of silence waiting to be broken—revolvers, handguns, compact rifles—all primed and gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

He stopped at the far lane and shrugged off his jacket, folding it once before placing it over the divider. His reflection in the glass looked sharper here, less human—jaw tight, eyes cold.

He picked up a pistol, checked the chamber, then set it back down. The weight in his chest didn’t ease.

He’d called Woongki earlier:

> “Range’s ready. I’ll call Steven to come here. Shuiabo with Park Han will be here in an hour. Come when you can.”

He scrolled down his contact list and stopped on a name he’d avoided for too long. For a moment, he just stared at it—thumb poised, jaw tight.

The last time he’d heard Steven’s voice, it had cracked everything he thought he understood about Black Ops. About who the enemy was. About himself.

But this wasn’t about comfort. It was about answers.

He pressed call.

The line barely rang once.

“Jay?” Steven’s voice—immediate, steady, almost breathless.

Jay exhaled slowly. “We need to talk.”

A short pause, like the sound of someone standing too fast. “Send me your location.”

“Yeah.”

There was the faint sound of movement on the other end—keys, footsteps, the rush of air as Steven moved without hesitation.

“I’m coming,” Steven said simply, and hung up.

Jay stared at the phone for a second longer before sliding it into his pocket. The air around him felt heavier now, the kind that made you aware of your own heartbeat.

He loaded a round into the chamber—not because he needed to shoot, but because it gave the silence something to answer to.

Then he waited.

Less than thirty minutes later, Steven arrived.

He followed the staffer through the dimly lit hall, past the laminated safety posters and the row of untouched lockers. The employee stopped at the final door, gave a polite nod, and said, “Mr. Lawrence instructed that you’re cleared for entry, sir. You’ll find him inside.”

Steven thanked him quietly, waited for the lock to disengage, and stepped through.

The smell of gunpowder hit first. Then the sound—sharp, rhythmic cracks that punctuated the stillness.

Jay stood at the farthest lane, noise-cancelling headset on, body aligned with the target in perfect form. Every shot landed dead center. His movements were smooth, precise—too deliberate for practice, too calm for anger.

Steven stayed by the entrance, watching. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t breathe too loudly. He just watched the line of Jay’s shoulders move with each shot, saw the thin tension there—the kind that came from keeping too much contained for too long.

The magazine emptied. The last bullet tore through the air, striking clean through the bullseye.

Jay exhaled, slow and quiet, and lowered the gun. His hand lingered on the weapon’s frame before setting it down.

He reached up, removed the headset, and turned.

Their eyes met across the empty range.

Steven’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, instinct took over—he almost ran to him, almost crossed the room in three steps just to hold him, to feel that he was real, alive, here.

But Jay’s gaze stopped him.

It wasn’t cold—it was raw. Unsteady. The kind of look that said don’t move, because if you do, everything I’ve been holding together will fall apart right here.

So Steven didn’t move. He just stood there, hands flexing once at his sides, the words he wanted to say burning behind his teeth.

Jay looked back at him, face unreadable, eyes full of things too dangerous to name.

Jay finally spoke first, voice low enough that the air seemed to hold its breath to hear him.

“You came fast.”

Steven’s lips parted, something between a laugh and a sigh catching in his throat. “You called.”

Jay’s eyes flicked down, then back to him. “That’s all it takes for you?”

“It always has been,” Steven said quietly.

Silence again. Only the faint hum of the ventilation, the reset targets sliding back into place. Jay’s jaw flexed; his hands, steady a moment ago, curled once against the edge of the booth.

Then, after a long pause—

“Play with me,” he said.

Steven blinked, uncertain he’d heard right. “What?”

Jay nodded toward the lanes, toward the line of untouched firearms and the neat stack of ammunition waiting beside them. “You heard me. Let’s shoot.”

For a second, Steven could only stare. It was absurd—of all the places, all the moments, Jay wanted to play now? A gun range wasn’t where you fixed broken hearts or unfinished arguments. But the look on Jay’s face said it wasn’t really about the guns. It was about control. About keeping the flood behind the dam.

Steven swallowed the ache in his chest. If Jay wanted to shoot, then he’d shoot. If Jay wanted to burn down the world, he’d bring the match.

He took a slow step forward, then another, until he reached the lane beside Jay’s. He picked up the ear protection from the counter, hesitated, then glanced back over his shoulder.

Their eyes met.

Jay’s gaze flickered—steady, but wet around the edges, a faint shimmer of something he refused to let fall. In that small, charged silence, they spoke without words.

I need you.

I trust you.

Jay was the first to look away. He reached for a magazine and began to load it—each click sharp and rhythmic, like a heartbeat forced into order. Steven mirrored him, hands moving on instinct more than thought.

The distance between them was less than a few feet, but it felt like standing on opposite sides of everything they hadn’t said.

Brass rounds slid into place. The air thickened with the quiet weight of restraint.

◇♡☆

They hadn’t even fired a single shot when the door behind them hissed open again.

Two silhouettes framed by the white light of the corridor stepped in—one, composed, carrying authority like it came with the air he breathed; the other, moving with barely-contained excitement.

Zhang Shuaibo and Park Han.

Jay froze. Steven’s head turned just slightly, gun still in hand but lowered now.

Han stopped halfway through the doorway, eyes narrowing faintly as he took in the sight before him—the two men standing side by side in the firing range, tension thick enough to cut through the gun smoke. His expression was unreadable, practiced neutrality hiding whatever thought crossed behind his eyes.

Beside him, Shuaibo nearly tripped over his own feet as he bolted forward. “Jay!”

He collided with Jay in a half-run, half-hug that nearly knocked the headset off the counter. Jay caught him instinctively, the sudden burst of warmth so out of place it almost startled him. Shuaibo grinned up at him, breathless and bright, oblivious to the heaviness that had filled the room moments ago.

“You’re actually here!” he said, voice full of relief. Bringing the best act.

Jay’s mouth twitched—something small, almost a smile. “You booked the place. I figured I should show up.”

Shuaibo stepped back, still clutching Jay’s sleeve. Then he turned, gesturing toward the man standing a few meters behind him. “Han, this is Jay Lawrence—my closest friend. The one I told you about. The one who went to Rendezvous.”

Han’s gaze shifted to Jay—sharp, assessing. There was something in his eyes that didn’t belong to a simple executive, something calculating. But his nod was courteous enough. “So you’re that one.”

Jay returned it with equal calm. “I am.”

Then Shuaibo hesitated. His excitement dimmed just slightly as his eyes landed on Steven. The warmth faltered. “And… uh—”

He looked back at Jay, almost pleading for help.

Jay met his gaze, understood, and filled the silence without missing a beat. “A friend,” he said simply. “Steven.”

Han’s eyes flicked to Steven—cool, professional interest, the kind that dissected rather than greeted. Steven didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t offer his hand.

Han gives a short nod to Steven.

Steven acknowledged and nodded as well, though his jaw ticked once.

The room fell quiet again.

Four people, one space too small for what was about to unfold.

Shuaibo, still oblivious to the undercurrent between the three older men, clapped his hands once, too loud for the mood. “Okay! Now that everyone’s here, we can start!”

Jay exhaled through his nose, calm but wary. Steven’s fingers brushed against the counter, steadying himself. Han’s expression barely moved.

Whatever came next, the range was no longer about practice.

It was the first move in a much larger game.

◇♡☆

The four of them took their places along the line.

From left to right: Steven, Jay, Han, and finally Shuaibo.

The range’s mechanical hum filled the space as the targets slid forward again. Each man stood in his lane, silent, the air heavy with the smell of gun oil and faint powder.

Jay didn’t speak. Neither did Steven.

They simply put on their headsets, loaded their magazines, and began to fire.

The cracks came in rhythm—measured, deliberate. Brass shells hit the floor like rain.

Han’s gaze drifted subtly between lanes during reloads. He’d handled firearms before—clean posture, steady stance—but what caught his attention wasn’t his own form. It was the precision of the two men to his left.

Jay and Steven fired like machines tuned to the same tempo. Every shot dead center. No wasted movement. No corrections. The kind of accuracy you didn’t learn for sport—it came from fieldwork, from experience, from survival.

Han’s jaw tightened slightly, though his expression remained neutral. His next shot split his target’s inner ring cleanly.

Beside him, Shuaibo let out a small noise that might’ve been a groan or a sigh and lowered his weapon. “Okay, okay—I need a break,” he said, half laughing as he removed his headset. “My arms are killing me.”

He set his gun safely down and walked past Han to the small bench against the wall, grabbing a bottle of water from the crate nearby.

Han followed his movement just briefly before focusing on his next reload.

Shuaibo took a long drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grinned. “You’re really good, Han. That grouping’s tight—you didn’t even flinch once.”

Han glanced back, one brow lifting slightly at the praise. “Comes with practice,” he said, voice mild.

Jay fired another perfect round at that exact moment. The bullet tore the same hole as the last one. 

Han’s eyes flicked toward Jay again, silent, calculating. Something in the set of his shoulders changed—barely visible, but it was there.

He wasn’t just impressed. He was taking note.

Shuaibo leaned back against the bench, swinging his legs idly, still smiling like he didn’t feel the undercurrent in the room. “We make a good team, huh?” he said cheerfully, more to himself than anyone.

The next volley of shots answered him. Sharp, precise, and wordless.

Each bullet an unspoken truth, a line drawn in gunfire.

Jay’s next shot never came.

He froze mid-aim, gun still pointed at the target. His stance didn’t waver, finger resting against the trigger—steady, unnervingly so.

Han noticed the shift in air before the silence even registered. Then Steven did.

The faint hum of ventilation filled the gap where the sound of gunfire used to be.

Then Jay’s wrist moved.

Slow. Controlled. Deliberate.

The muzzle turned—away from the target, toward Steven.

The air seemed to stop.

Steven didn’t flinch. His gaze met Jay’s, calm, grounded, a silent plea layered with understanding. No fear. Just quiet recognition.

Han, however, acted on instinct. In one smooth pivot, his gun was up, pressed against the back of Jay’s head.

“Put it down,” Han said lowly, his tone even but laced with warning. “Now.”

Jay didn’t move. The gun stayed fixed on Steven, his breathing even, eyes unreadable.

Seconds stretched.

Then a sound—metal scraping lightly on the bench behind them.

Shuaibo.

He’d reached back to his lane, hand as he snatched his own gun from where he’d set it down. Before either could react, he raised it, barrel aimed at Han’s head.

“Put your gun down, Park Han!” Shuaibo’s voice cold. “Pull the trigger, I won’t hesitate to put bullet in your head.”

Han’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t shift. His aim stayed on Jay.

And through it all, Steven remained still—unshaken, centered in the chaos. He lifted his weapon only halfway, turning it with calm precision toward Shuaibo.

“You, put your goddamn gun down,” Steven said quietly, eyes flicking to Han. 

His voice cut through the air—low, steady, dangerous in its calm.

Jay’s gun still pointed at him.

Han’s against Jay.

Shuaibo’s fixed on Han.

None of them breathed.

For one suspended heartbeat, the range was utterly still—four men locked in aim, trust unraveling one trigger-pull at a time.

The silence shattered—

not with a gunshot,

but with the hiss of the door.

The reinforced seal disengaged, the heavy lock clicking open before sliding aside.

Light from the corridor spilled into the range, slicing through the powder-thick air and outlining the four frozen figures—guns raised, breaths held, tension coiled like a wire about to snap.

Two silhouettes stood framed in the doorway.

Cha Woongki.

Seo Jeongwoo.

Both stopped dead.

The sound of the door sealing shut again behind them was deafening in the stillness.

Jeongwoo’s instincts kicked in first—his arm shot out, pressing Woongki back, half-shielding him without thinking. His other hand twitched toward his coat, but he didn’t draw anything—just assessed, sharp eyes flicking from Steven to Jay, Han to Shuaibo, reading the standoff in an instant.

Woongki’s voice caught in his throat, halfway between alarm and disbelief. “What the hell—”

The words died there, swallowed by the pressure in the room.

Four men locked in aim.

Two new witnesses standing at the threshold.

Nobody moved.

Nobody dared to.

The hum of the ventilation system droned on, cold and mechanical, the only thing alive in the silence.

Jay’s hand trembled once—barely. Han’s eyes darted toward the new arrivals, assessing threat, recalibrating aim. Shuaibo’s grip faltered for a fraction of a second before tightening again.

Steven’s gaze never left Jay.

And Jeongwoo, still shielding Woongki with one arm, murmured low, almost to himself—

“What the hell did we just walk into?”

The question hung there, unanswered—a razor edge slicing through the gunpowder and silence.

Chapter Text

◇♡☆

Woongki’s eyes darted, calculating faster than any algorithm he’d ever built.

Steven’s stance—controlled. Han’s—rigid, military-tight. Shuaibo—ready to shoot if anyone twitched.

And Jay—Jay was the storm.

His gun was no longer just metal and weight; it was the embodiment of the conflict clawing inside him—heart versus mission. Woongki saw it all in the way his knuckles whitened, the tremor that wasn’t fear but restraint.

For a breath, Woongki let the tension wash over him.

Then he inhaled once, deep, and his expression flipped like a switch.

“Oh my god—JAY!”

He squealed.

The sound cracked the static air like glass. Before anyone could react, he was moving—bounding forward with exaggerated energy, every ounce of his body language screaming normalcy, familiarity, safety.

“Do you know how long it’s been?!” he gasped, throwing his arms around Jay in a tight, impulsive hug.

The sheer absurdity of it made everyone falter.

The range’s thick silence fractured into disbelief.

Jay froze, the muzzle lowering—not by command but instinct, his mind jarred out of the storm. His gun dipped to the floor. His eyes, however, never left Steven’s. Still locked there, unreadable, conflicted.

Woongki pressed his cheek briefly against Jay’s shoulder before pulling back with a laugh that came a little too bright, too sharp at the edges. “You look like hell, by the way,” he teased softly, eyes flicking between the men—reading, measuring, controlling the temperature of the room without seeming to.

Steven caught on first. He turned his head slightly toward Han.

That was all it took.

Han’s arm dropped, the barrel sliding off Jay’s head before lowering completely. His jaw flexed once, but he said nothing. The steel in his posture eased—fractionally.

And then came Shuaibo.

He let out a half-broken laugh, the kind that tried too hard to sound casual but cracked with relief.

He tossed his gun onto the bench beside him—thud—and strode toward them, voice pitching up like a brother catching sight of old friends at a reunion.

“Are you serious right now, Ki?!” he barked out, half-chuckling. “You almost gave me a heart attack—”

He didn’t finish. His arms were already around Woongki and Jay, pulling them both in with all the chaotic warmth of someone who didn’t know what else to do with his fear.

For a heartbeat, the range looked almost normal.

Three friends tangled in a messy embrace.

Three others watching, still on edge, but the danger—dissolving, thread by thread.

Steven exhaled quietly, lowering his weapon the rest of the way.

Han followed suit.

Woongki felt Jay’s muscles still tense beneath his hands—an ache of control barely holding together. He squeezed his shoulder once, murmuring low enough for only Jay to hear, “You’re okay. We’re all okay.”

Jay didn’t respond, but the gun—finally—clicked safe.

And in that fragile calm, Woongki’s mask held steady, the perfect actor keeping the world from collapsing for just a little longer.

◇♡☆

The tension had thinned, but not vanished.

It hung in the air like smoke—diluted, but still toxic if you breathed too deep.

Woongki lingered beside Jay a moment longer, enough for the scene to look natural. Enough to make it believable. Then, with a light pat on Jay’s arm, he stepped back, laughing under his breath. “We really need to stop meeting like this. My poor heart can’t take it.”

He turned—mask still on, grin still bright—and met Jeongwoo’s eyes.

That was all it took.

Woongki nodded once, subtle, before clapping his hands together. “Alright, boys, let’s all take a breath. Muzzle discipline, maybe? It’s not a fashion statement, Shuaibo.” He winked, deflecting the residual edge with practiced humor. Shuaibo laughed—nervous but grateful—and Jay just stared down at his weapon in silence.

Jeongwoo’s voice came steady, controlled, but it carried a weight that silenced even the hum of the ventilation.

“Hani-yah, Steven Hyung. What are you doing here?”

The Divaz froze.

Woongki’s grin faltered for half a heartbeat. Shuaibo’s brows pulled together. Even Jay’s head lifted slightly.

Hani-yah.

Steven hyung.

Jeongwoo had spoken the names like old habits, too natural to be professional. Too familiar to be coincidence.

It wasn’t just the words—it was the tone. Easy. Measured. Like he’d used them hundreds of times before.

The three of them—Jeongwoo, Han, Steven—weren’t strangers.

They knew each other.

That realization cracked through the air louder than any gunshot.

Woongki’s eyes narrowed slightly behind his practiced smile, his mind already spinning, cataloguing every microexpression.

Han didn’t even flinch. Of course he didn’t.

Steven’s face remained unreadable.

Shuaibo, however, turned to Jeongwoo outright. “Wait—what did you just call them?” His voice wasn’t loud, but the disbelief in it cut through the fragile calm.

Jeongwoo didn’t answer right away. He just glanced at him, calm as ever, before turning back to Han and Steven. “I’ll ask again,” he said, his voice low, deliberate. “What are you doing here?”

The repetition carried weight this time—not as an order, but as a warning.

Han chuckled softly, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “You’re still the same, Jeongwoo Hyung,” he said, tone light but eyes sharp. “Always straight to the point.”

Steven didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His silence was an answer—one that only deepened the confusion threading through the Divaz.

Jay’s hand flexed slightly at his side, his mind visibly struggling to piece the new dynamic together.

Woongki’s smile finally dropped, eyes darting between them. “Okay,” he said slowly, tone losing its edge of humor. “So… someone want to explain since apparently everyone but us skipped to the next chapter?”

Jeongwoo’s gaze flicked toward him, quiet but firm. “Later.”

And that single word told Woongki everything—

Whatever history Jeongwoo had with them, it wasn’t supposed to surface here, and he is here to hear it.

Han smirked faintly, like he could hear the subtext. “Later,” he echoed, voice teasing. “Always so careful, Jeongwoo Hyung.”

Woongki felt the tension return—smaller, sharper this time. Like glass splinters instead of a blade.

Han’s answer came first. Of course it did.

He slid his gun fully into the table, smoothed the front of his suit, and spoke with that brand of nonchalance only he could pull off.

“I’ve got a date,” he said dryly, a faint smirk curling at his mouth. “With the man who seems very eager to put a bullet in my head.”

The words hung there, sharp and deliberate, slicing through what little calm was left.

Shuaibo’s jaw twitched; Woongki’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes flicked to Jay in warning.

Then Jeongwoo’s gaze shifted—slowly—to Steven.

No movement, no sound. Just that quiet question still lingering in the air, waiting.

Steven met Jeongwoo’s eyes once. Then, without a word, his attention turned back to Jay.

A long, heavy silence followed.

No explanation. No excuse. Just that look—steady, unreadable, filled with something only the two of them understood.

The silence stretched too long, too taut, until Woongki’s voice cut in like a sigh through glass.

“Okay,” he said lightly, forcing warmth into the air. “This is officially the weirdest double date I’ve ever walked in on.”

That earned him a soft huff from Shuaibo—half-laugh, half-release.

Han rolled his eyes but let the smirk stay.

Steven looked away.

And Jay… Jay finally exhaled, a faint, shaky breath, as if that single sound reminded the others to breathe again, too.

Steven’s voice broke the silence, low but carrying the kind of command that settled the room like gravity.

“Enough,” he said. “We’re not doing this here.”

He holstered his gun with calm precision, then looked toward Jeongwoo.

“We’ll move this to your safe place.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a decision.

Woongki blinked. “You’re kidding, right? You just—what, decide that for everyone?”

Steven didn’t look at him. “You trust Jeongwoo,” he said simply. “And Jeongwoo trusts you. That’s the only safe ground any of us get tonight.”

Shuaibo’s tone sharpened. “You think walking into his place with you two still counts as safe? What if you and Han decide to dispose of us once the door locks?”

Han froze mid-step. Then—

“Oh, wow.” He laughed once, the sound bright and entirely insincere. “Dispose of you? Really, Shuaibo?”

Shuaibo lifted a brow, unfazed. “You’ve done worse. You literally packed my schedule with unending shoots. I almost died!”

Han’s smile faltered just enough to sting. “You wound me. Here I am, risking my perfectly tailored suit to grace your little reunion, and you think I’d stoop to—what? Kill you?” He crossed his arms and looked away dramatically. “Unbelievable.”

“Han,” Steven said quietly, a warning folded into a single syllable.

Han huffed under his breath, muttering, “Don’t ‘Han’ me, Steven Hyung. My date just said the most ridiculous thing about me.”

That earned him a faint snort from Woongki—half amusement, half disbelief. “This is insane,” he muttered. “You guys bicker like you’re back from a group therapy session gone wrong.”

Steven ignored the jab. His gaze shifted to Jay, steady, unyielding. “Your call,” he said simply.

Jay hesitated, caught between trust and instinct. Before he could answer, Jeongwoo spoke.

“He’s right,” Jeongwoo said quietly. “The safe place is off-grid. No surveillance. No Black Ops.”

Han stilled, the humor draining from his face. He knew someone had sent Shuaibo, someone pulling strings to dismantle The Vanguards—the guild he, Steven, and Jeongwoo built. But Black Ops? That meant this wasn’t just personal. It was political. Higher. Deeper.

Han’s head turned, voice losing its usual lilt. “Black Ops? Why even mention them?”

Jeongwoo’s answer was deadpan. He lifted a hand and pointed directly at the Divaz.

“Because they were sent by Black Ops.”

The words hit like a detonation.

Woongki’s smirk froze mid-breath. Shuaibo’s brows pulled together, muscles coiling tight. Jay went rigid, his voice catching somewhere between disbelief and denial.

“What—” he started.

A silence followed, brittle as glass.

Steven didn’t look surprised. He exhaled once—slow, measured. “Then we definitely move to your place,” he said. “If they’ve been compromised, this building isn’t safe anymore.”

Han gave a short, humorless laugh. “Guess dinner’s canceled, then.”

“Enough,” Steven said again, tone snapping the air taut. “We’ll finish this at Jeongwoo’s. Anyone who doesn’t like that can leave now.”

No one moved.

Finally, Jay exhaled through clenched teeth. “We’ll go,” he said. “But if anyone tries anything—”

“They won’t,” Jeongwoo cut in, already heading for the door. “Not on my ground.”

Shuaibo muttered as he followed, “Great. Field trip with people who might’ve sold us out. What could go wrong?”

Woongki’s sigh was long and theatrical. “And here I thought I was the drama.”

But no one laughed this time.

The air between them felt different now—thicker, colder, charged with suspicion.

And somewhere behind Jeongwoo’s calm and Steven’s control, something old and dangerous was stirring again.

◇♡☆

The night bled into motion.

Engines hummed to life one after another, headlights cutting through the dark like knives. The convoy split in two — Jeongwoo’s car leading, Han’s following a few lengths behind.

Han drove in silence, eyes fixed on the road but seeing too much of everything else. His hands stayed steady on the wheel, but his mind wouldn’t stay still.

Shuaibo sat in the passenger seat, bathed in the faint blue light of the dashboard. He looked relaxed — one arm propped against the door, gaze on the passing blur of streets — but Han knew him well enough to recognize calculation when he saw it. Every flick of his eyes, every quiet breath, was measured.

Had it always been like that?

The thought cut sharp.

Han gripped the wheel tighter.

It was one thing to suspect betrayal. He’d been trained for it, lived around it, expected it. But this — this was different.

This was a man who used to steal his coffee in the mornings, who complained about his cologne, who laughed into his shoulder when the night turned too long.

Shared beds. Shared warmth. Shared lies?

He didn’t know anymore.

“You’re quiet,” Shuaibo said suddenly, voice smooth, threaded with the kind of casual ease that used to disarm him.

Han’s knuckles whitened. “I’m driving.”

Shuaibo smiled faintly. “You always say that when you’re thinking too much.”

“That’s because you always talk too much when you’re hiding something.”

That made Shuaibo glance at him — just briefly — eyes sharp under the passing glow of the streetlight.

Then, softer: “You think I knew? That I wanted any of this?”

Han didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because if he looked at him right now, he might not be able to tell whether he was lying.

Silence fell again — heavy, close. The hum of the engine filled the space between them, steady but tense.

Han forced himself to breathe, to focus on the rhythm of the tires on asphalt, the lines of the road ahead. That the night, the Divaz mission, the risk — all of it — mattered more than what they were.

If any of it was real at all.

But his chest ached anyway — an old ache, the kind that never quite healed.

Because for all his anger, part of him still remembered how it felt when Shuaibo reached for him without hesitation.

Like the world outside didn’t exist.

Like this — whatever this was — had once been honest.

And maybe that was the cruelest part.

That he couldn’t tell which version of Shuaibo was the lie — the one beside him now, or the one who used to whisper his name like a promise.

Jeongwoo’s car cut through the night in silence.

The city lights thinned as they drove farther from the main grid, replaced by long shadows and stretches of empty road. The hum of the engine was steady — the only sound brave enough to fill the air.

Woongki sat in the passenger seat, half-turned toward Jeongwoo, eyes flicking between the dashboard and the rearview mirror.

“You’re sure your place is still off-grid?” he asked. “No stray signal, no ghost pings, no backup trace from the old network?”

Jeongwoo’s voice was calm, certain. “Built it myself before Vanguard. No one’s ever breached it.”

Woongki gave a low whistle. “Right. So it’s just us, the paranoia, and maybe a couple of ghosts.”

From the back seat, Steven’s reflection met Jeongwoo’s in the mirror — steady, unreadable, like he’d already thought five moves ahead. Jay sat beside him, posture rigid, hands clasped loosely but too still to be relaxed.

No one spoke.

Then Jay’s voice broke the quiet — too casual, too calm for the weight of what followed.

“So,” he began, conversational in tone, lethal in intent, “you knew, didn’t you?”

Jeongwoo’s eyes flicked to the mirror.

“That Black Ops sent Woongki,” Jay said. His voice stayed smooth, but every word carried edge. “You knew about the Divaz mission — what it was, what we were really sent to do.”

Woongki’s head snapped toward him, startled. “Jay—”

Jay ignored him, gaze locked on Jeongwoo’s reflection. “You knew, and yet…” His tone dipped lower, measured. “You didn’t dispose of him.”

The air went still.

The hum of the engine suddenly felt too loud. Even Steven’s breathing shifted — slow, deliberate, like he was gauging how close they were to breaking.

Jeongwoo didn’t answer right away. His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes — faint, fleeting — darkened.

“I don’t ‘dispose’ of people,” he said at last. “Especially not my own.”

“Your own?” Jay echoed, calm thinning into something sharper. “He was sent to spy on you.”

Woongki stiffened beside Jeongwoo, lips parting in protest — but Jeongwoo spoke first.

“I gave him choices,” he said evenly.

Jay blinked once, slow. “You’re saying he betrayed Black Ops for you?”

Jeongwoo’s gaze stayed on the road. “I’m saying he made a choice.”

Jay leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing. “Then answer me this.”

His tone lost its false ease, turning quieter — heavier.

“How sure are you,” he asked, “that Black Ops isn’t what they claim to be? That they’re not protecting people — that they’re the enemy?”

No one moved.

For a brief second, Steven almost reached for Jay’s hand — an instinct, a tether — but stopped himself. Not here. Not now.

Even Woongki seemed to forget to breathe. Steven’s eyes flicked to Jeongwoo’s profile — just once — as if to see whether that question hurt, or confirmed something he already knew.

Jeongwoo’s grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles pale against the leather. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter — thoughtful, almost mournful.

“Because protectors don’t steal from their people,” he said.

“Or don’t exploit them. Protectors never kill their people.”

Silence reclaimed the car — the kind that wasn’t peace, but pressure.

Every word left unsaid felt like a blade, balanced and waiting.

◇♡☆

The gravel crunched beneath their tires as Jeongwoo’s car rolled to a stop.

The house rose from the dark like a memory — low, angular, half-buried beneath overgrown pines. The air here felt different: colder, quieter, stripped of the city’s pulse. Jeongwoo killed the engine, and for a heartbeat, the only sound was the ticking of metal cooling in the night.

Woongki exhaled softly beside him, gaze sweeping over the structure. “You weren’t kidding,” he murmured. “This place doesn’t even exist.”

“It does,” Jeongwoo said, stepping out into the chill. “Just not on any record.”

Behind them, Han’s car pulled in, headlights cutting briefly across the gravel before fading. He parked beside Jeongwoo’s, his expression unreadable even through the glass. When he and Shuaibo emerged, there was no mistaking the tension between them — the kind that filled the silence more than words could.

Steven got out first, moving with the same controlled ease he always did. He circled to the other side and opened the door for Jay. It was a small gesture — simple, unspoken — but it didn’t escape anyone’s notice.

Jay didn’t look at him, not directly. He just stepped out, movements precise, almost too measured. But Steven lingered for a moment longer than necessary, his hand brushing the edge of the door, gaze flicking to Jay’s profile with something that wasn’t entirely professional.

Woongki saw it.

Jeongwoo saw it.

Han and Shuaibo, too — both pausing mid-step, their shared silence shifting from caution to curiosity.

Something passed between the two men — not quite tenderness, not yet confession — but enough to make the others exchange glances that carried quiet, unspoken questions.

Jeongwoo’s gaze lingered a second too long before he turned away. “Inside,” he said, voice even. “We talk once we’re secure.”

The group followed — boots crunching over gravel, breaths misting in the air.

For all their alliances and suspicions, something else now threaded between them —

not just the mission, not just survival,

but the growing awareness that even among ghosts and betrayals,

there were still things worth protecting.

And maybe, just maybe, that was what made them dangerous.

◇♡☆

Inside, the safehouse was stripped bare — a single desk, three seats, and the hum of an old generator buried somewhere in the walls.

It wasn’t designed for comfort.

It was designed for decisions.

There are three chairs. Woongki, Jay and Shauibo take each.

Those three chairs usually belonged to Jeongwoo, Han, and Steven — the heads of Vanguard.

Vanguard hadn’t started as a rebellion. It began as a safeguard — a covert division built to monitor corruption inside the government and the entertainment network it controlled. On paper, it was a system of internal regulation. In reality, it became something else: the last defense against the rot that had already seeped too deep into the industry that made and unmade people for profit.

They called themselves “protectors,” but even protectors had to choose who was worth saving.

They learned that the hard way.

Park Han, CEO of Park Entertainment.

He wasn’t born a Park. The world knew him as the CEO of Park Entertainment — young, controlled, unshakable — but few remembered that he’d been adopted by Old Mr. Park, the founder.

The old man’s real child had died years ago — along with his wife — in what the media called an accident. Han had believed it, too, until the pieces stopped fitting.

When he inherited the company, he started digging.

What he found buried beneath polished contracts and glossy campaigns wasn’t ambition — it was rot. The modeling division, the “elite projects,” the sponsorship chains — all masked something uglier. People sold and silenced. Promises traded for influence.

And then there was Mrs. Park — the old man’s wife. The woman who had taken her own life after discovering what her husband had done.

She’d learned that their real child — their daughter — hadn’t died by chance. She’d been sold off, her death later disguised as a drug cardiac arrest to preserve the company’s image.

That was the moment Han stopped being a son and started becoming a weapon.

Seo Jeongwoo, CEO of Seo Technologies.

His parents had been visionaries — the kind who believed progress could exist without corruption. But idealists rarely survived in a system built on control.

One night, when the city lights dimmed under a government power cut, their enemies moved. Officials, competitors, and allies-turned-traitors — all bound by profit — combined their reach to erase the Seo name. They called it a domestic fire. The reports said “faulty wiring.”

It wasn’t.

They burned the house with everyone inside.

Only Jeongwoo and his younger brother, Daisuke, survived — pulled from the flames by a man who had known what was coming.

That man was Kim-Jeon Wonwoo, father of Kim Steven.

Old Kim-Jeon has been fighting corruption for years together with his late husband, Kim Mingyu. Saving Jeongwoo hadn’t just been an act of mercy — it was atonement.

Under his protection, Jeongwoo rebuilt from ash. With Kim-Jeon’s guidance, he inherited the fragments of his family’s company and turned them into Seo Technologies now, a shadow empire built not on profit but preservation — of truth, of data, of the people the system tried to erase.

When Kim-Jeon died, Jeongwoo was still young — but he was no longer helpless.

He had learned everything: how to hide, how to lead, and, more importantly, how to survive.

It was no coincidence that he later stood beside Steven as one of Vanguard’s heads. 

Kim Steven, CEO of Kim Financial.

Kim Financial had always been more than a company.

It was a statement — a quiet defiance built from principle and precision.

Founded by Kim Mingyu and Jeon Wonwoo, it rose from nothing but intellect and resolve. Mingyu had the vision — sharp, idealistic, and unyielding. Wonwoo had the mind — methodical, deliberate, the kind that could dismantle a system by understanding it better than those who built it. Together, their wit outpaced corruption itself.

Even the brightest minds in Black Ops couldn’t bring them down.

Kim Financial’s mission was simple but dangerous — to expose the money stolen from the public, to trace every illegal transaction buried beneath the glimmer of power and entertainment. And for that, they became targets.

The first blow came for Mingyu.

He was killed in what the reports called a “corporate dispute,” but the truth was colder — an orchestrated execution to silence his name and bury his work.

Steven had been a child then. Too young to understand politics, but old enough to remember the sound of grief in his father’s house.

After Mingyu’s death, Jeon Wonwoo — his beloved husband, raised Steven alone not just as a son but as a successor, teaching him the legal intricacies of finance, the ethics of power, and the belief that integrity wasn’t weakness — it was war.

Under Wonwoo’s guidance, Steven learned discipline the way others learned prayer. By the time he inherited Kim Financial, he carried not only the weight of two legacies — Mingyu’s idealism and Wonwoo’s intellect — but also the conviction to finish what they started.

That conviction was what drew him to Han and Jeongwoo.

Three men from different ruins, forged by loss but united by purpose.

Vanguard wasn’t just their creation — it was their penance.

Their way of rewriting the order that had taken everything from them.

◇♡☆

The present hit like a slow, sinking realization.

Woongki, Jay, and Shuaibo sat stiffly in the chairs — the ones usually reserved for Jeongwoo, Han, and Steven. The air was heavy, thick with the ghosts of histories they were only now beginning to understand.

Woongki barely moved, his gaze locked on a hologram detailing the Vanguards and their enemies. Across from him, Jay’s jaw was set, eyes hollow in the low light. Shuaibo leaned back slightly, but even his calm was fractured — the mask slipping just enough to betray the man beneath.

They had listened.

To every fragment of history.

To every name that once carried power, now reduced to loss.

The truth was not revelation.

It was defeat.

Vanguard had been built to expose corruption, to protect what remained of humanity within a system designed to devour it. Somewhere along the line, Black Ops had seized that vision, twisted it, and turned the Divaz into instruments of its will.

Weapons.

Disposable.

Obedient.

Blind.

Jay’s voice cut the silence, low, sharp.

“So this is what we’ve been fighting for,” he said. “A system built to erase the ones who tried to save it.”

Woongki didn’t answer. His fingers traced the table’s cold metal surface, following faint scratches — echoes of meetings, promises, and alliances that had once seemed unbreakable. Almost breaking down before he could speak, Jeongwoo’s arms wrapped around him in a grounding hug.

Shuaibo exhaled, long and heavy. “They played us,” he said at last. “All of us. Vanguard was their test run. We were the perfected version.”

Han moved quietly, closing the distance. His hand rested on Shuaibo’s shoulder, firm and reassuring. Shuaibo’s eyes met Han’s, glistening, yet something like relief flickered there. Han’s fingers found his hands, a silent comfort passing between them.

No one argued. There was nothing left to argue for.

The hum of the generator filled the silence again — steady, unfeeling, a backdrop to the room’s fragile equilibrium.

Jay leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. “If everything we’ve done was just another script written by Black Ops…” His voice trailed, quiet but venomous. “Then who the hell are we without it?”

The room seemed to contract around the question. Woongki shifted in his seat. Shuaibo’s jaw tightened. Neither spoke.

Then Steven moved. Quiet, deliberate. Each step measured, controlled — yet softened with an unexpected gentleness that unsettled the room.

He knelt before Jay, meeting him at eye level. His hand covered Jay’s in a grounding gesture, firm but not forceful.

“You’re still who you’ve always been,” Steven said, calm and patient, his authority layered with quiet reassurance. “You just finally know what you’re fighting against.”

Jay’s hand didn’t pull away. The tension in his shoulders eased, a momentary truce forming in the space between them.

Woongki’s chest tightened. Shuaibo’s expression shifted — curiosity, unease, something like awe.

Silence returned, but it was different this time — fragile and tentative, threaded with a quiet understanding.

In that stillness, the weight of the past and the clarity of truth settled slowly, like the first breath after a storm.

Chapter Text

◇♡☆

The penthouse meeting place smelled like money and ozone — the kind of cold, filtered air that never belonged to real streets.

Black Ops always chose rooms like this: high enough to look down on the city, dim enough to erase faces into shadows.

Woongki, Jay, and Shuaibo stood at the center of it, framed by the panoramic glass and the city burning silently below. The table between them wasn’t a table at all but a screen — a live feed of contracts, dossiers, and orders glowing faintly in pale blue.

Four figures sat across from them. Not names, not faces — just silhouettes and modulated voices. The upper echelon of Black Ops never allowed their real identities to touch a meeting.

Jay’s gaze stayed level, expression carved from stillness. The storm inside him had found a new form now — not rage but calculation. His hands, clasped behind his back, didn’t tremble.

Woongki, though, played his role perfectly. Loose shoulders, easy smile, voice bright enough to be casual but just shy of disrespect.

“All objectives met,” he said, flicking a data stick onto the glowing surface. It chimed softly, uploading a sanitized version of everything they’d done. “Target locations, internal conflicts, and of course… Vanguard’s weak points.”

One of the silhouettes leaned forward. The voice that came out was genderless and smooth. “You’ve confirmed the instability among the Vanguard heads?”

Shuaibo’s reply was effortless — practiced. “More than instability. Distrust. Fragmentation. They’re barely holding it together. We’re weeks away from total collapse.”

It was true.

And it wasn’t.

The data they’d uploaded was real enough to be convincing — troop movements, shell companies, supply caches. But laced within the files, buried under layers of code Woongki had woven himself, were seeds. Tiny anomalies, misdirections, and hidden signals designed for one purpose only: to show Vanguard exactly how Black Ops thought of them.

Jay’s voice entered next — steady, cool. “Your plan’s working. We’ve embedded deep enough they don’t even realize we’re reporting back.”

Another silhouette tilted its head. “And what of Seo Jeongwoo?”

Woongki’s eyes flicked briefly toward Jay. Jay didn’t blink. “He trusts me,” Jay said evenly. “All of them do.”

It was an answer. And a warning.

The screen flickered. For a moment, a different feed bled through — a flicker of Jeongwoo’s safehouse. A test.

Woongki’s smile didn’t falter. “We’re careful,” he said lightly. “We know what we’re doing.”

Silence from the other side.

Then: “Good. Because failure is not an option. You’re weapons, not children. Remember your orders.”

The word weapons slid like a blade across the room.

Woongki almost laughed, but he didn’t. He leaned forward slightly, voice honey-smooth. “Oh, we remember. Every word.”

The screen blinked once. Data transfer complete. The silhouettes dissolved into static, leaving only their own reflections staring back at them from the glass.

◇♡☆

The elevator doors sealed shut with a hiss, cutting off the sterile chill of the penthouse.

For the first time that night, no one spoke.

They rode down in silence, the floor numbers blinking softly in descending order — each one a step farther from the men who thought they owned them.

When the doors opened, Woongki exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours. “Home, sweet home,” he muttered, voice thinner than usual.

Jay shot him a look. “You call this home?”

“Pod, home, same thing,” Woongki said with a shrug, already moving. His humor sounded almost real — almost.

They stepped into the dim, humming quiet of his pod — a compact unit tucked beneath one of Seoul’s forgotten overpasses. Everything inside glowed faintly blue: floating monitors, stray cables, half-open data drives. It smelled faintly of solder and synthetic coffee.

Woongki tapped a sequence into his wristband. The walls shimmered — signal dampeners activating — and a faint ripple of static passed through the air before it settled again.

“Now,” he said quietly, “we’re off their radar.”

Shuaibo was first to break the silence. “You think they bought it?”

“They bought enough.” Woongki slumped into his chair, spinning halfway toward his screens. “The data I gave them is real — technically. Just… rearranged. They’ll trace every fake leak straight into a black hole.”

Jay stood still in the center of the pod, hands at his sides. His reflection in the nearest monitor looked like someone who hadn’t slept in years. “You’re sure they won’t catch it?”

Woongki’s lips twitched. “I coded it under their own encryption format. If they try to decrypt it, it’ll loop through their system and flag Vanguard as the leak source.”

Shuaibo blinked. “You turned their surveillance back on themselves.”

“That’s one way to call revenge poetic.” Woongki leaned back, the faint glow of the monitors catching the edges of his tired grin. “Let’s see how long before they eat their own tail.”

But Jay didn’t smile. His tone was too steady.

“You realize what happens when they figure it out.”

Woongki looked at him, quiet for once. “Yeah,” he said. “They’ll come for us.”

Shuaibo crossed his arms, pacing once. “So what’s the play now? We can’t just wait for them to pull the plug.”

Woongki’s fingers danced across the console, pulling up holograms — grids of the city, Black Ops’ known data hubs, and a single blinking mark in the north sector.

“We don’t wait,” he said. “We feed them one last lie — something big enough to keep their eyes off us. Give them a ghost target.”

“A fake Vanguard hideout?”

“Exactly.” Woongki’s eyes gleamed faintly. “They’ll send a team there. And while they’re busy chasing shadows…”

Jay finished the thought, voice low, certain. “We move.”

Shuaibo stilled. “Move where?”

Jay turned toward the others — face unreadable, but the conviction behind his words was solid, almost heavy.

“To them,” he said. “To Jeongwoo. To Steven. To Han. They deserve to know what’s coming.”

Woongki hesitated, spinning the chair slowly back toward his screens. “If we go to them now, we’re burning both bridges — Black Ops and the Divaz cover.”

“Then burn it,” Jay said. “We can’t stay half-loyal anymore.”

The words hung there — sharp, final.

Shuaibo rubbed his temple, muttering, “You realize we’ll be public enemies on both sides.”

Jay’s answer came without hesitation.

“Better that than being their weapon.”

The hum of the pod filled the silence that followed — low, pulsing, alive.

Finally, Woongki pushed himself up from the chair. “Alright,” he said softly. “Then we do this my way. Quiet. Clean. One step ahead.”

Shuaibo gave a humorless smile. “You always make treason sound like tech support.”

Woongki smirked faintly, tugging on his jacket. “That’s because I’m good at both.”

Jay’s voice broke through the low thrum of equipment, steady and cold as resolve.

“We start tomorrow.”

Woongki met his gaze — and for once, there was no teasing in his expression. Only quiet agreement.

Outside, the city flickered under a dying grid — every light a pulse, every shadow a secret.

And inside that pod, three ghosts of Black Ops began to plan their betrayal.

◇♡☆

The surveillance room was silent — too silent.

Rows of monitors stretched across the wall, each one playing fragments of mission logs, pulse scans, encrypted feeds. The hum of servers filled the air like a mechanical heartbeat.

In the center of it all stood Director Kyungho. No face visible — only his outline against the wash of blue light. His hands were still behind his back, posture calm, voice low.

“Run it again.”

The analyst hesitated. “Sir, we’ve already decrypted—”

“Then decrypt it again.”

Lines of code cascaded down the screen, pale blue flickers dissolving into static. For a moment, the data looked clean. Then a flicker — a red line appearing where it shouldn’t be. It split into two, then four, scattering like veins of light.

Kyungho stepped forward.

“Freeze it.”

There, buried deep inside the Divaz’ data packet, was a string of inverted text — subtle enough to be overlooked, deliberate enough to feel intentional.

“Zoom in.”

The words resolved slowly, flickering in reverse:

> You’re watching the wrong war.

The air in the room seemed to drop a degree.

Kyungho didn’t speak for several seconds. When he did, his tone was level.

“Who else has seen this?”

“Just our team, sir. The packet came through the Divaz uplink. Cross-referenced with their last report — no anomalies.”

“Except this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Trace it.”

“Already tried. It’s bouncing through our internal servers. Every time we pin it, it reroutes. Like it knows we’re tracking it.”

Kyungho’s expression didn’t move, but something cold glinted in his eyes.

“Lock down all Divaz channels. Full containment. No comms in or out.”

“Sir, that’ll draw attention—”

“Then let it.” His voice softened. “Better suspicion than infection.”

The analyst swallowed. “Understood.”

Kyungho lingered, gaze fixed on the frozen phrase pulsing faintly on-screen.

> You’re watching the wrong war.

He knew that code. The encryption twist, the looping syntax — familiar.

“Pull up the Divaz personnel files,” he said. “Woongki. Jay. Shuaibo. I want everything.”

“Yes, Director Kyungho.”

“And send word to Unit 3.”

The analyst hesitated. “Unit 3? That’s Retrieval Division.”

“I’m aware.”

He turned toward the door, his reflection cutting through the blue light like a ghost.

“Find them before the others do. If they’ve turned—”

a pause, quiet but final —

“we don’t retrieve them.”

◇♡☆

The first sign something was wrong came quietly.

Woongki’s pod hummed — low, rhythmic, the soft blue light painting the small space in calm. He was mid-sentence when the hum dipped, just slightly.

Then the screens blinked.

“Woongki?” Shuaibo’s tone sharpened.

“Hold on.”

He tapped a command. The screens froze. One by one, every open window went black. The static hum deepened.

Jay moved closer. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Woongki muttered. “At least, not this time.”

The lights flickered, then steadied — too still.

No signal. No uplink.

“Network’s down?”

“Not down,” Woongki said quietly. “Cut.”

Jay’s jaw tightened. “By who?”

Woongki opened a hidden subroutine — a line of code pinging back through Black Ops’ system. It should’ve bounced three times and returned.

It didn’t.

Instead, a red notification appeared:

> ACCESS DENIED: USER FLAGGED

Woongki’s voice went thin. “…They know.”

Shuaibo straightened. “Know what?”

“That we lied.”

The air grew heavy. Jay’s silence was sharp, calculating. “How long do we have?”

“Not long. I’m seeing trace echoes — retrieval channels. They’re triangulating.”

Shuaibo froze. “Retrieval?”

“Unit 3,” Woongki said flatly.

Jay’s tone was iron. “You’re sure?”

“They’re the only ones with that signature. Whoever’s running this sweep knows exactly where to look.”

Jay grabbed his jacket, gun sliding clean from the table. “We’re leaving.”

“Leave and we’re flagged,” Woongki countered. “They’ll track movement faster than signal.”

Shuaibo turned, calm but lethal. “Then what’s your plan? Sit here and wait?”

Jay exhaled, gaze locked on the black monitors.

“Not wait. Redirect.”

Woongki started typing — fast. Code spilling across the screens.

“I’m rerouting their trace to a dead Vanguard frequency. They’ll think we’re hiding there.”

“Won’t that risk Jeongwoo?” Jay asked.

“No. That sector’s abandoned. But it’ll buy us hours.”

Jay studied him, then nodded once. “Do it.”

The console flared red, then dimmed. The trace vanished.

“We’re off their radar,” Woongki said. “For now.”

Shuaibo exhaled. “So what now?”

“Now we stop hiding,” Jay said. “Woongki, you still have Jeongwoo’s analog line?”

“Buried deep.”

“Then use it. Tell him what’s coming.”

Woongki hesitated — then began the transmission. Static flickered across the nearest screen, the old comms line sputtering to life.

Somewhere across the city, a signal broke through the dark — a warning trying to reach Jeongwoo before Unit 3 did.

◇♤☆

Jeongwoo had learned to recognize silence — the kind that wasn’t peace but warning.

His safehouse sat beyond the city grid, hidden under old encryption. The hum of his machines was steady, constant.

He was adjusting a sensor when the static came — faint, pulsing.

Old analog.

He froze. Only one person still used that channel.

The monitor flared weakly — fractured audio struggling to form words.

> “—ngwoo—copy? …you there?”

“Woongki?”

Jeongwoo adjusted the tuner, sharpening the signal.

> “They—locked—channels—Unit 3’s moving—listen—”

“Slow down,” Jeongwoo said. “Where are you?”

> “Pod—no time—traced—bought an hour—maybe less—”

Behind the distortion, Jeongwoo heard it — the mechanical thrum of a transport warming up.

“Damn it.”

He typed fast, rerouting the source. The coordinates blinked onto his screen. Woongki’s sector.

> “Jeongwoo—if we don’t make it—”

“Don’t say that.”

> “We chose this—”

The signal cracked — then died.

Jeongwoo stared at the silent screen. His reflection looked like someone who’d already made up his mind.

He tapped his comms. “Steven. Pick up.”

A beat, then a voice: “Jeongwoo? It’s late—”

“Black Ops moved. Unit 3’s on the Divaz.”

“…You’re sure?”

“Woongki sent proof.”

Steven’s tone changed instantly. “Then they’re not going after them. They’re erasing them.”

“Not if we get there first.”

“On my way.”

“Bring Han. We intercept before they hit the sector.”

The line cut.

Jeongwoo grabbed his gear and stepped into the night.

Far above, cloaked transports shimmered like ghosts across the skyline — silent, precise, hunting.

“Hold on, Woongki,” he whispered. Then he was gone.

◇♧☆

The silence didn’t last.

A low hum rippled through the floor — faint at first, then steady, vibrating through the pod’s frame.

Woongki’s head snapped up.

“They’re here.”

Shuaibo checked his weapon. “Already?”

“They caught the reroute mid-cycle,” Woongki said. “That means they’re triangulating. They’re right above us.”

Jay moved to the window slit. The air shimmered faintly — invisible crafts cutting through the dark.

“Three units. Minimum.”

Shuaibo’s voice dropped. “Retrieval protocols?”

Jay’s reply was quiet. “No. Termination.”

Woongki’s hands moved fast, rerouting power, killing heat signatures.

“Front’s compromised. If they breach, we’ve got thirty seconds.”

“Then we don’t let them breach.” Jay’s voice carried command. “Positions.”

Shuaibo set a trip charge by the corridor.

Woongki armed an EMP coil — small, unstable, enough to blind sensors for seconds.

“We get one chance,” he said. “Once they lose visual, we run. North tunnel — two blocks. Off-grid.”

A metallic click echoed outside.

“They’re on the hatch,” Woongki whispered.

The lights dimmed. Jay steadied his breathing. “Ready?”

Woongki nodded. “On my mark.”

Outside — silence. Then a blast.

The door folded inward, metal screaming as a flashbang rolled across the floor.

The EMP detonated a heartbeat later. The world went white.

Then — nothing but silence and smoke.

“Move!” Jay’s voice cut through it.

Woongki grabbed the data drive, Shuaibo covering him as they sprinted through the narrow back hall.

Outside, muffled through ringing ears, they heard Unit 3 move — not shouting, not chaos.

Just precision.

Predators.

Jay forced open the grate, waving them through. Woongki hesitated — one last glance back at the pod, the only home he’d built.

He whispered something too soft to catch — maybe a curse, maybe a promise —

then climbed out.

The night swallowed them.

Behind them, the pod burned — silent, devoured by its own light —

and above, the hum of Unit 3’s transports filled the dark.

◇♡☆

The usual hum of cheap neon signs and vendor carts had vanished, leaving only the smell of scorched metal hanging in the air.

Jeongwoo pulled the car up short. No one spoke.

Where Woongki’s pod should have been — that dim blue glow tucked under steel beams — there was only blackened wreckage. The entire unit had been gutted, its walls collapsed inward, cables melted into unrecognizable veins. Ash drifted in the faint wind like static falling from a broken screen.

Han got out first. His boots crunched on glass and debris. He turned slowly, scanning the perimeter like a soldier whose training had just been hollowed out of him.

“They were here,” he said quietly. “Not long ago.”

Jeongwoo stood stiffly at his side, eyes darting over the ruins. “Woongki doesn’t burn his own exits. This… this wasn’t him.”

Steven didn’t move at first. He stayed by the car door, fingers clenched around the frame, staring at what used to be a lifeline. The pod had been their last point of contact — their last hope of a plan.

Han crouched by a charred panel, his hand hovering over the twisted remains of Woongki’s consoles. “No bodies,” he muttered. “No trace of them. Either they ran… or…”

He didn’t finish.

Jeongwoo looked over, jaw tight. “We can’t stand here. If Black Ops hit this place, they’ll sweep it again.”

The drive back was wordless.

No one spoke — not when they passed the smoke still rising beneath the overpass, not when the faint sirens faded behind them. The city lights flickered through the windshield like ghosts refusing to rest.

The safeplace was quiet — too quiet for men used to living on alarms.

Deep underground, Jeongwoo’s base felt detached from the world above — a bunker of concrete and dim amber light, the air humming faintly with generator heat. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was alive, and that was enough.

Steven sat by the metal table, a half-finished map spread out before him, fingers drumming against the steel. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked to the old analog monitor in the corner — waiting for a signal that didn’t come.

Han paced near the wall, silent but restless. His weapon lay disassembled on the workbench, cleaned twice already.

Jeongwoo stood by the main console, arms crossed, his reflection sharp in the faint glow of the monitors. The analog frequency had been dead for hours. He knew that silence — the kind that wasn’t peace but warning.

“They should’ve been here by now,” Steven said, voice low.

Jeongwoo didn’t look away from the screen. “They will. Woongki’s been preparing for this since the day Divaz uncovered the truth about Black Ops.”

Han’s tone cut in, even. “You sound sure.”

Jeongwoo exhaled through his nose. “He saw this coming long before the rest of us did.”

The room went still — that quiet acknowledgment settling heavy between them.

It had started weeks ago — after the revelation.

After Woongki decrypted a buried string of code inside Black Ops’ own archive, the one that whispered a single phrase:

> You’re watching the wrong war.

That line changed everything.

Divaz had always believed they were fighting for Black Ops — that Vanguard was the enemy, the threat, the reason for every mission, every loss.

But the deeper they dug, the clearer it became.

Black Ops wasn’t fighting Vanguard.

They were using Divaz to dismantle them — feeding lies, staging conflicts, rewriting mission data until friend and foe looked the same.

Every assignment, every kill order, had been part of something larger — a manipulation designed to erase Vanguard and leave Black Ops standing unopposed.

So they planned. Quietly.

Steven was the one who suggested the contingency. Park a getaway car not far enough from Woongki's Pod north emergency exit.

“If they ever find out you three know,” he said, “you don’t run blind. You build exits.”

Han stocked the getaway car himself — weapons, medpacks, spare comms, everything they’d need to vanish fast.

Jeongwoo offered the safeplace — a forgotten stronghold off-grid, older than Black Ops’ surveillance systems.

And Woongki, built an analog tracker into his pod — a relic from Jeongwoo’s old network, impossible to trace by modern encryption.

“If something goes wrong,” Jeongwoo told them then, “you come here. No matter what.”

That had been their promise.

And tonight, that promise was all that kept them alive.

A faint rumble broke through the quiet — the soft growl of an engine filtering through the vents.

Steven’s head snapped up. “That’s them.”

Jeongwoo moved fast, unlocking the lower gate. The steel door hissed open, light spilling down the tunnel.

For a heartbeat, all they saw was smoke and movement — then shadows resolved into figures.

Woongki stumbled in first, coughing, half-covered in soot. “Miss me?”

Jeongwoo almost laughed despite the tension. “You look like hell.”

“Compliment accepted,” Woongki grinned weakly.

Jay followed close behind, steps steady but eyes hollow. A bruise darkened his jaw, his sleeve torn and blood-streaked. Steven was at his side in an instant.

“Jay.”

“I’m fine,” Jay muttered, though his voice rasped like gravel. “Unit 3 nearly caught us.”

Behind them, Shuaibo ducked through the entryway, scanning the room like a soldier not yet ready to believe in safety. His gaze landed on Han. For a second, neither spoke — then Han nodded once. “Good to see you still breathing.”

Shuaibo smirked faintly. “Just say you were worried.”

The gate sealed shut behind them, the sound echoing like the closing of a chapter.

Steven stepped back, taking in the sight of them all — battered, dirty, alive. “You did it.”

Jay dropped onto the nearest chair, exhaling hard. “We almost didn’t.”

Woongki leaned against the wall, his eyes finding Jeongwoo’s. “They know. I know Director Kyungho’s seen through everything.”

◇♡☆

The safehouse had never felt smaller.

They’d survived the night — but survival came with silence. The kind that pressed against walls and hearts alike.

Jeongwoo guided them down the narrow hall, the hum of the generator low and steady beneath their footsteps.

“Rooms are through there,” he said quietly. “Not much comfort, but enough to breathe.”

Woongki gave a half-smile. “Breathing’s a luxury lately.”

No one argued.

They split off — exhaustion, adrenaline, and quiet fear forming their own corridors.

◇

Jeongwoo stood in the equipment room, adjusting the signal dampeners, when Woongki stepped in — slower now, the bravado burned out of him. His jacket was half-melted at the edges; soot streaked his neck. For once, he didn’t joke.

“You should’ve seen it,” he said softly. “The sky lit up blue when the pod went. My code — the last trace of it — erased itself.”

Jeongwoo didn’t answer at first. He checked the monitor, then looked over. “You built that place from nothing.”

Woongki nodded. “And burned it for something better.” He leaned against the console, rubbing his wrist absently. “Feels weird, though. Like erasing a version of yourself.”

Jeongwoo’s voice softened. “That version kept you alive long enough to get here.”

Woongki gave a small, crooked grin. “You always make things sound cleaner than they are.”

Jeongwoo met his gaze — steady, sharp, unflinching. “Because if I don’t, someone has to.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The quiet buzz of electricity filled the gap — two men wired differently but built for the same fight.

Finally, Jeongwoo asked, “Did they see through the misdirection?”

Woongki hesitated. “Kyungho saw enough. He’ll stop hunting Vanguard for now… and start hunting us.”

Jeongwoo exhaled slowly. “Then we move before he does.”

“Already working on it,” Woongki said. “New signal routes, new identities, new lies.” His tone flickered faintly — tired humor covering real dread. “You know, the usual.”

Jeongwoo reached for the screen, pulling up a map. “No. This time, no more lies. We fight it on our terms.”

Woongki shook his head. “That pod— it was where I remembered who I was before all this.” He laughed once, quiet and bitter. “Now I’m just— what, a ghost with good code?”

“Woongki,” Jeongwoo said, quieter now.

Woongki waved it off. “Forget it. I’m just tired. You can go back to being cold and dramatic now.”

Jeongwoo didn’t answer. He just crossed the space between them.

Woongki blinked. “What are you—”

And then Jeongwoo pulled him into a hug.

It wasn’t gentle, not at first — more like a command to stop talking — but the pressure steadied, arms firm around him. For a second, Woongki froze, every muscle braced for mockery or orders. None came.

“You’re still here,” Jeongwoo said against his shoulder. “That’s enough.”

Woongki’s breath hitched — small, involuntary. He didn’t realize how much he’d needed that until his hands gripped Jeongwoo’s jacket back, not tight, just enough to hold on for a moment longer than pride allowed.

“Don’t make a habit of this,” he muttered. His voice cracked anyway.

Jeongwoo gave the faintest smile. “No promises.”

When he pulled back, Woongki swiped a hand under his eyes, pretending to fix his collar. “You tell anyone, I’ll delete your entire network.”

“Sure,” Jeongwoo said, deadpan. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve broken something to feel better.”

Woongki huffed out a shaky laugh. “You really are impossible.”

“And you really are alive,” Jeongwoo replied. “Try to keep it that way.”

For once, Woongki didn’t argue.

He just nodded, quietly.

Outside, the generator’s low hum filled the room again — steady, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat finding its way back.

☆

The medroom was quiet, save for the hum of the air purifier and the soft click of metal instruments being set aside.

Steven sat close, carefully bandaging Jay’s hand — his movements precise, almost too gentle for how rough the night had been.

Jay watched him work in silence. Every pull of the bandage, every touch, seemed to tighten the guilt coiled in his chest.

“You can breathe, you know,” Steven said without looking up.

“I am.”

“Barely,” Steven murmured.

Jay tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess I’m not great at that lately.”

Steven’s hands paused mid-wrap. “At breathing?”

“At... making things right.”

The words hung there, heavier than they should’ve been. Steven didn’t answer immediately; he just finished tying the bandage and sat back a little, studying Jay’s face.

Jay finally spoke again, voice quiet and unsteady.

“I’ve been—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “I’ve been pushing you away. Acting like I don’t need you around. And I see it, Steven. I see the way you look at me and I still… make you feel like you’re not wanted.”

Steven’s expression didn’t change, but something softened in his eyes — not surprise, just quiet knowing.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said simply.

“I do,” Jay said, shaking his head. “Because you don’t deserve that. I just—” His voice caught. “I don’t even know what I want anymore. What’s real, what’s built out of fear, or habit, or the fact that everything else keeps falling apart.”

Steven reached out, resting his hand over Jay’s bandaged one. The gesture was steady, grounding.

“I know what your heart wants, Jay,” Steven said softly. “Even if you don’t.”

Jay looked up, startled by how certain his voice was.

Steven’s thumb brushed the edge of Jay’s knuckles. “You’re not cold. You’re confused. There’s a difference. You just need time to tell which voice in your head is lying to you.”

Jay’s eyes flickered with something raw — relief, maybe, or fear of being seen too clearly.

“You shouldn’t wait for me to figure it out,” he murmured.

Steven gave a faint, crooked smile. “I’m not waiting. I’m just staying close enough so you don’t lose yourself trying.”

Jay’s breath trembled out of him, uneven. “That’s not fair to you.”

“Maybe not,” Steven said, still calm. “But I’d rather be where you can reach me than pretend I don’t care.”

Silence stretched again — not empty, but full of all the words Jay didn’t know how to say.

He finally whispered, “I never meant to make you doubt it. Any of it.”

Steven’s gaze softened even more. “I never doubted you.”

Jay blinked fast, then looked away, biting down the emotion threatening to spill. Steven’s hand stayed over his — unmoving, unwavering.

“Steven…”

“I know,” Steven said quietly. “You don’t have to say it yet.”

The monitor beside them beeped, steady and calm. The only sound in the room that didn’t seem afraid to keep going.

Jay nodded, eyes fixed on their joined hands. “You always make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not simple,” Steven replied. “It’s just the truth. And you’ll find it again — when you stop fighting yourself.”

Jay exhaled, eyes glassy. “And you’ll still be here?”

Steven’s voice was gentle, but firm. “Always. Until you remember which parts of you are still real.”

The bandage was finished, but neither moved.

The silence between them wasn’t distance anymore — it was safety.

♡

The safehouse kitchen was barely more than a counter, a stove, and a single flickering light — but it smelled like warmth for the first time in days.

Han stood over the pot, stirring slowly. The faint scent of soy and ginger filled the air, cutting through the usual metallic tang that clung to their weapons and clothes.

Across the table, Shuaibo sat slouched in a chair, exhaustion written into every line of his face. His fingers drummed absently against the table — that restless habit he always had after missions.

Han glanced over. “You’re gonna dent the table if you keep that up.”

Shuaibo blinked, stopping. “Sorry. Hard to sit still.”

Han smiled faintly. “You don’t have to be sorry for being alive.”

Shuaibo tried to return it, but it faltered halfway. “Feels wrong, though. Eating, resting… after what they did to us.”

Han turned off the stove, the steam rising like a sigh. “That’s exactly why you need to. You think they win by killing us? They win when we stop letting ourselves live.”

Shuaibo’s voice was small. “You really think we’ll ever stop running?”

Han ladled soup into a bowl and set it in front of him. “Yeah. I do. Because I promised you.”

Shuaibo looked up. “Promised me what?”

Han crouched beside him so their eyes met. His tone was low but sure.

“That when this is over — when we finally take Black Ops apart — there’ll be no more hardship for you. No more cold nights, no more missions that eat you alive. You’ll get to rest. You’ll get to breathe.”

Shuaibo blinked hard, looking away. “You talk like I deserve that.”

Han chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You do. More than anyone I know.” He paused, eyes softening. “You’re too pretty for all this, you know that?”

Shuaibo let out a quiet, startled laugh — the first sound of lightness in hours. “Pretty? You always say that.”

“It's true,” Han said, shrugging. “Just true. Someone like you shouldn’t have to carry this kind of weight.”

Shuaibo’s smile faded, replaced by something raw. “Then why do I?”

“Because the world’s unfair,” Han said simply. “But that doesn’t mean it stays that way. Not if I can help it.”

He reached out, resting a hand on Shuaibo’s head — slow, steady, an assurance that didn’t need words. “I’m here,” Han murmured. “Always have been. Always will be. No matter how bad it gets.”

Shuaibo swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t keep promises like that. The world doesn’t care what we swear.”

Han’s tone didn’t waver. “Then we’ll make it care.”

Shuaibo looked at him for a long moment, then nodded, voice barely a whisper. “You sound like you actually mean that.”

“I do.” Han nudged the bowl toward him. “Now eat. Before I change my mind and take it myself.”

Shuaibo gave a faint laugh, softer this time. “You’d do that, wouldn’t you?”

“Probably,” Han said, smiling. “But not tonight.”

For a while, they sat in quiet — the clink of spoon against bowl, the low hum of the generator, and something unspoken but certain between them.

And when Shuaibo finally looked up, Han was still watching him, steady and warm, like a promise that refused to break.

Silence Between Walls

Three rooms.

Three kinds of quiet.

Woongki breathed out against Jeongwoo’s shoulder.

Jay sat still while Steven’s hand lingered near his.

Shuaibo ate slowly while Han watched over him.

Different words, same promise —

You’re not alone. Not tonight.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the safehouse sounded almost like home.

Chapter Text

◇♡☆

A week passed.

Outside, Seoul went on pretending nothing had happened.

Inside the safehouse, they lived like ghosts — slipping in and out of their separate lives to keep the illusion intact.

Steven, Han, and Jeongwoo each returned to their own fronts — empires that couldn’t stop, not even for grief or guilt.

To the world, they were still who they had to be:

Steven, the strategist whose company never blinked;

Han, the face of a brand too clean to be touched;

Jeongwoo, the academic whose name was printed on research papers no one would ever read.

They couldn’t afford to disappear.

Not yet.

Not until Black Ops stopped looking.

Park Entertainment ran like a living machine — PR teams, producers, schedules that never slept.

Han watched it all from the corner office, skyline sprawling beneath glass walls.

To the public, he was the immaculate CEO — calm, visionary, untouchable.

But under that image was control, carefully maintained. Every contract, every statement, every silence — all part of the web he spun to keep Black Ops from ever seeing the cracks.

The only one who ever slipped past that armor was Chihen.

Officially, Chihen was Han’s executive aide. Unofficially, he was the closest thing Han had to family — someone he’d pulled from the same industry that nearly consumed Shuaibo.

Years ago, Chihen had been an idol trainee — talented, overworked, and almost destroyed. Han had seen the breaking point and taken him in before the system could finish the job.

Now, Chihen stood beside him, tablet in hand, eyes sharper than his tone. “You haven’t gone home in three days, hyung.”

Han didn’t look up. “Home’s overrated.”

“This isn’t healthy,” Chihen said. “Even for you.”

Han gave a small, humorless smile. “Neither is survival.”

Chihen’s voice dropped. “You increased the building’s security again. What aren’t you telling me, Han hyung?”

Han finally looked at him. “Black Ops doesn’t stay quiet this long without purpose. They’re watching. Waiting for someone to move first.”

“Then why are you still pretending this place is safe?”

“Because it has to be,” Han said softly.

He reached out, straightening the silver chain around Chihen’s neck — the one he’d given him years ago, engraved with nothing but his initials. “If anything happens, you leave Seoul. No second thoughts.”

Chihen’s eyes flickered. “I’m not leaving you.”

Han’s voice gentled, just slightly. “You don’t have to. Just promise you’ll live.”

For a long moment, Chihen said nothing. Then, quietly:

“You always save people, hyung. Who’s going to save you?”

Han turned back to the city. “That’s not part of my job description.”

Jeongwoo’s house was silent except for the hum of the heater and the soft scratch of a pen.

Stacks of documents lay neatly arranged — all bearing university seals and signatures for an overseas academic exchange program.

Officially, he was preparing a student delegation for a two-week trip to Switzerland.

Unofficially, it was a cover to get his younger brother as far away from Seoul as possible.

Daisuke leaned against the doorframe, passport in hand. He was young — too young for the world Jeongwoo was part of — but sharp enough to sense what wasn’t being said.

“You’re seriously sending me alone?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “You never do this.”

Jeongwoo didn’t look up. “You’ll be fine. It’s all arranged — hotel, supervision, transport.”

“That’s not the point.”

Daisuke stepped closer, voice quiet but steady. “You think I don’t notice when things start to feel off? You stopped coming home. Your office started locking visitors out. Even your phone’s been silent.”

Jeongwoo set the pen down and looked at him — calm, composed, a little too careful. “Things are complicated right now.”

“Complicated like the explosion near the overpass?” Daisuke asked. “Or like the way everyone’s pretending it didn’t happen?”

Jeongwoo’s silence was answer enough.

Daisuke hesitated before pulling out his phone, screen dimly glowing. “And what about Woongki hyung?”

Jeongwoo’s eyes flickered. “What about him?”

Daisuke’s thumb hovered over the dim game icon on his phone — the one they used to play every night.

“He hasn’t logged in in over a week. His account’s gone. Deleted. Even the alt one.”

His voice softened, barely above a whisper. “We were supposed to play last Friday… he just vanished.”

Jeongwoo didn’t answer right away. The quiet stretched, heavy and deliberate.

“You said he was busy,” Daisuke continued, eyes glimmering with suspicion and something far more fragile. “But you’re not saying it like you believe it anymore.”

Jeongwoo’s voice came out careful, almost rehearsed. “Woongki’s fine. He just needs time.”

“Then tell him…” Daisuke hesitated, fingers curling tight around his phone. “Tell Woongki hyung I miss him. And that… we should be home together again. All of us.”

Jeongwoo’s throat closed around the words he couldn’t say — that home wasn’t safe, that together wasn’t possible, that again might never come.

He managed a faint smile instead. “I’ll tell him.”

“You promise?” Daisuke asked, small, hopeful.

Jeongwoo reached out and smoothed Daisuke’s hair — the same gesture he’d used when his brother was little and scared of thunderstorms. “Promise.”

Daisuke nodded, clutching the passport envelope close like a lifeline. He turned toward the door, then looked back once more.

“Hyung… you’ll come after me, right?”

Jeongwoo forced a steadiness he didn’t feel. “Always.”

“Then why does it feel like you are slipping away?” Daisuke’s voice was barely a whisper now. “Like Woongki hyung too.”

Jeongwoo exhaled slowly, the lie tasting bitter. “You need to trust me, Daisuke.”

“I do,” Daisuke said. “That’s why I know you’re lying.”

Jeongwoo’s lips curved in something like a smile — soft, tired, older-brother kind. “Then believe the lie if it keeps you safe.”

“Safe from what?” Daisuke asked, voice trembling. “From who?”

Jeongwoo’s eyes softened. “From the kind of people who don’t stop until they’ve taken everything. You leave tonight. Don’t call. Don’t text. Not until I reach out first.”

Daisuke shook his head. “Hyung—”

Jeongwoo placed a hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm. “Please. Just this once, do what I say.”

Daisuke searched his brother’s face — the calm lines, the too-steady eyes.

He was smart enough to realize this wasn’t just a trip.

That whatever Jeongwoo was protecting him from… it had already started.

A soft knock interrupted them.

Chihen stepped in, dressed in neutral tones, travel bag slung over one shoulder. The quiet professionalism he carried seemed to dim the room even further.

“Everything’s ready,” Chihen said gently, glancing between the two brothers. “We should leave before the roads close.”

Daisuke blinked, surprise flickering. “You’re coming with me?”

Chihen nodded. “Han asked me to make sure you get there safely.”

Jeongwoo’s gaze softened in gratitude — brief, wordless, the kind only those living under the same danger could share.

He looked back at Daisuke. “See? You’ll be fine.”

“I guess.” Daisuke smiled faintly, trying to be brave. “Then… I’ll wait for both of you. You and Woongki hyung.”

Jeongwoo nodded once. “You do that.”

Daisuke clutched his passport and turned to leave. At the door, he looked back one last time.

“Hyung,” he said softly, “don’t take too long to come home.”

Jeongwoo’s voice was steady. “I won’t.”

The door clicked shut behind them. Silence returned — heavier than before.

◇♢☆

Steven Kim’s life looked immaculate from the outside — another success story of discipline and brilliance wrapped in tailored suits.

Kim Financial ran like clockwork, spotless in its reports and strategy meetings, its CEO the very picture of control.

But when the world went quiet, Steven wasn’t looking at stocks or markets.

He was tracing a name.

Park Juwon.

Jay had mentioned him weeks ago — his best friend, the one who made the chaos of their youth feel bearable.

“The only person who made me believe I could be normal,” Jay had said, voice small in a way Steven rarely heard.

And when Jay’s voice cracked, Steven had already known what it meant.

Someone precious. Someone unguarded. Someone Black Ops could use.

Now, Steven sat in his private office, lights low, monitors casting faint blue on his face.

Lines of data scrolled past — security logs, address histories, public records scrubbed so clean they almost glowed suspiciously.

Juwon’s trail ended in silence.

Steven’s jaw tightened.

He’d already seen this kind of erasure — Black Ops’ signature cleanup.

When someone became “useful,” their paper life quietly vanished before their real one did.

He cross-referenced the last ping of Juwon’s ID — an ATM transaction near a bus terminal on the outskirts of Seoul. The timing was too exact.

Two days after Divaz’s files had been leaked.

One day after Jay went underground.

Steven leaned forward, fingers steady as he pulled the coordinates onto his secondary monitor. The deeper he went, the clearer the pattern became.

Multiple CCTV blackouts. Two phone numbers rerouted.

Someone was either protecting Juwon — or preparing to take him.

Either way, Jay was right to be afraid.

Steven opened a secure channel and typed:

> [To: Jeongwoo]

I found traces of the one Jay mentioned — Park Juwon.

His records were scrubbed, same format as the Divaz cleanup.

I’m sending you the location data.

Tell Han to reinforce safehouse’s route — he’ll move if Juwon’s touched.

I’ll confirm in the field myself.

— Steven.

He rubbed a hand against his temple.

Park Juwon — the one person Jay had mentioned that night in Safeplace.

Not a target, not an informant — just a friend.

Jay’s voice had cracked when he said his name, quiet in the way only truth sounds:

“He was… the only one who ever made life feel normal. No missions. Just… felt family. If anything happens to him, I won’t forgive myself.”

Steven exhaled, eyes fixed on the faint reflection of himself in the glass.

For a moment, the composure cracked — not visibly, but in the quiet flicker of his gaze.

Then it was gone.

And as the lights of Seoul shimmered below, Steven whispered into the quiet:

“Don’t worry, Jay. I’ll find him first.”

But someone had already found him.

The room was too cold.

Concrete walls, metal chair, humming lights — everything sterile, like a hospital stripped of mercy.

Park Juwon sat bound at the wrists, breath shallow, trying not to shiver. His throat hurt from shouting hours ago, though no one had answered.

He didn’t understand what any of this was.

Who these men were.

Or why they kept asking about Jay.

Every time they said his name, Juwon’s stomach turned to ice.

“Park Juwon,” said the man in the suit — Director Kyungho, they’d called him. His voice was too calm, too measured. “Childhood friend of Jay. Lived together for two years. He still calls you his family.”

Juwon’s heartbeat jumped. “Where’s Jay? Did you hurt him?”

Kyungho smiled faintly. “Not yet.”

Juwon strained against the restraints, voice cracking. “Please—he has nothing to do with whatever this is. He’s just—he’s just an ordinary guy!”

Kyungho tilted his head. “Is he?”

“Yes!” Juwon shouted, panic rising. “He—he works, he keeps to himself—he doesn’t even talk about his past. Leave him alone!”

The older man studied him for a long, clinical moment, as if dissecting the tremor in his voice. Then he turned toward the glowing wall of monitors behind him. Files scrolled past — names, photos, data that made no sense to Juwon. But one image stopped Kyungho’s hand.

Jay.

Not smiling. Cold. Almost unrecognizable.

Juwon’s breath hitched. “What… what is that? Where did you get that photo?”

“Tell me, Juwon,” Kyungho said softly, “what do you really know about your friend?”

“I don’t care what you think you know,” Juwon spat, eyes burning. “If you touch him, I swear—”

“You’ll what?” Kyungho asked, amused. “You’re not in his world. You’re just a name in his file — the last normal piece he kept.”

“I’m his family,” Juwon said, voice shaking. “You don’t get to use that.”

Kyungho smiled thinly. “Family is exactly what makes people weak. Especially men like him.”

Juwon froze. “What are you talking about? What men?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

Kyungho crouched, eyes level with his. “He’s spent years pretending to be something he’s not. And all it takes to destroy that illusion… is you.”

Juwon’s breathing turned erratic. “You’re lying. Jay doesn’t—he’s not like that—he wouldn’t be mixed up in any of this!”

Kyungho ignored the outburst, studying his fear like a test result. “He will come for you. He won’t be able to help himself. That’s how loyalty works.”

His tone softened into something cruelly patient. “You’ll bring him right to me.”

Juwon shook his head, violently. “No, no—he won’t—he can’t—”

Kyungho stood, signaling the guards. “Send the message. Make sure it reaches him.”

“What message?!” Juwon shouted, struggling against the chair. “Don’t—please, don’t tell him!”

The guards didn’t answer.

A red light blinked on one of the monitors — transmission queue initialized.

Juwon’s voice broke completely. “You don’t understand—he’s not built for this! He’ll die if he comes for me—please—don’t—”

Kyungho turned slightly, expression unreadable. “Then I suppose we’ll see how far he’s willing to go.”

Juwon thrashed as the door closed, voice raw. “Don’t send it! I’m begging you! Don’t drag him into this!”

His screams echoed, swallowed by the soundproof walls.

When silence finally returned, Juwon sagged forward, shaking. His breath came in broken gasps, his eyes fixed on the blinking red light that meant the message was already gone.

“Jay…” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Don’t come. Please. Just this once… don’t come.”

But deep down, he knew Jay would.

Jay always did.

The safeplace was buried under layers of concrete and old signal blockers — invisible to satellites, unreachable by modern networks.

For days, the Divaz had been quiet. No missions. No movement. Just waiting.

Woongki sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by an organized chaos of disassembled transmitters, tangled wires, and analog receivers he’d built from scrap.

Even without digital tech, he refused to sit idle.

“Analog is like trying to talk through smoke,” he muttered, adjusting a dial. “You can never tell if someone’s whispering or dying.”

Shuaibo looked up from where he was cleaning one of their sidearms, lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “That’s poetic, for a guy swearing at circuits.”

“I’m not swearing,” Woongki said sharply. “I’m recalibrating.”

Jay didn’t answer either of them.

He stood near the table, listening — or maybe waiting — for something that hadn’t arrived yet.

And then it did.

A sharp burst of static tore through the small radio.

All three of them froze.

Then came a voice — faint, breaking, terrified.

> “—Jay… please, don’t—don’t come—”

Jay’s blood ran cold.

“Wait—play that again.” His voice was barely steady.

Woongki twisted the dial, eyes narrowing. “It’s analog… there’s no loop, it’s—”

> “They’ll kill you if you do—please—stay away—”

The sound fractured again, swallowed by static.

Shuaibo’s jaw tightened. “Who's voice is thㅡ…”

Jay’s lips parted, color draining from his face. “Juwon.”

For a moment, the world stopped moving.

Woongki turned to him, voice low. “Jay—how could they—this line isn’t traceable unless—”

“They know where we are.” Jay’s voice was hollow, mechanical.

Shuaibo stood quickly. “Jay—”

“They know, Shuaibo.” Jay’s fists trembled at his sides. “Black Ops found Juwon. They have him.”

Woongki’s hands moved fast across the analog console, eyes darting between readings. “The signal’s short-range. They didn’t broadcast wide — they targeted us. That means—”

“They’re close,” Jay finished.

He stepped back from the table, heart pounding. The room suddenly felt smaller.

“Jay.” Shuaibo’s voice turned firm now, cutting through the rising noise. “You can’t just—”

“I have to go.”

“Go where? You don’t even know where they’re holding him!”

Jay’s gaze flicked toward the wall — toward the direction of the city he could almost see in his head. “Doesn’t matter. If they have him, I’ll find them.”

Woongki slammed his hand on the console. “That’s exactly what they want! They went analog because they knew we’d hear this. They’re baiting us, Jay.”

Jay’s voice broke. “He’s my only family left, hyung!”

The silence that followed was sharp, cracking through the air.

A low hum trembled through the floor.

Then—

the sirens wailed.

Red light splintered through the safeplace walls, flickering against concrete and metal.

Every sensor—analog, manual, hidden—flared alive.

Woongki’s head shot up. “No—no, no, that’s not possible—”

Shuaibo was already on his feet. “What happened to ‘unreachable by modern networks’?!”

Woongki’s voice was tight, frantic. “They didn’t hack it. They found it. Analog. Manual sweep. They went analog, Shuaibo—they tracked us the way we used to track them!”

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the far corridor—boots on steel.

Black Ops.

Jay’s body went rigid, breath sharp.

All that trembling from earlier had burned away, replaced by something colder—rage.

“They have Juwon,” he said, voice low, shaking with restraint that wouldn’t last long. “They have him.”

“Jay—” Woongki tried, but he was too late.

Jay tore open the gun locker. Metal clanged as he pulled out the Glock and a spare mag, chambering it in one fluid motion.

“I’m done hiding.”

Shuaibo stood beside him, gun already loaded, eyes narrowed. “Then we make them pay for coming here.”

Woongki cursed under his breath, shoving a cable into the receiver. “You two buy me time—I’ll scramble the exit route. There’s an old ventilation shaft under the generator room. If we can reach it—”

A gunshot ripped through the silence—bang!—a warning round.

The far door shuddered, steel denting inward.

“They’re inside,” Shuaibo muttered. “We don’t have time.”

Jay slammed a fresh clip into his gun, movements precise and deadly.

Every flicker of the red alarm light sharpened the cut of his face—rage and fear carved deep into it.

“Let them come,” he said.

Shuaibo took position near the western corridor, tone almost mocking despite the tension. “You sure about this, commander? You look ready to burn the whole place.”

“I am,” Jay said, eyes hard. “If that’s what it takes.”

Woongki’s voice came through from behind the desk, quick and focused. “I’ll trigger the overload once you pass the east sector—don’t get caught in the blast radius.”

Jay didn’t even flinch. “We won’t.”

The door at the end of the corridor exploded inward.

Smoke. Flashlight beams.

Black Ops in full gear, moving in formation.

“Contacts!” Shuaibo called.

Jay moved before the echo even faded—two shots, clean and controlled.

Two soldiers dropped.

Shuaibo laughed breathlessly. “Guess subtlety’s dead.”

“Never my style,” Jay said, reloading in motion.

The corridor filled with gunfire and light.

The safeplace—once their refuge—was now a cage of steel and vengeance.

And Jay, fury burning through grief, was no longer running.

The air was thick with smoke and gunfire.

Woongki slammed his palm against the control pad, overriding the last lock. “Go! East sector tunnel’s open!”

Shuaibo fired two rounds over his shoulder, covering Jay as he dashed past. “You better be right about this tunnel, genius!”

“Jeongwoo showed me,” Woongki shouted, snatching his gun and pack. “He told me all the possible exits here!”

The emergency lights flickered out as they hit the corridor—now only flashes of muzzle fire lit their path. The siren had cut, replaced by something worse: the sound of boots and breath, close and organized.

Jay’s pulse hammered in his ears. He didn’t think—he just moved.

Every image of Juwon’s terrified voice replayed behind his eyes, driving him forward.

They hit the final hatch—Woongki yanked the release lever, and cold night air flooded in.

“Out!” he barked. “Head for the tree line—don’t stop!”

They climbed out into the rain-soaked woods, boots sinking into mud. Behind them, the safeplace roared—a series of controlled charges collapsing the tunnels.

The explosion’s echo rolled through the valley like thunder.

“Split formation!” Woongki shouted. “We can’t lead them all in one path—they’ll flank us!”

Jay turned toward him, soaked, furious. “I’m not leaving anyone!”

“That’s not what I said!” Woongki snapped, shoving him toward the trees. “You cover west, I’ll jam north, Shuaibo—south ridge, loop around to rendezvous!”

Gunfire cracked through the dark—Black Ops was already in pursuit, lights sweeping across the forest.

“They’re using flares!” Shuaibo yelled. “Analog tracking, just like you said!”

“Of course they are!” Woongki cursed, pulling a small jamming coil from his pack and slamming it into the ground. “They can’t trace signals, so they’re using body heat and sound!”

“Then we go silent,” Jay hissed. “No comms, no trail.”

He sprinted into the trees—movements quick, trained, but laced with desperation. Every branch that snapped underfoot felt like a countdown.

The forest swallowed them.

In the south ridge, Shuaiboran low and fast through the trees, breath misting in the cold.

The world blurred into shadows and rain.

Behind him—movement. Voices. The metallic click of reloads.

He dove behind a rock outcrop, pressing his back to it. “Persistent bastards,” he muttered, checking his ammo. Only one clip left.

He risked a glance around the edge—saw four of them, maybe five, moving in formation.

Black Ops.

He dropped two, quick and clean.

But a drone’s faint hum rose overhead—a low, mechanical growl.

He looked up.

“...Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

A net fired downward, steel cords snapping around him, current crackling.

He screamed through the voltage, collapsing to his knees.

The last thing he saw was a gloved hand reaching down—

Then another hand, fast and familiar, caught the soldier’s wrist and twisted.

The man fell.

Han appeared out of the dark—hood drenched, eyes sharp.

“Miss me?” he said, breathless, before gunning down the others in two swift bursts.

He dropped to one knee, cutting the net loose.

Shuaibo gasped, smoke rising from the wires.

“Took you long enough,” he rasped.

Han smirked faintly. “Traffic.”

He hauled Shuaibo up by the arm. “Come on. Steven’s still on the road—we need to regroup.”

Far North, the rain made it hard to hear.

Woongki crouched low, analog tuner flickering uselessly in his hand.

Something hissed behind him—a dart shot through the mist, grazing his shoulder.

He spun, fired back, missed.

Two soldiers broke from cover.

Then—a sharp whistle.

A figure emerged through the fog, striking fast and silent.

Gunfire, one body down, then another.

Jeongwoo stepped from the rain, soaked but steady, his coat torn from travel.

“Still playing with analog toys, Woongki?”

Woongki exhaled, half relief, half disbelief. “How the hell did you—”

“Steven called,” Jeongwoo said shortly. “Black Ops fed him a fake Juwon signal. Han and I doubled back.”

He reloaded his sidearm, scanning the tree line. “You’re lucky I did.”

“Remind me to thank fate later,” Woongki muttered, clutching his side.

“Move,” Jeongwoo ordered. “We’re not safe yet.”

Somewhere West, Jay had lost sight of them all.

No signal. No backup.

Only rain and his own breath.

He saw the flare through the mist—blue light, faint, burning at the base of a ravine.

And a phone beside it.

Juwon’s.

He reached for it, trembling. The screen flickered—

> “Jay, please… they said if you come… they’ll—”

Gunfire tore the rest apart.

Jay dove, rolled, returned fire—but there were too many.

Three. Then five. Closing in.

He hit one, maybe two—but a flash grenade hit the ground, blinding white—

When his vision cleared, he was on his knees.

Hands bound. Boots in the mud around him.

Kyungho’s voice cut through the storm, cold and clear:

“Welcome back, Jay. Took you long enough.”

Jay strained against his bindings, fury burning behind his eyes.

But before he could move—

A dart hit his neck.

Tranquilizer.

His last thought before blacking out was Juwon’s voice, echoing through static.

Stay away…

Above the forest, Black Ops moved like shadows—dragging Jay’s unconscious body toward their trucks.

Han carried Shuaibo through the trees.

Jeongwoo half-supported Woongki as they made their way through the mud and rain.

Jeongwoo stopped, setting Woongki down gently against a trunk. He unfolded a compact device from his coat — a scanner that hummed softly to life, light spreading in concentric rings across the holographic screen.

Woongki blinked. “You brought that thing?”

Jeongwoo’s jaw tightened. “Had to be sure.”

He adjusted the dial, watching the map pulse with faint red outlines.

Each flicker represented heat — life.

The rain muffled everything, but the readings came clear:

Two signatures — Han and Shuaibo.

One fading — Woongki, beside him.

And a fourth, cold and still — too far West.

Jay.

Jeongwoo’s chest tightened. “He’s gone.”

Woongki looked up. “No…”

Jeongwoo shut the scanner, rain sliding off the metal. “There’s no one left in the woods.”

He exhaled, voice low and grim. “They have him.”

Down the highway, headlights tore through the storm.

Steven’s car roared forward, tires slicing through water, engine growling like an animal barely held in check.

The dashboard blinked red with Jeongwoo’s coordinates. "evacuation in progress..." a pause "..one missing"

His hands gripped the wheel, veins visible under the skin.

Every muscle in his jaw was locked.

The wipers thrashed against the glass, but his eyes didn’t blink—

focused, burning.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, voice low, teeth clenched.

He slammed the gearshift forward, engine screaming louder.

“Hang on, you bastards.”

Rain hammered the windshield. Lightning flashed white across his face—

and for a split second, it wasn’t the calm, calculating CEO anymore.

It was the soldier underneath.

Steven laughed once—sharp, bitter, almost feral.

“Jay, i'm coming.”

The car surged faster into the storm.

And behind him, thunder rolled like war drums.

The rain hadn’t stopped.

It came down like punishment—heavy, relentless, drumming against Jay’s skin as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Sound came in fragments.

Boots splashing through mud.

Metal restraints clicking.

Voices—distorted through headsets.

“Target secured. Prep for transport.”

He tried to lift his head.

Couldn’t.

The world tilted sideways—dark shapes moving through sheets of rain, red and blue flare lights bleeding into his vision.

He could taste blood and metal.

Could feel his pulse, uneven, trembling somewhere near his throat.

And under it all, that voice.

“Welcome back, Jay. Took you long enough.”

Kyungho.

Even drugged, Jay felt his stomach twist.

He tried to speak, but all that came out was a ragged breath.

Kyungho crouched beside him, face obscured by a rain hood, voice low, almost kind.

Too kind.

“Still running on instinct. That’s what I always liked about you,” he said.

A pause.

“You make emotion look like discipline.”

He reached out—fingers pressing under Jay’s chin, forcing him to look up.

“You want to know about Juwon?” Kyungho asked softly.

“Good. Keep wanting.”

He let Jay’s head fall back into the mud.

Jay’s world swayed—blurred between lightning and shadow, between the pain in his chest and the echo of Juwon’s voice on that broken recording.

> “Jay, please… they said if you come…”

The words looped, tangled with the rain, until everything dissolved into one hollow sound—

the roar of truck engines starting up.

Chains rattled.

Doors slammed.

Then silence.

Only rain and the smell of gunpowder left behind.

The wind had softened, but the storm still hadn’t passed.

The rain fell lighter now—thin, ghostlike, but enough to blur the edges of everything.

Steven stood near the wreckage when headlights cut through the fog.

A black SUV crawled into view, tires sinking into the mud before stopping a few feet away.

Han stepped out first.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days—coat soaked through, blood dried along his sleeve.

Behind him, Jeongwoo followed, headset still slung around his neck, eyes rimmed red from hours of static and silence.

For a moment, none of them spoke.

The rain filled the space between them instead.

Steven’s gaze flicked over the SUV—saw the faint outline of Shuaibo slumped in the backseat, Woongki half-awake, bruised but breathing in the passenger side.

Alive.

Then he looked back at Han.

“Jay?”

The word came out flat, quiet, but it carried everything—hope, disbelief, denial.

Han didn’t answer right away.

He just met Steven’s eyes. Rain slid down his temple. He shook his head once.

Jeongwoo looked down at the mud.

Steven exhaled slowly, like the air itself burned on its way out.

He turned away, walking a few steps toward the ruined entrance of the safeplace—the steel bent inward, concrete cracked and smoking.

“Damn it,” he muttered, voice low, shaking. “Damn it—!”

He slammed a fist against the twisted frame, the sound dull against rain and metal.

Then nothing. Just his ragged breath.

Han stepped closer, careful, like approaching something that might break if touched.

“Steven,” he said softly. “We tried. They were already in before—”

“I know,” Steven cut in, not looking back.

His voice wasn’t angry—not at them. It was too quiet for that.

“I just thought I’d get here in time.”

Jeongwoo finally spoke, voice hoarse. “He fought, Steven. We found traces. He didn’t go quietly.”

Steven turned then, eyes glinting in the dark.

“Where?”

“West sector trail,” Jeongwoo said, pulling a folded, rain-stained map from his pocket. “They moved fast. Analog route. No digital trace. But I think—”

Steven stepped closer, snatched the map, scanned it under the faint beam of his flashlight. His hands trembled once before steadying again.

Han watched him quietly.

“You’re not thinking straight.”

Steven gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “You think I ever was?”

Han’s mouth twitched into something like a ghost of a smile, but it didn’t last.

He looked past Steven, toward the forest. The wind had picked up again, carrying smoke and the faint metallic scent of spent rounds.

“He’s alive,” Han said quietly, as if repeating it could make it true. “Jay’s alive.”

Steven looked up from the map.

“Then we find him.”

No hesitation.

Just that.

The three of them stood there—soaked, exhausted, surrounded by ruin—and for the first time since the alarms began, there was something close to purpose between them.

Rain dripped from Steven’s sleeve as he folded the map, tucking it inside his jacket.

“Jeongwoo,” he said. “Patch the van for travel. We move at first light.”

Jeongwoo nodded.

Han tilted his head, weary but firm. “You think you’ll sleep till then?”

Steven’s jaw tightened. “Not planning to.”

“Let’s head back to my place,” voice clipped but steady. “We stay there. Safehouse is toast.”

Han nodded, helping Shuaibo and Woongki into the van. Shuaibo grimaced, clutching a bandaged shoulder, while Woongki’s bruises and cuts glimmered in the dim light.

At Steven’s penthouse, the city lights stretched below them like spilled mercury. They moved silently through the sleek interior, still damp, still on edge.

Han dropped Shuaibo onto the couch, inspecting his injuries. “Not too deep, but the shoulder’s swollen. You need rest—or at least ice.” He applied a cold compress while Shuaibo winced.

Woongki sat on the edge of the armchair, head tilted back, breathing shallow. Han crouched in front of him, checking his cuts. “You’re lucky you weren’t hit in the chest. Keep the stitches dry—no movement for a while, okay?”

“Easy for you to say,” Woongki muttered, eyes flicking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. “We lost him. Jay…” His voice trailed off, heavy with guilt.

Han didn’t answer right away. He just pressed the compress to Woongki’s shoulder, steadying him. “We’ll get him back. We have to.”

Steven moved toward the kitchen, pouring himself a strong coffee. He didn’t drink it—just held it, staring out at the city. “We plan tonight. First light, we move. No more running blind.”

Steven moved toward the kitchen, pouring himself a strong coffee. He didn’t drink it—just held it, staring out at the city. Silence stretched between them for a long moment.

Finally, he set the cup down. “We need to find the fastest way to locate where Black Ops hid Jay. Time isn’t on our side.”

Woongki lifted his head, bruised face set with determination. “I have a very good idea how to get the information we need—fast.”

All eyes turned to him. He didn’t waver. Instead, his gaze locked on Jeongwoo. “You’ll want to hear this,” he said, voice calm, confident, almost daring.

The room went still, the weight of the moment pressing down. Even the city below seemed to pause, waiting for what came next.

Chapter Text

The world came back to Jay in fragments—

the hum of electricity, the stench of metal and rot, the cold floor biting into his skin.

He tried to move.

Couldn’t.

His limbs were heavy, his pulse sluggish. The drug still held him like invisible chains.

“Welcome back,” a voice drawled from the dark.

Kyungho stepped into the thin light, hands clasped neatly behind his back—composed, almost polite.

Behind him, shadows shifted. Black Ops men—faceless, wordless.

And beyond them—

Juwon.

Tied to a steel chair, face pale, lips cracked.

His head hung low, but the faint rise and fall of his chest meant he was still alive.

“Juwon…” Jay’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. He tried to crawl toward him, only for Kyungho to grab him by the collar and drag him forward.

“You’ve made quite the mess, Jay,” Kyungho said evenly. “Running off, protecting outsiders… You disappoint me.”

He threw Jay to the ground at Juwon’s feet. The impact jolted through his bones; pain flooded in dull waves.

Juwon stirred weakly, eyes fluttering open. “Jay…?”

“Stay still,” Jay rasped. “Don’t—move—”

Kyungho crouched down beside them, voice dropping to a quiet threat. “Let’s keep this simple. You come back to us. You give me your loyalty again… and he lives.”

Jay’s head lifted slowly. “And the others?”

Kyungho smiled faintly, as if amused by the question. “Woongki. Shuaibo. I’ll let them go. Consider it… goodwill.”

Jay stared up at him—eyes bloodshot, defiant. “You don’t let people go,” he spat. “You bury them.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long.

Kyungho’s smile vanished.

He stood, expression hardening. “You always were sentimental. Let’s see how long that lasts.”

He nodded once.

Two operatives stepped forward.

The sound came first—the sharp crack of contact, the choked breath, the metallic scrape of restraints.

Juwon jerked in his chair, eyes wide with pain.

“Stop—” Jay strained against his bindings, voice breaking. “He’s got nothing to do with this!”

Kyungho turned his back to him. “Then prove it,” he said calmly. “Prove your loyalty.”

Jay’s heartbeat pounded in his ears.

He could feel the cold edge of fear pressing into his ribs—but beneath it, something hotter, sharper.

He raised his head again, eyes burning through the haze.

“You can break me,” he said. “But I won’t be yours again.”

Kyungho paused mid-step, then looked over his shoulder, faintly smiling again.

“We’ll see.”

He motioned to the guards.

The lights dimmed.

The screams began.

________

The storm eased to a fine mist as their van cut through Seoul’s sleeping streets.

Han’s voice came through the comms. “Coordinates locked. Confirmed industrial district perimeter.”

Shuaibo loaded his weapon, the metallic click echoing through the cabin. “Then let’s finish this.”

Steven’s eyes stayed on the road. “No noise. No mistakes.”

They reached the freight sector before dawn—an expanse of rusted steel and silence.

Beyond the chain-link fence, a single tunnel mouth yawned open into the dark.

The five men moved like shadows—

Steven, Han, Jeongwoo, Woongki, Shuaibo.

It hadn’t been easy to find one in just a short period.

The Black Ops hideout was buried beneath layers of deception—old coordinates, false leads, encrypted dead zones that looped back into nothing.

But Woongki had traced them through a single name.

Kang Hyeonseok.

CEO of Axl Systems.

Black Ops financier.

That was the weak point.

The Axl Systems tower loomed above the storm— a monolith of glass and steel, its windows reflecting streaks of lightning like veins of light.

Only three shadows approached.

Steven. Woongki. Jeongwoo.

Han and Shuaibo stayed behind, monitoring comms from a safe distance. If this meeting went wrong, they’d have a minute—maybe less—to react.

Inside the van, Woongki’s hands moved swiftly over his tablet, decrypting layers of Axl’s internal defenses.

A signal blinked once—Message sent.

Steven watched from the passenger seat. “You’re sure he’ll bite?”

Woongki smirked faintly. “He’s been waiting for this for years.”

Jeongwoo’s voice was quiet, precise. “Five years. He’s built an entire counterintelligence department just to find me. Let’s reward his persistence.”

On the CEO’s private terminal inside Axl Systems, a message blinked into existence—no traceable origin, no digital signature, no timestamp.

## “A proposal. Face-to-face. A meeting.

—Seo Jeongwoo.”

And below it, the coordinates of his own office.

Kang Hyeonseok read it once, twice—then smiled.

Seo Jeongwoo, the digital ghost of Seo Technologies. The one every corporation wanted, and every hacker feared.

And now, he wanted to meet.

Kang straightened his tie. “Well then,” he murmured. “Let’s welcome the legend.”

By the time the elevator doors opened to the top floor, he was already waiting—alone, composed, a glass of whiskey untouched on his desk.

Three men entered.

Kang’s gaze immediately caught the face of the first—sharp, deliberate, unmistakable.

His smirk grew. “Kim Steven,” he said smoothly. “CEO of Kim Financial. Didn’t expect to see you walking beside a ghost.”

Steven’s tone was clipped. “You’ll find I don’t walk anywhere without purpose.”

Kang chuckled, then turned his eyes to Jeongwoo—hood up, half his face shadowed. “And the elusive Seo Jeongwoo,” he breathed, almost reverent. “The phantom of the digital age. I’ve waited a long time to meet the man who makes systems bleed.”

Jeongwoo didn’t respond. His silence said enough.

Kang’s eyes flicked to the third figure—Woongki. Younger, bruised, still carrying the faint stiffness of recovery.

“And you are?”

Woongki’s reply was calm, almost polite. “The one you’ll remember most when this is over.”

The corners of Kang’s smile twitched. “Confident. I like that.”

Then the lights flickered. Once. Twice.

Every screen in the office flared white—then black.

Lines of red code began crawling down the walls of glass like veins of living fire.

Kang froze, eyes darting across the collapsing displays. “What—what are you doing?”

Woongki took a slow step forward. “Negotiating.”

Jeongwoo’s voice was low, controlled. “Project Null. The system eraser. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop.”

Kang’s breath hitched. “That’s impossible—”

Steven’s tone cut through the rising panic. “Tell us where Black Ops is keeping Jay and Juwon.”

Kang let out a strained laugh. “You wouldn’t dare—”

Jeongwoo pressed a single key.

Every monitor in Axl Systems went dark.

Then came the sound—data collapsing, a thousand files dying at once.

Kang’s composure shattered. “STOP! Wait—”

Woongki’s voice stayed steady. “You have twenty seconds before your company becomes a blank drive.”

Kang stumbled to his desk, fumbling through encrypted channels. “They’re in Yongsan! The old industrial tunnels—Site K. That’s what they call it. Off-grid, underground—no signals, no exits!”

Steven’s phone vibrated—the coordinates received.

Jeongwoo entered one command, and the code halted mid-run. The lights returned, weak and unsteady.

Kang slumped back, breathing hard. “You… you have no idea what you’ve started.”

Steven met his gaze. “Maybe not. But I know how it ends.”

They turned to leave.

Kang’s voice rose again, trembling between fear and curiosity.

“Seo Jeongwoo—tell me something. Was it worth showing your face?”

Jeongwoo stopped by the elevator, never looking back.

“I didn’t show my face,” he said quietly. “Just your reflection before you fall.”

The car door slid shut.

Outside, the rain thinned to a mist.

Woongki’s voice came through, tired but steady.

“Coordinates confirmed. Site K is active.”

Steven started the engine, eyes cold and focused.

“Then we move before dawn.”

Lightning split the skyline again—

and this time, it felt like the city itself was holding its breath.

They moved like ghosts.

Steven, Han, Jeongwoo, Woongki, and Shuaibo—

five shadows cutting through the dark.

The first floor was a maze of rusted corridors and steel crates.

Every sound was a risk.

Every breath counted.

Jeongwoo led with precision, his silent codebreaker rig flickering softly as he looped security feeds one by one.

Han moved behind him, taking down sentries with swift, surgical precision. Shuaibo covered their flank, his suppressed weapon spitting only the faintest hiss.

Each guard fell before they could raise a sound. By the time they reached the central stairwell, the first floor was quiet—too quiet.

The alarms were still dead.

The comms silent.

Steven pressed two fingers to his earpiece. “Upper level secure. We move down.”

Woongki nodded once. “Lower level’s where they’d keep high-value captives. That’s where Jay and Juwon will be.”

They descended the narrow steel staircase. The lower floor was different—brighter, colder, filled with the low hum of generators and voices echoing down the hall.

Dozens of armed men.

They tried to move quietly, but chaos never waited long.

Steven rounded the corner—

and a blade flashed.

He caught the strike with his forearm, the steel biting deep through fabric and skin.

Blood splattered the wall.

The guard shouted before Han silenced him, but it was too late.

Sirens wailed.

The hall burst alive—

doors slamming open, boots pounding the floor, the cold blue lights of the lower sector flashing red.

“Damn it,” Steven hissed, clutching his arm.

Woongki cursed under his breath. “They know we’re here.”

-

Kyungho’s head lifted at the sound of the alarm.

The flicker of red washed across his face as he turned slowly toward the reinforced door.

“Interesting timing,” he murmured.

Jay’s head hung low, blood streaking down his jaw.

“What did you do?” Kyungho asked, calm but sharp.

Jay only smiled through split lips. “Guess you pissed off the wrong people.”

Kyungho’s gaze darkened.

He drew his pistol and walked to Juwon, pressing the barrel against his temple.

“Then let’s make sure your friends find a corpse instead of a bargaining chip.”

Jay strained against the chains, voice hoarse but furious. “Don’t—touch—him!”

The guards around them shifted, guns raised.

Kyungho smiled faintly. “Let’s see how far your loyalty really goes.”

Steven’s team fought their way through the lower floor—methodical, relentless. Han moved like a blade, clearing the west hall. Shuaibo dragged a wounded operative out of cover. Jeongwoo’s code burst through the lockdown system, forcing emergency doors to stay open.

Han reloaded, glancing at Steven’s bleeding arm. “You good?”

Steven wiped the blood on his sleeve. “We finish this first. Then we find Jay,” 

“Then we end Black Ops,” Woongki replied.

The alarm lights pulsed like a heartbeat— red, then black, then red again. The corridors of Site K drowned in noise.

Gunfire. Shouts. Footsteps.

But through it all, Steven’s voice cut clean through comms:

“End of the hall. Reinforced door. That’s where they’re holding them.”

Han pressed against the wall, firing short bursts to cover Shuaibo. “Four guards left on our side,” Han said. “Three,” Shuaibo corrected as one body dropped.

Jeongwoo’s hands flew over his wristpad. “Door encryption active. Woongki, I need thirty seconds.”

“You’ll get fifteen,” Woongki replied, ducking behind a crate as bullets sparked overhead.

Steven crouched beside him, arm bleeding through the sleeve but eyes fixed forward. “Push through. We don’t stop until that door’s open.”

---

Kyungho wiped the blood from his glove, calm despite the sirens. His men stood at attention, weapons raised toward the trembling forms of Jay and Juwon.

Jay’s wrists bled against the chains; his breath came in ragged gasps. Juwon could barely lift his head, but his eyes—foggy, unfocused—still found Jay’s.

“Don’t… say anything,” Juwon whispered.

Jay’s voice cracked. “I’m not giving them anything.”

Kyungho crouched in front of him, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Still loyal,” he said softly. “Even now.”

He grabbed Jay by the jaw, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Tell me where the Vanguard file is, and I’ll let him walk out of here alive.”

Jay spat blood at his feet. “You don’t have the guts to keep your word.”

Kyungho’s smile faded.

He stood slowly, pulled the pistol from his belt, and pointed it at Juwon’s chest.

“Then you’ll watch him die first.”

-----------

“Now, Jeongwoo!” Steven barked.

The lock clicked.

A hiss of pressure followed.

Jeongwoo slammed the pad with his palm. “Door’s open!”

Steven moved first, Woongki right behind him.

Han and Shuaibo swept the flanks, clearing the last of the guards.

Gunfire thundered through the hall—short, precise, brutal.

The reinforced door burst inward.

---

Kyungho turned just as the door exploded inward, smoke and dust filling the chamber.

The lights flickered out.

Steven stepped through first—weapon drawn, blood dripping from his sleeve.

Han, Jeongwoo, Woongki, and Shuaibo fanned out behind him.

Kyungho’s men opened fire.

Han dove behind a console, returning shots that tore through the control panels.

Woongki’s eyes darted across the room—calculating, scanning.

“There!” Jeongwoo shouted, spotting Jay and Juwon chained to the far wall.

Steven’s pulse surged. “Cover me!”

He sprinted through the haze. Gunfire stitched the space around him—close, deafening. Rounds pinged off the wall inches from his head. He reached Jay and broke the first chain with a single strike from his rifle butt, metal shrieking as it surrendered.

They worked—fast and efficient—Jeongwoo cutting restraints with a commando knife while Woongki kept a rear-guard with steady bursts. Jay sagged free and coughed as he covered Juwon with his weakened body as tight as he could, each breath a rasp of pain and relief.

Bodies littered the floor—Black Ops operatives taken down one by one. Their weapons clattered to concrete; steam rose from overheated barrels. The last echoes of gunfire faded into a brittle silence—then a single, distant report from the hallway as a stray shot slammed into a bulkhead.

Smoke hung heavy in the air.

The last echoes of gunfire faded into silence.

Bodies littered the floor—Black Ops operatives, taken down one by one.

Their weapons clattered to the concrete, steam rising from overheated barrels.

Han pressed his back to a pillar, breathing hard.

Blood ran down his thigh, soaking through torn fabric.

“Han!” Shuaibo was at his side in seconds, hauling him up by the arm.

“I’m fine,” Han gritted out, even as his leg buckled.

“Fine, my ass,” Shuaibo muttered, slinging him over his shoulder. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit bone.”

Across the room, Jeongwoo staggered to his feet—then jerked as a sharp pain tore through his shoulder.

The world spun.

He pressed a hand against the wound, crimson seeping through his fingers.

“Jeongwoo!” Woongki was there instantly, catching him before he could fall.

“Don’t move. You’re hit.”

“It’s—just a graze,” Jeongwoo lied through clenched teeth.

Woongki ripped a strip of fabric from his own sleeve and tied it tight around Jeongwoo’s shoulder.

“Hold still or I’ll knock you out myself,” he muttered, voice trembling but steadying as he worked.

Jeongwoo managed a faint smirk. “You always this gentle?”

“Only when I’m panicking,” Woongki replied, cinching the knot hard enough to make him wince.

At the center of the room, Steven was helping Jay up from the floor, steadying his bruised frame.

“You can stand?”

Jay nodded weakly. “Juwon—check him first.”

Steven turned toward where Juwon lay unconscious but breathing— med scanner confirming a faint pulse.

And then—

a click.

Cold metal pressed against the back of Steven’s head.

Kyungho stood behind him, face bloodied but unbroken, pistol raised and unwavering.

Every muscle in the room froze.

Han lifted his gun—but Kyungho’s finger tensed on the trigger.

“Don’t,” Kyungho said quietly. “One more move and your leader dies.”

Steven didn’t flinch.

His breath was even, his voice calm.

“You’re out of men.”

Kyungho’s smile barely twitched. “I only need one bullet.”

“Then you better make it count,” Steven said, meeting his gaze through the reflection on the steel surface of a broken console.

The room held its breath.

Even the storm outside seemed to pause.

Woongki slowly shifted, inching toward Jeongwoo’s fallen sidearm on the ground.

Jeongwoo caught the motion—barely a nod between them.

Kyungho’s voice lowered, almost a whisper.

“You think this ends here? You have no idea what’s coming.”

Steven’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need to. You’re not walking out of this room.”

A single heartbeat—

and the world was ready to explode again.

The room held its breath.

Kyungho’s gun stayed pressed against the back of Steven’s head, his finger tight on the trigger.

No one moved.

No one dared to.

Han leaned heavily on Shuaibo’s shoulder, gun shaking in his grip but aimed dead center.

Woongki’s eyes darted to Jeongwoo—one silent signal, one last shared thought.

Jeongwoo nodded once, barely a tilt of the chin.

Blood from his shoulder dripped down his arm, staining the floor.

Kyungho’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“You think killing me will stop this? Black Ops isn’t one man—it’s a system. You destroy one branch, another grows.”

Steven’s voice was steady, cold.

“Then I’ll burn the roots.”

Kyungho’s smirk twitched. “Try it.”

The rain outside pounded harder, streaking across the shattered windows like falling glass. The red warning lights pulsed slower now—like a heartbeat losing rhythm.

A second of silence stretched—

too long.

Too heavy.

A sound of trigger almost pulled through the silence.

Jay’s breath hitched—his voice cracked, raw with fear.

“Steven!”

The name ripped from his throat, half scream, half prayer.

Then—

BANG.

The shot echoed through the underground chamber.

Smoke curled through the dim light, thick and stinging. 

For one heartbeat, no one moved.

Then a shadow stumbled— a figure collapsing, blood spattering across shattered glass.

No one spoke.

No one dared to breathe.

Only the faint, rhythmic drip of blood broke the silence—

each drop slower than the last—

as the light flickered red,

then black.

Fade to silence.

Chapter Text

The world was quiet again.

Only the wind moved—slow, deliberate, whispering through the new blades of grass.

Jay stood alone before the small, private grave.

No guards. No markers.

Just a stone, weathered and unspoken.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

The silence said enough.

Somewhere behind him, the city breathed—soft and distant. The low hum of morning traffic, the faint song of birds returning, and the whisper of petals brushing against the wind.

The air was cool but gentle.

Spring had begun—the kind of morning where the earth still held last winter’s chill, but life was pushing through it anyway. Cherry blossoms trembled on the branches overhead, their pale pinks catching the new light.

Jay knelt, fingers brushing the golden engraved name on the headstone.

KIM

Then—soft footsteps approached from behind. Slow. Familiar. Jay didn’t turn right away. The presence stopped just behind him, close enough for the air to shift—warm, calm, steady.

A gentle touch brushed his shoulder.

Then arms wrapped around him from behind—slow, deliberate, as though they’d done this a thousand times before.

“Didn’t think you’d actually walk ahead,” a voice murmured beside him, light and teasing.

Jay exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, glancing back with a faint smile. “You were taking forever to park the car,” he said, quiet laughter in his tone. “I figured I’d walk ahead first.”

Steven’s soft chuckle filled the space between them as he stepped closer, his arm brushing lightly against Jay’s. “Some things never change, you hate being minute behind” he murmured, his voice fond.

Jay smiled, the sound grounding him more than the touch itself—steady, real. They stood like that for a while, letting the spring wind do the talking.

Then Steven’s voice softened, brushing past Jay’s ear.

“I’m sure they love you by now.”

Jay’s lips curved into a small smile. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Only then did Steven step forward, standing beside him. Jay followed his gaze down to the weathered stone—its edges softened by time, the carved letters glinting beneath the warm morning light.

Two names.

Kim Mingyu

Kim–Jeon Wonwoo

Steven’s parents.

Jay smiled faintly, looking at the man beside him—steady, alive, here. Steven slipped his hand into his, their fingers lacing easily.

A soft breeze rolled through the field, carrying the scent of lilies and early blossoms. Steven’s thumb brushed against Jay’s hand—steady, reassuring.

The fabric of the bandage around Jay’s palm brushed against Steven’s own, their movements careful, almost synchronized. Both hands wrapped, both still healing.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then Jay’s gaze drifted back to the headstone, his voice barely more than a breath.

“It’s strange,” he murmured. “How quiet it is now… after everything.”

Steven’s expression softened. “Quiet doesn’t feel real after what we’ve been through.”

Jay let out a faint laugh—half relief, half disbelief. “Sometimes I still hear it. The sirens. The shot.”

His voice faded, and the silence between them shifted—no longer peace, but memory. The kind that lingers beneath scars and silence alike.

He closed his eyes.

And in that instant, it all came rushing back—

the sound of the gunshot,

the stench of smoke and iron,

the chaos exploding through the Black Ops hideout.

The memory hit like a jolt.

Smoke still clung to the air, thick and stinging. The red emergency lights pulsed across the concrete walls, casting everyone in flashes of blood and shadow.

Kyungho’s hand was steady. The barrel of his gun pressed against Steven’s temple.

One twitch—and it would all be over.

Han leaned against a broken pillar, blood streaking down his thigh. His other hand clutched his gun, shaking—his aim locked on Kyungho but his body struggling to stay upright. Shuaibo was beside him, one arm bracing Han’s weight, blood darkening his own torn sleeve.

Across the room, Woongki crouched beside Jeongwoo. The older man’s shoulder was bleeding through the fabric—steady, dark red—but he still gritted his teeth, his hand pressed hard against the wound. Woongki’s voice was tight, trembling. “Hold on—just hold on—” 

Kyungho’s laugh cut through the noise. “Try it.” millisecond to fully pull the trigger.

Then—everything slowed.

Jay, still slumped near the wall, his body weak and unsteady, forced himself upright. The drug’s haze still clung to him, but the sight of Steven with a gun to his head snapped something inside him—replacing exhaustion with a sharp, instinctive clarity.

Every sound blurred except the beating of his own heart.

He spotted a gun near his boot—dropped, half-spent, but within reach.

He moved without thinking.

One breath.

One motion.

His fingers curled around the grip, the metal cold and familiar.

For every scream I buried inside these walls.

For every time you tore me apart and called it training.

For turning me into the weapon that destroyed the world I swore to protect.

For Shuaibo and Woongki—locked in the chains of your lies, bleeding for your agenda.

For the faces I can’t forget, the lives you burned for control.

For Juwon—who you hurt just to watch me break.

And for him—

the man you are trying to take away from me.

Steven’s name tore from his throat—hoarse, desperate. “Steven!”

Kyungho’s eyes flicked toward him. That split second was all Jay needed.

The gun roared.

The recoil ripped through Jay’s arm.

Kyungho’s body collapsed, the bullet slammed into his shoulder—not the headshot Jay had aimed for, but enough. The weapon clattered from his grasp, skidding across the floor.

Steven moved before the echo faded. He lunged, slammed Kyungho to the ground, one arm crushing his throat, the other grinding down on the wound until the man’s body stilled, breath hitching, eyes wide and losing light.

The alarms faltered. The lights flickered weakly, drowning the room in half-dark and smoke.

Jay’s gun slipped from his hand. His body folded, knees hitting the floor hard. He could barely breathe. The world swayed in fragments—blood, light, Steven’s voice somewhere distant.

He dragged himself forward, crawling across the cold floor until he reached Juwon.

“Juwon…” His voice cracked, barely air.

Juwon’s eyes fluttered open, dazed, unfocused.

Jay cupped his face with trembling hands, blood smearing his cheeks.

“Hey,” Jay whispered, a faint, broken laugh slipping out. “You’re okay… you’re—”

Juwon blinked slowly. “Hyung… came…”

Jay’s breath caught. “Always.”

The silence that followed wasn’t victory. It was the kind that lives in the bones— where every breath feels borrowed, and every heartbeat feels like a debt.

Steven finally released his hold, letting Kyungho’s body slump motionless onto the floor. The air was heavy with gunpowder and blood, the sirens still wailing faintly somewhere above—then fading into a dull, electric hum.

Jay stayed kneeling beside Juwon, their foreheads almost touching, both too weak to speak. Steven staggered to them, pressing a hand to Jay’s shoulder.

“Stay with him,” he murmured, voice low but steady. “We’re getting out.”

Across the room, Woongki tore more piece of fabric from his shirt, pressing it against Jeongwoo’s bleeding shoulder. “You’re fine, you’re fine—stop glaring, I know what I’m doing—”

Jeongwoo hissed through his teeth. “You’re pressing too hard.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I’m trying to stop you from bleeding to death!” Woongki snapped, eyes wide and frantic. “Next time I’ll just let you leak quietly!”

Jeongwoo gave a weak, pained laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re welcome.”

Woongki’s voice cracked on the last word, and Jeongwoo’s smile softened—he could see the relief shaking through him.

Han, still leaning on Shuaibo, glanced their way. “Woongki. The comms.”

“Right—right, yeah.”

Woongki fumbled through his pack, his hands trembling too much for precision. He pulled out the half-broken comm device, smacked it twice, then adjusted the signal.

Static. Then a voice.

“—repeat, this is Channel K. Identify.”

“This is Woongki,” he rasped, holding the mic close. “Operation compromised. We have wounded—repeat, wounded. Hostile neutralized. Send immediate evac—use the secure line. No Black Ops command.”

There was a pause on the other end—then a familiar voice responded.

“Copy that. Hold position. Rescue is inbound.”

Woongki exhaled, almost laughing in disbelief. “They’re coming.”

“Finally,” Han muttered, slumping against the wall as Shuaibo tightened his makeshift bandage.

Minutes passed like hours. Then faintly—through the shattered ceiling vents and smoke—came the sound of real sirens.

Not alarms.

Not warnings.

Rescue.

Blue and white lights cut through the haze outside. The rumble of engines. The sharp call of medics shouting coordinates.

Woongki dropped back beside Jeongwoo, shaking his head. “I swear, if they don’t carry me out first—”

“You’re not even hit,” Jeongwoo mumbled.

“I am emotionally bleeding, thank you very much.”

Steven looked around the room one last time—Jay beside Juwon, Han and Shuaibo slumped near the wall, Woongki still arguing with the air—and for the first time in what felt like years, he let himself believe it.

They survived.

When the smoke finally cleared from Black Ops hide out, they didn’t just walk away. They buried what was left—and then they started tearing down everything that fed it.

Black Ops didn’t die in one night. It burned, slow and deliberate—one secret at a time.

In Seo Technologies, Jeongwoo was right.

Together with Woongki, the process was faster—cleaner, unstoppable. They didn’t just expose names. They dismantled the entire system—every official who sold power for silence, every executive who built empires on stolen labor, every corporation that thrived on other people’s suffering.

Jeongwoo perfected Project Null—a system eraser designed to scrub corruption from the inside out. And with Woongki’s mind beside his, the program became something else entirely—not just erasure, but exposure. The world saw everything.

One by one, the bad apples rotted in the light.

Park Entertainment thrived.

Han and Shuaibo rebuilt it from the ground up, turning the once-toxic industry into a safe space for dreamers. No more backroom deals. No more traded innocence. Only talent, work, and the promise of being seen for who they truly were.

Behind the spotlight, Han kept watch— his calm precision ensuring no one would ever be trapped the way they were. And Shuaibo—always the loudest heart—made sure those who entered found a home, not a cage.

In Kim Financial, Steven took on the other battlefield—money.

The wealth that had been stolen from the people flowed back into new hands: families, small businesses, recovery funds. Every ledger balanced not for profit, but for justice. And at his side, Jay worked quietly—steady, meticulous, untiring. His bandaged hands turned chaos into order, numbers into redemption.

Piece by piece, they rebuilt what Black Ops had tried to hollow out.

By the time the last name fell, the world didn’t know who had done it.

But the ones who survived did.

They called it balance.

Closure.

Peace—whatever that meant now.

—

The breeze quieted, leaving behind the faint rustle of petals drifting across the grave.

Jay stayed kneeling for a moment longer, watching one land softly on the engraved names before being carried away again.

He smiled faintly.

“They always liked spring,” Steven said beside him, his voice gentle. “Dada Wonie used to say it was the world’s way of apologizing for winter.”

Steven chuckled softly, eyes warm with memory. “Dad Gyu always teased him that it was just because Dada Wonie hated the cold.”

The corners of Jay’s lips lifted, the quiet affection in Steven’s tone softening something in his chest.

Jay rose slowly, brushing the grass from his knee. “Then they’d be happy it’s here again.”

Steven nodded, a light curve in his lips. “Yeah. They would.”

They lingered until the wind shifted, carrying with it the sound of the city below—children laughing, faint chatter, the hum of engines waking up to a new day.

When they finally turned to leave, sunlight streamed softly through the cherry blossoms, scattering pink and gold across the path ahead.

The silence stretched, gentle but heavy with everything they’d survived. When Jay finally slid into the seat, he let out a slow breath, as if his body was still learning how to relax.

Steven got in on the driver’s side but didn’t start the engine yet. Instead, he turned to Jay, studying the faint bruises that hadn’t fully faded, the white bandage wrapping his hand.

Without a word, Steven reached out and took that hand in both of his. His thumb brushed lightly over the fabric, then he lifted it and pressed a soft kiss against the knuckles.

Jay stilled, eyes widening just slightly.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Steven said quietly, voice steady but thick with meaning. “No more black ops. No more missions. Just us… and the family we found.”

For a moment, Jay couldn’t speak. The words settled somewhere deep in his chest, grounding him more than anything else had in weeks. He let out a shaky breath and smiled—small, real.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Just us.”

Steven smiled back, then finally turned the key in the ignition. The engine came alive with a low hum.

“Jeongwoo’s place?” he asked, eyes soft but sure.

Jay nodded, watching sunlight spill through the windshield like a quiet promise. “Yes, let’s get Juwon first.”

The drive through the city was quiet, the kind of peace that felt too soft to be real. Morning sunlight spilled across the windshield, painting gold across Steven’s face as he drove.

When they pulled up to the building of Jay’s penthouse, Juwon was already waiting outside, sitting on his small duffel bag like he’d been there forever. The second he saw them, he crossed his arms, pouting.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered. “I was starting to think you two ditched me again.”

Jay barely managed a smile before walking over and pulling him into a hug. Juwon froze for a second, then melted into it with a quiet sigh—though his words still came out grumbly.

“You’re late,” he mumbled against Jay’s shoulder.

“I know,” Jay said, voice soft. “Won’t happen again.”

Juwon gave a small “hmph,” but the edge in it was already fading. When Jay let go, he ruffled Juwon’s hair, earning a little glare for it.

“Stop that,” Juwon said, trying to fix his hair back. “You’re not getting pity points just because you almost died.”

Jay chuckled under his breath. “Didn’t ask for any.”

Steven leaned against the car with a grin. “You sure? Because that line just screamed pity points.”

Juwon shot him a look. “You’re supposed to back me up, not him.”

Steven shrugged, amused. “I go where the logic is.”

Jay opened the car door, shaking his head. “Alright, you two can keep fighting later. Woongki’s been threatening us over text.”

By the time they arrived at Jeongwoo’s house, the air smelled faintly of vanilla and something warm from the oven. The front gate was open, and laughter spilled from inside.

Woongki appeared first, waving a spatula like a warning flag. “Finally! Do you people have any concept of time? The cake is seconds away from rebellion!”

Steven raised a brow. “You’re the one who wanted to bake from scratch.”

“Yeah, because someone around here has to care about presentation!” Woongki huffed. “Han and Shuaibo just took Daisuke on a so-called ‘shopping spree.’ You know what that means? It means they forgot to buy him a gift and are now panic-buying sneakers or something equally stupid!”

Steven, standing just behind Jay, snorted. “Classic Han.”

Jeongwoo appeared behind Woongki, calm as ever, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Ignore him,” he said mildly. “He’s been arguing with the frosting for twenty minutes.”

“It won’t hold its shape!” Woongki protested, glaring at the bowl like it personally offended him.

Jay leaned closer to Steven, whispering with a grin, “I missed this kind of chaos.”

Steven smiled, the warmth in his chest quiet but deep.

Woongki pointed the spatula at him. “Don’t just stand there getting sentimental—help! Someone grab the piping bag before I throw it.”

Steven laughed, stepping in to rescue the icing bag. “You’re one meltdown away from becoming the frosting yourself.”

“Say that again and you’re decorating the whole cake,” Woongki shot back.

Jeongwoo sighed, though there was a smile tugging at his lips. “Welcome home, everyone.”

And as the laughter filled the kitchen—Juwon still pouting adorably because Jay kept ruffling his hair, Steven pretending to take Woongki’s side, Jeongwoo quietly amused—the air finally felt right.

By the time everything was ready, Jeongwoo’s living room looked like a cheerful mess.

The “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banner hung slightly crooked, the tape giving up on one corner, and Woongki kept insisting it was “part of the vibe.”

The air smelled of frosting and sugar, laughter already bubbling between them as everyone adjusted their ridiculous party hats.

Juwon’s hat was slipping down over his eyes, but he refused to fix it. “I’m leaving it,” he said stubbornly. “It’s called attitude.”

Steven snorted. “It’s called a safety hazard.”

“Quiet,” Woongki hissed, crouched behind the couch like a spy on a mission. “They’re almost here! Han said they’re carrying half the mall, so act natural—well, as natural as possible for this bunch.”

Jay chuckled, shaking his head as he straightened the cake on the table—a slightly tilted, three-layer masterpiece Woongki had decorated with chaotic passion. “It’s not too late to fix that banner.”

“Leave it,” Woongki whispered dramatically. “It represents imperfection and love.”

“Sure it does,” Jeongwoo murmured, earning quiet laughter from everyone.

Moments later, the sound of the front gate creaked open.

“They’re here!” Juwon whispered loudly, ducking behind the armchair.

Han and Chihen came in first, each buried under glossy paper bags from what looked like every store in the mall.

“Before you say anything,” Han started, out of breath, “yes, we bought too much.”

Woongki’s eyes widened. “Too much? Han, this looks like a donation drive!”

Chihen grinned. “Shuaibo hyung said it’s Daisuke’s birthday. He deserves a little spoiling.”

Jay crossed his arms, amused. “A little? That’s ten bags of ‘a little.’”

“Wait till you see the rest,” Han said with a grin.

The door opened again—and Shuaibo stepped in, arms full of more bags, followed by a smaller figure half-hidden behind a stuffed penguin bigger than his torso.

“Hyung, this is too much!” Daisuke’s voice piped up, sweet and exasperated. “You’re going to make the car smell like plastic and guilt!”

“Just carry the gifts,” Shuaibo muttered, trying not to drop his load.

Then—

POP!

The lights flared on. “SURPRISE!!”

Confetti exploded like fireworks. Woongki’s popper went off a second late, showering Shuaibo in metallic pink paper.

Daisuke froze mid-step, eyes wide, before his whole face lit up in a bright, childlike grin. “Whoa—!”

He blinked, then laughed, his voice small but bubbling with joy. “You guys did all this for me?”

Woongki grinned. “Of course! Happy birthday, kiddo!”

Daisuke smiled wider, cheeks pink. “Thank you, Woongki-hyung!”

“Aw, he called me hyung again—see, someone still respects me around here,” Woongki said proudly.

Han immediately snorted. “Barely.”

Shuaibo leaned in. “He’s just being polite.”

Daisuke turned to them, mock-pouting. “Don’t bully Woongki-hyung! He worked hard!”

Woongki gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Finally, justice!”

Shuaibo, still brushing confetti off his jacket, muttered, “Could’ve warned me before the explosion.”

Daisuke looked at him with that innocent smile. “But, Hyung, if they warned you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

That earned him a full round of laughter.

“Smart kid,” Jay said softly, smiling.

Daisuke looked up at him. “Thank you, Jay-hyung! Oh—this cake smells so good!” He leaned closer, eyes shining. “Did Woongki-hyung make it?”

Woongki puffed his chest. “With my blood, sweat, and frosting!”

“Please tell me not literally,” Jeongwoo muttered.

Daisuke laughed, his voice bright and clear. “It’s perfect, Hyung. Everything’s perfect.”

Jay caught himself smiling again—the kind of quiet smile that felt new, like it came from somewhere deep. For a brief moment, surrounded by laughter and color and the sound of Daisuke’s happy voice, it finally felt like peace.

Plates clinked, forks scraped gently against frosting, and the house was filled with the easy hum of voices. Someone had started playing music from Woongki’s ancient playlist—half of the songs skipping mid-chorus, but no one cared enough to fix it.

Daisuke sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by boxes, ribbons, and wrapping paper. His penguin plush now wore a tiny party hat, and every new gift he opened earned a delighted gasp.

“Hyung, look! Another hoodie!” he said, holding it up proudly. “Now I can rotate them so Woongki-hyung won’t call me ‘laundry-avoidant’ anymore!”

Woongki made a face. “You are laundry-avoidant!”

“I’m efficient!” Daisuke shot back, grinning.

Across the room, Juwon sat near the snack table, chin resting on his hand, quietly watching Shuaibo help Daisuke untangle another ribbon. The calm way Shuaibo smiled made Juwon’s lips push into a small pout.

“Shuaibo-hyung’s so pretty…” he murmured softly, pouty and wistful.

He thought no one heard.

Except Chihen, who had been sitting nearby. Without hesitation, he said aloud, casual as a breeze,

“You’re pretty too.”

The words hit the room like a spark.

Juwon froze entirely, ears flaming bright red, eyes wide, lips parted in a silent “noooo.”

Everyone—yes, everyone—had heard.

Time stopped for a solid three seconds.

Then Woongki’s head whipped around like a radar. “Hold on. What did you just say?”

Shuaibo was grinning immediately. “Oh, this is good.”

Jeongwoo tried to hide his laughter behind his cup but failed miserably. “So we’re just confessing in the middle of cake now?”

“CONFESSING?!” Juwon sputtered, face red as the frosting roses on the cake. “No one confessed!”

Woongki gasped dramatically, eyes sparkling with delight. “I knew it! Love is in the air! And in my living room!”

“Woongki, stop narrating—” Jay started, already chuckling.

Chihen, cheeks faintly pink, calmly went back to sipping his drink like nothing had happened. “I didn’t say anything,” he said flatly.

Han raised an eyebrow, amused. “That’s definitely not how silence works.”

Even Daisuke peeked up from his pile of gifts, penguin in his lap. “What’s happening, Hyungs?”

Woongki pointed at him with mock seriousness. “Romantic tension, Daisuke. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Daisuke blinked. “I’m fifteen.”

“Exactly,” Woongki said. “Too young for this nonsense.”

The room dissolved into laughter. Juwon buried his face in his hands, muttering something that sounded like a prayer for the earth to swallow him whole.

When the living room quiets down, a soft chaos of wrapping paper, crumpled party hats, and half-eaten cake. Daisuke had curled into his penguin plush, small chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm, sleeping peacefully after a day full of excitement.

Juwon sat nearby, still a little pink from earlier, quietly pouting as he flipped through one of his gifts. His eyes flicked toward Chihen, who caught the glance, subtle and calm, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Woongki noticed immediately. “Oh! Secret glances, huh? My living room is officially ruined!”

Juwon’s ears flamed brighter, and Chihen sipped his drink, unbothered but not missing the effect he’d caused.

Han, sitting quietly on the couch, always seemed to have his gaze on Shuaibo. Whether Shuaibo was helping Daisuke untangle a ribbon or brushing confetti from his jacket, Han’s eyes lingered with warmth, gentle fondness, a quiet care that didn’t need words. Every glance was a silent promise: you’re safe, and I see you.

Jeongwoo, lounging nearby, had one hand resting lightly on Woongki’s shoulder sometimes on waist. The contact was simple, casual even—but full of reassurance, like a steady anchor in the middle of a storm. Woongki, smirking like nothing could touch him, occasionally glanced at Jeongwoo, the hint of gratitude softening his teasing grin.

Jay leaned back on the couch beside Steven, shoulders touching. His gaze swept across the room: Daisuke asleep and serene, Juwon still softly pouting, Chihen calm, Shuaibo quietly content, Han’s affectionate eyes on him, Woongki smirking with Jeongwoo’s hand on him, and the rest of their little family scattered like fragile treasure.

For so long, their lives had been filled with alarms, flashes, codes, and guns aimed at their backs. Fear had been constant. Heartbeats measured. Nights endless with danger.

But now… here, in this room, they could finally breathe.

No more alarms.

No more danger.

No more missions.

No more codes flashing.

No more guns.

Just… them.

“No more flashes, no more codes, no more guns,” Jay whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Just… us.”

Steven’s hand found his, fingers tightening gently. “Just… us,” he repeated, voice soft, full of relief, almost a prayer. Tears pricked at their eyes—not of sorrow, but of the kind of overwhelming gratitude that comes after surviving everything together.

The room hummed with quiet life: wrapping paper rustling, a faint creak of chairs settling, the soft snores of Daisuke, the occasional small smile shared between two people quietly in love.

Jay’s chest ached with a fullness he could not put into words. Every night spent running, hiding, surviving, every danger faced—they had led to this: alive, together, safe, family.

He leaned slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair from Daisuke’s face. “You’re safe,” he whispered, voice trembling with quiet awe. “All of us.”

And Steven rested his head lightly on his shoulder. “We made it,” he murmured. “We’re here.”

Juwon still hid part of his face in his hands, ears bright red, Chihen pretending nothing happened, Shuaibo quietly smiling, Han watching Shuaibo with steady warmth, and Jeongwoo keeping his hand lightly on Woongki—all of it together creating a tableau of belonging, love, and fragile, chaotic beauty.

No more flashes.

No more codes.

No more guns.

Just… us.

And for the first time in forever, Jay let himself believe it could last.

The world outside hummed softly under the night sky. Inside, they were alive. Together. Unbreakable.

They had found home.

They had found each other.

They had found… us.