All of the tags, warnings and chapters are on the specific masterlist of each of each fic.
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MIN YOONGI
Haunted
Synopsis:
You'd do anything to see your best friend succeed, even if it means taking up a weird job offer to do security at an abandoned pizzeria for him to be able to afford his musical career.
JUNG HOSEOK
Veni Vedi Vici (VVV/3V)
Synopsis:
Quick surrenders only happen after the toughest battles.
Keeping your walls up, as the new choreographer, when Hoseok keeps testing them, his threatening but genuine faith might be the toughest battle of all.
The Weakest Link (TWL) (on hiatus)
Synopsis:
The best of Thursdays had to end up with you getting shot in your college dorm. With your mob family's past and your bad, nosey habits coming back, you tie an unlikely alliance with Kim Namjoon and his team of Bangtan Boys, ready to take over the existing, dying mafia families, and finally make this town yours.
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; Hoseok's thumb traces your jawline and it is absolutely, categorically not a medical procedure. He knows it. You know it. The surveillance camera that definitely isn't in this room knows it. Three encounters. Three escalations. One gang rule that says this gets you killed. He tells you to leave. You leave. You come back. He breaks.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠; jung hoseok x nb!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭; 5.5k ➜ drabble
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞; crime/mafia au (kkangpae), forbidden romance, smut
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; explicit sexual content, piv sex (unprotected but they're tested and they’re on birth control don't @ me), teasing, edging, orgasm denial / orgasm control, cum on skin, wrist pinning, light restraint, praise kink, hand-holding during sex (the real killer), size mention, aftercare, injury depiction (split lip, rib bruising, blood that isn't his), medical setting, references to past addiction (alcohol, non-glorified), forbidden relationship dynamics, rule-breaking with real consequences, post-emergency emotional vulnerability, raw confessions, crying-adjacent energy from a man in bloody scrubs at 2 AM, the word ‘darling’ used as a weapon of mass destruction.
𝐚/𝐧; HELLO HELLO HELLO we are SO back in the Kkangpae Universe babyyyyy 🏥🩹 This one's another commission from the one and only @billy-jeans23 (Roo my beloved, my patron of unhinged gang AUs, the reason I have not known peace since KGP!Hoseok was created)—and if you thought the LAST installment was bad for your health, I need you to sit down. Grab water. Maybe a pillow to scream into. I'm not responsible for damages. So!! Quick rundown for the new girlies, gays, and non-binary baes stumbling in: Kkangpae is an AU universe—think organized crime meets found family meets 'the ONE rule is no falling in love and guess what these two idiots did'. The whole thing is built from the ground up with its own lore, hierarchy, divisions, aura system, the works. It's a whole world in here and I am simply a tenant. You can check the main story (jungkook x female!reader) here. Reader uses they/them pronouns and is heavily implied blasian. This chapter is essentially three escalations: the late-night exam where his thumb does something DEEPLY non-medical, the storage room 'audit' where they almost kiss surrounded by expired surgical equipment (romantic), and the 2 AM office scene where twenty hours of no sleep and someone else's blood finally dissolves whatever was left of this man's resolve. I wrote this in a feral haze and I regret nothing.
Roo—this one's for you. Again. As always. You keep commissioning these and I keep losing years off my life writing them. Fair trade. 💕
Enjoy, don't perceive me, and please yell at me in the comments because I WILL be refreshing. 🫡
The mission wasn’t supposed to leave marks.
But here you are anyway, perched on the examination table in the medical wing at half past eleven, watching Hoseok’s jaw tick as he catalogs the damage.
Late shift means it’s just the two of you—the night nurse dismissed with a curt wave after one look at your split lip and the bruising blooming across your ribs.
“Training accident,” you’d said.
He hadn’t believed you.
But it doesn’t matter—it never does, because he’s still going to fix it.
When it’s you, he’s always going to fix it.
His hands are cold when they press against your ribs, efficient, therapeutic even. You’re not wearing a shirt—ditched it the moment he told you to, because modesty is stupid when someone’s checking for internal bleeding—and the sterile air makes goosebumps rise across your skin.
Or maybe that’s just him.
“Breathe in.”
You do.
“Out.”
The exhale hurts less than it should. Nothing’s broken, probably. You’ve had broken ribs before—this is just spectacular bruising and your body’s usual bullshit of marking too easily.
“You’re lucky,” Hoseok mutters, fingers tracing the edge of the bruise with a touch that’s gentler than his voice. “Another inch to the left and we’d be talking punctured lung.”
“But we’re not.”
“But we’re not,” he agrees, and his hand is still there, palm flat against your ribs, thumb resting just below your breast.
He hasn’t moved it.
You swallow and watch his face—the way his eyes track across your skin like he’s reading something written in the violence. There’s a crease between his eyebrows that only shows up when he’s worried, and it’s definitely there now.
“I’m fine, doc.”
“You came back bleeding.”
“Barely.”
“Bleeding is bleeding.” His voice drops lower, rough around the edges. “And you—you do this too often, Trouble.”
It’s not an accusation.
It sounds more like something else, something he’s not supposed to say.
“Hazard of the job,” you say lightly, testing the waters. “Good thing I have such an attentive physician.”
His eyes flick up to yours.
Oh.
Yeah, he caught that.
The air between you shifts—not much, just enough to notice. Like the moment before lightning strikes when your hair stands on end and you know something’s about to change.
Hoseok’s hand is still on your ribs.
You’re very aware of this fact.
“Your lip,” he says finally, pulling back to grab supplies, and you can’t (or don’t want to) explain why the loss of contact feels like cold water. “That needs cleaning.”
He comes closer again, now standing between your knees where they dangle off the table’s edge, and you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact.
This is normal, just your usual medical procedure. You’ve done this a hundred times.
But, somehow, today it feels different.
The antiseptic stings when he dabs it across your split lip, and you hiss.
“Hold still.”
“Trying.”
“Try harder.”
His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb resting against your cheek to keep your head steady, and—
Fuck.
You blink.
His thumb moves, just slightly, a tiny stroke across your cheekbone that could be accidental.
Except you can see his face and there’s nothing accidental about the way he’s looking at you right now.
“Hoseok—”
“Shh.” The cotton swab moves to the corner of your mouth, careful and meticulous. “Almost done.”
But his hand doesn’t leave your face.
You can smell him from here—sandalwood and something clean, antiseptic mixing with cologne in a way that shouldn’t work but does.
It’s grounding. Safe. The kind of scent that makes you want to lean in and—
Bad idea.
Terrible idea.
“There.” He sets down the supplies but his hand is still on your face, and now his thumb traces your jawline in a touch that’s definitely, absolutely not medical. “You should be more careful.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Fun.” He huffs something that might be a laugh except it sounds pained. “You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days, pip.”
The usual nickname lands soft, intimate.
Too intimate.
You watch something complicated cross his expression—want and restraint tangled up so tight you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
His thumb is still moving against your jaw, this slow back-and-forth that’s making it hard to think about anything except how easy it would be to close the distance between you.
How easy and how stupid.
“We shouldn’t,” he says quietly.
He doesn’t move his hand.
“Shouldn’t what?” Your voice comes out a tad more brittle than intended.
His eyes drop to your mouth—just for a second, but you catch it—before snapping back up.
“You know what.”
Yeah.
You do.
“Then why are you still touching me?”
The question hangs there, dangerous and honest, and you watch him process it.
Watch the muscle in his jaw jump.
Watch his hand finally, finally drop away from your face like you’ve burned him.
“Get dressed.” His voice is back to professional, clipped and distant. “You’re cleared for light duty. Nothing strenuous for seventy-two hours.”
“Hoseok—”
“I’ll update your file.” He’s already moving away, putting space between you like distance will fix whatever just almost happened. “Try not to get hit in the next week. Your body needs time to heal.”
You slide off the table, grabbing your shirt from the chair.
The fabric slides over your head and you catch it then—sandalwood clinging to your skin where his hands had been, mixing with your own cherry cordial in a way that makes your chest tight.
He’s at his desk now, back turned, typing something into the computer with a focus you’d say is forced.
You should leave.
You’re going to leave.
“Goodnight, Hoseok.”
A pause.
Then, so quiet you almost miss it: “Goodnight.”
You make it all the way back to your quarters before you realize you can still smell him on your skin.
Just as much as you notice the ache in your ribs has nothing to do with the bruising.
The inventory request comes three days later.
‘Medical storage room. 1400 hours. Need your dual-division expertise for equipment categorization.’
It’s bullshit, obviously.
The medical wing doesn’t need a Cyber-Seduction hybrid to organize bandages.
But it’s plausible enough that no one will question it, and that’s probably the point.
You show up at two on the dot.
The storage room is tucked in the back corner of the medical wing—one of those spaces that’s technically on the floor plan but rarely used except for overflow supplies and equipment too expensive to leave in the main inventory. It’s cramped and windowless, lit by flickering fluorescents that make everything look slightly jaundiced.
Hoseok’s already there, standing among half-unpacked boxes with a tablet in hand and tension in every line of his body.
“Hey.”
He looks up, and something in his expression cracks before smoothing over into professional neutrality.
“Thanks for coming. This shouldn’t take long.”
Liar.
You step inside and let the door click shut behind you.
The tension from three nights ago hasn’t dissipated, makes the air feel different right upon entry—thicker, charged.
He’s wearing his usual turtleneck under the white coat, and you know if you got close enough you’d smell sandalwood.
You’re not getting close.
You’re absolutely getting close.
“What am I looking at?” You move toward the nearest box, and the space forces you into proximity.
The storage room isn’t big enough for two people to maintain distance.
“Equipment audit.” His voice is steady but there’s an undercurrent you recognize now. “Need to cross-reference inventory codes with the digital system. Some items are still under old classifications.”
“And you need Cyber for this because…?”
“Because the database is a mess and you’re better at pattern recognition than my staff.”
Valid reason.
Still bullshit.
You pull out your phone, opening the relevant database while he shuffles closer with the tablet.
His arm brushes yours—brief contact, could be accidental—and you watch his jaw tighten.
Not accidental.
“Okay, so what am I—”
His hand settles on your lower back.
Just rests there, warm through your shirt, like it belongs.
You forget how to finish the sentence.
“This batch,” he says, voice dropping lower as he leans in to point at something on your screen. His chest is almost against your shoulder now, and you can feel the heat of him. “Cross-reference with storage codes 4000 through 4200.”
“Right. Yeah. That’s—” You struggle to focus on the numbers. His hand hasn’t moved from your back. “That’s a lot of entries.”
“Narrow it down by date acquired. Anything older than two years is getting cycled out.”
You should step away.
And yet, neither of you moves.
Your fingers input the search parameters, but you can’t shake off your head how his hand remains on your back, how his arm is pressed against yours, how his breath ghosts across your temple when he shifts to see the screen better.
“There.” Your voice sounds foreign. “Forty-three items flagged.”
“Good.” But he doesn’t pull away to look at his tablet. Doesn’t create distance. “What about subcategory medical-grade diagnostics?”
“Hoseok.”
“Hmm?”
“What are we doing?”
The question sits between you, heavy and unavoidable.
His hand flexes against your back—not pulling away, but pressing in slightly, like he’s grounding himself with the contact.
“Inventory,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it.
“Right. Inventory.”
You turn to face him, which is a mistake because now you’re chest to chest in this tiny room and his hand has slid around to your hip and you can see the exact moment his control starts to fracture.
He doesn’t step back.
Neither do you.
“I want you,” you say quietly, letting your Seduction training color your voice—soft and deliberate and devastating. “You’re aware of that, right?”
His breath catches audibly.
“Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” You tilt your head slightly, studying his face. “Don’t tell you the truth?”
“Don’t make this impossible.”
“It already is.” You shift closer—not much, just enough that your bodies touch. “Has been for weeks.”
His hand tightens on your hip. The other comes up to grip the edge of the shelf beside your head, like he needs something to hold onto.
“We can’t.”
“So you keep saying.” You let your fingers trail up his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath the turtleneck. “But you’re still touching me.”
“I shouldn’t be.”
“But you are.”
His jaw clenches, and you watch him fight with himself—restraint versus want, professionalism versus the very obvious desire written all over his face.
You lean in, slowly, giving him the chance to step back but he doesn’t, until your mouth is a breath away from his.
Not touching.
Just close enough that he can feel the ghost of it, the promise of what could happen if either of you closed that final distance.
“You want me?” Your breath ghosts across his lips.
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a curse.
“You’re—” His voice is wrecked. “You’re playing a dangerous game, pip.”
“Hmm?” You let your nose brush against his, feather-light. “Am I winning?”
“Fuck.”
His free hand comes up to cup your face, and for a second you think he’s going to close the distance, going to kiss you and damn the consequences—
He doesn’t.
Just holds you there, thumb stroking your cheekbone, forehead almost touching yours, breathing hard like he’s just run a marathon.
“Look at you,” he mutters, and his voice has gone rough and low. “So tempting. So—god, you’re making it so hard to resist.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Don’t I?”
Your lips are still barely a breath apart.
You can feel the heat of him, smell sandalwood mixing with your cherry cordial until the air is thick with it.
Can see the exact moment his control starts to splinter.
“I could—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. “If I started, I don’t think I could stop.”
“Good.”
“That’s not—we can’t—”
“Can’t?”
You shift just slightly, and your body presses against his.
The contact makes him inhale sharply.
“Or shouldn’t?”
“Both.” But his hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel exactly how much he wants this. “Definitely both.”
“Liar.”
He makes a sound that’s almost a laugh.
“You’re dangerous.”
“Says the man with his hands all over me.”
“I should let go.”
“Should you?”
But neither of you moves.
You’re pressed together now—chest to chest, his thigh between yours—and you can feel his heartbeat racing to match your own.
Can feel the way his fingers flex against your back like he’s fighting not to grab you harder.
“Tell me to stop,” you whisper, breath ghosting across his lips.
“I—” His voice cracks. “Pip—”
“Tell me you don’t want this.”
He can’t.
You both know he can’t.
His thumb traces your bottom lip—not quite touching, just the barest suggestion of contact—and his eyes are so dark you can barely see brown anymore.
“You have no idea—” He swallows hard. “—how badly I want to—”
Footsteps in the corridor outside.
You both freeze.
The moment shatters.
Hoseok’s hands drop from your body like you’ve burned him, and he steps back so fast he nearly hits the shelf behind him.
Puts three feet of space between you that feels like a chasm.
The footsteps pass by.
Keep going.
Fade.
“This can’t happen,” he says, and his voice is ragged. “We—this can’t—”
“Hoseok—”
“No.” He runs a hand through his hair, destroying the careful styling. “We can’t do this. It’s—the rules exist for a reason, and I can’t—I won’t—”
“You won’t what?”
“Ruin you.” The words come out fierce. “I won’t be the reason you get hurt.”
You stare at him—at the wild look in his eyes, the heaving chest, the white-knuckled grip he has on the shelf behind him like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“What if I’m willing to risk it?”
“Well I’m not.” But his voice cracks on the words. “I can’t—you need to go.”
“The inventory—”
“Fuck the inventory.” He won’t look at you now. “Just go. Please.”
You should argue.
Should push.
But something in his voice stops you—desperation mixed with genuine fear, like he’s hanging on by a thread.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “Okay.”
You head for the door.
Your hand’s on the handle when his voice stops you.
“Wait.”
You turn back.
He’s still standing there, gripping that shelf, looking completely wrecked.
“Don’t—” He swallows hard. “Don’t think this means I don’t—that I’m not—”
“I know.”
You do know.
That’s what makes it worse.
You leave before either of you can make this any harder.
But three hours later, sitting in your quarters, you catch sandalwood on your shirt and know he’s probably dealing with cherry cordial on his coat.
The almost is becoming unbearable.
Something’s going to break soon.
It’s past two in the morning.
You shouldn’t be here.
You came anyway.
The medical wing opens up ahead after the elevator doors, and you can smell blood and antiseptic in the air.
That distinctive scent of wounds being cleaned up, of emergency protocols activated, of Hoseok running damage control on something that went very wrong.
The main treatment area is empty now, recently sanitized, but there are signs of chaos everywhere—discarded medical supplies not yet cleared away, monitoring equipment still beeping softly, disorder that only happens when people are fighting to save lives and can’t be bothered with tidiness.
You find him in his office.
He’s standing at the window with his back to the door, still wearing his surgical scrubs under the white coat.
There’s blood on his sleeves—not his, you know, never his—and his shoulders carry the kind of tension that speaks to hours of adrenaline finally crashing.
“Hoseok?”
He doesn’t turn around.
“You should be asleep.”
“So should you.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re standing in the dark staring at nothing.”
His jaw tightens—you can see it in profile—but he doesn’t argue.
You step inside and let the door close softly behind you.
The office is dim, lit only by the glow from the medical wing beyond and the city lights filtering through the window.
It evokes a sense of disconnect from reality, like you’ve both stepped outside normal time where rules don’t apply.
“Was it bad?”
“It’s always bad.” His voice is caustic, scraped raw. “But yeah. It was bad.”
You move closer, laggy and chary like he might bolt if you make sudden movements.
“Emergency?”
“Yeah.”
“Are they—”
“Stable. For now.”
He finally turns to look at you, and the exhaustion in his face makes your chest hurt. There are shadows under his eyes, tension in every line of his body, and his hands are shaking slightly.
“What are you doing here, pip?”
“Checking on you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
Something flickers across his expression—frustration or maybe relief that someone sees through his bullshit.
“Go back to your quarters, pip. I’m not—I don’t have the energy for this right now.”
“For what?”
“For pretending.” The admission comes out harsh. “For acting like I’m not—like we’re not—”
He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
You take another step closer.
“How long have you been awake?”
“I don’t know. Twenty hours? More?” He rubs his eyes. “Lost count somewhere around the third transfusion.”
“You need to rest.”
“I need—” His voice splinters. “I don’t know what I need.”
Liar.
You both know what he needs.
“Hoseok—”
“Don’t.” He holds up a hand like he’s physically stopping you. “Don’t—I can’t—my control is shot to hell right now and if you—”
“If I what?”
His eyes meet yours, and there’s something wild in them.
Desperate.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something we can’t take back.”
Your heart hammers.
“Maybe I want you to.”
“Fuck.” The word comes out broken. “Don’t say that. Don’t—I’m trying to do the right thing here and you’re making it impossible.”
“The right thing,” you close the remaining distance between you, “is standing here alone in the dark, falling apart, because god forbid you let someone care about you?”
“That’s not—”
“You were scared tonight.” It’s not a question. “I can see it all over you.”
His expression fractures.
“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Yeah, I was fucking terrified. And I can’t—I’m so tired of being scared. Of pretending I don’t—that you don’t—”
He doesn’t finish.
Doesn’t need to.
“We shouldn’t,” he says, but it sounds hollow now. Defeated.
“I know.”
“The rules exist for a reason.”
“I know that too.”
Neither of you moves away.
The office is so quiet you can hear both your breathing—his ragged and uneven, yours picking up speed to match.
Can smell sandalwood and antiseptic and underneath it something raw and honest that you’ve never caught before.
Fear.
Want.
Surrender.
“If we do this—” His voice drops to almost nothing. “If I—there’s no going back, pip.”
“I don’t want to go back.”
He makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-breaking.
“I’m serious.”
“Good.”
That’s what does it.
That single word that cracks whatever’s left of his restraint, and then he’s crossing the space between you and his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like the almost-moments before.
This is desperate.
This is surrender.
His hands cup your face like you’re something precious, and he kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re air.
There’s no gentleness, no careful testing—just need poured into the contact, weeks of wanting finally given permission to exist.
You kiss him back just as hard, fisting your hands in his bloody scrubs, and he groans against your mouth.
The sound goes straight through you.
“Fuck,” he breathes between kisses. “Fuck, I’ve wanted—so long—”
“Yeah,” you manage. “Me too.”
His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel how much he wants this. Can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way his hands shake when they touch you.
“Tell me—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide. “Tell me you want this. I need to hear you say it.”
“I want this.” You meet his eyes. “Want you. Please.”
The ‘please’ breaks something in him.
He walks you backward toward the examination table in the corner of his office—the one he keeps for quick checks, private assessments—and lifts you onto it with an ease that makes heat pool low in your stomach.
“If we’re doing this—” His voice is wrecked. “If I’m—god, I can’t believe I’m—”
You pull him between your legs, and his words cut off in a groan.
“Hoseok.” Your hands find the hem of his scrub top. “Stop thinking.”
“Can’t.” But he’s already helping you pull it off, revealing skin and muscle and the kind of body you’ve imagined too many times to count. “This is—we’re in the medical wing. Anyone could—”
“No one’s here.” You trace your fingers down his chest, watching his abs contract. “Just us.”
“Just us,” he repeats, and something about the way he says it sounds like he needed the reassurance.
His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he pauses.
“Can I—”
“Yes.”
He strips it off you, then your pants, slowly but surely, until you’re sitting on his examination table in just your underwear and he’s looking at you like you’ve destroyed him.
“Look at you,” he breathes. “So perfect. So—I don't deserve this.”
“Shut up.”
He almost smiles.
Then his hands are on you—sliding up your thighs, over your hips, ghosting across your ribs with a touch that’s way too honest and way too imbued in want.
And when his thumbs finally brush the underside of your breasts, you arch into it.
“Sensitive,” he murmurs, taking inventory of your responses like they’re precious. “Good to know.”
“Hoseok—”
“Shh.” His mouth finds your neck, kissing and biting a path to your shoulder. “I’m taking care of you.”
And he is.
His hands map every inch of exposed skin while his mouth works your neck, finding the spots that make you gasp, that make your fingers dig into his shoulders.
When his thumb brushes over your nipple through the fabric of your bra, you make a sound that’s almost embarrassing.
He does it again just to hear it.
“You sound so pretty,” he says against your skin. “Going to sound even prettier when I make you cum.”
The words send heat straight between your legs.
“Confident.”
“I’m very good at my job.” He palms your breast properly now, and you arch into his hand. “And right now, my job is making you feel good.”
Your bra comes off next, and then his mouth is on you—tongue circling your nipple before sucking it into his mouth—and your head falls back with a moan.
“That’s it,” he encourages, switching to the other side. “Let me hear you.”
His free hand slides between your thighs, pressing against the damp fabric there, and he groans.
“Fuck, you’re so wet already.”
“Your fault.”
“Yeah.” He sounds devastated by it. “Yeah, it is.”
Your underwear joins the growing pile of clothes, and then his fingers are where you need them most—sliding through wetness, finding your clit with relative ease—which honestly speaks to medical knowledge put to very unprofessional use.
The first touch, inevitably, makes you jolt.
“Easy,” he soothes, circling slowly. “I’ve got you.”
He does.
His fingers work you with careful attention, reading every single one of your tiny reactions to figure out exactly what you need.
Then he slides one inside you, and your hips buck.
“More?”
“Yes—please—”
He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and the sensation makes you gasp.
His thumb stays on your clit, circling in maddening patterns while his fingers work inside you.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take it. You’re doing so well for me, pip. Good darling.”
The praise mixed with the physical sensation is simply overwhelming, so much so that you can feel yourself getting close, that tension building low in your belly—
He stops.
“What—”
“Not yet, darling.” His voice is rough but controlled. “Not until I say.”
“Hoseok—”
“Trust me.” He kisses you, slow and deep, fingers still inside you but not moving. “It’ll be better. I promise.”
You believe him.
He starts anew—slower this time, building you up slowly once more. Kissing you, letting you get near the precipice again before he’s stopping his motions.
“Please,” you finally break. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need.” His free hand cups your face. “But we’re not there yet.”
He pulls his fingers out, and you actually whimper at the loss.
Then he’s stripping off his remaining clothes, and you get your first look at him fully naked and—
Fuck.
He’s beautiful. He’s breathtakingly beautiful, all golden glistening skin, and his cock is hard and flushed and exactly as perfect as the rest of him.
“Like what you see?”
“Shut up.”
He grins—the first real smile you’ve seen all night—and pulls you to the edge of the table.
Then he pauses.
“I don’t—shit, I don’t have anything here.” His jaw clenches in frustration as he looks over the area. “The condoms are in the main supply closet and I’m not—I can’t—”
“I’m on birth control,” you say. “And I’m clean, remember? Last medical check included testing.”
“I’m clean too.” His voice drops. “But if you’re not comfortable—”
“I want you.” You meet his eyes. “Like this. Please.”
He groans.
“You’re so unfair.”
“Good thing you like it.”
His laugh is breathless.
Then he’s lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against you, and—
“Wait.” He leans his forehead against yours. “You okay with this? Really?”
“Yes.” You wrap your legs around his waist, look into his eyes. “Yes, I am. Please, fuck me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
The first press inside is patient, giving you time to adjust.
He’s bigger than his fingers, stretching you in a way that borders on too much, and you watch his face the entire time—the way his expression goes slack with pleasure, the way his breath comes in short gasps.
“Good?” he grits out.
You nod quietly, watching the way he sinks in.
“So good. More.”
He indulges, inch by agonizing inch, until he’s fully seated inside you and you’re both breathing hard.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—I can’t—so perfect—”
“Move, please.”
And moving, he does.
It’s slow at first, careful, but you can see him struggling to maintain control.
His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, and when you clench around him, he makes a sound that’s almost pained.
“You’re—don’t do that—trying to last here—”
“Don’t want you to last,” you manage. “Want you to lose it.”
“Fuck.”
The next thrust is harder, deeper, and you cry out at the sensation.
“That’s it,” he encourages. “Take it. You’re taking me so well, darling.”
Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders as he fucks you meaner now, each thrust sending sparks through your nervous system.
The examination table creaks under you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you remember you’re in his office, in the medical wing, where anyone could walk in—
It just makes it hotter.
“Lay back,” he says suddenly.
You do, and he follows you down, bracing himself on his hands beside your head. This position is different—more intimate, nowhere to hide as he looks down at you.
“Give me your hands.”
You lift them, and he pins your wrists to the table above your head. Holds you there while he thrusts into you, and the feeling of being pinned, being held, being completely at his mercy—
“Oh god—”
“Yeah.” His voice is wrecked. “You like that? Like me holding you down?”
“Yes—fuck—yes—”
His fingers lace through yours, and somehow that’s even more intimate than the sex itself.
Holding hands while he fucks you, faces inches apart, breathing the same air.
“I’ve wanted this,” he confesses, words spilling out unchecked. “Wanted you. So long. Every time you came to medical, every time you smiled at me, every time you called me those ridiculous nicknames—”
“Hoseok—”
“You’re so addictive.” He leans down to bite your shoulder, not gentle, and you gasp. “Can’t get enough. Never going to get enough.”
The devotional quality in his voice, the raw honesty—it’s intoxicating.
Your cherry cordial scent must be everywhere by now, mixing with his sandalwood until the air is thick with both, and you can see it affecting him.
See the way his pupils dilate, the way his breathing goes ragged.
“You smell so good,” he groans. “Smell like—fuck—like something I should stay away from but can’t—”
His rhythm becomes more erratic, less controlled, and you can tell he’s close.
Can feel the way his cock twitches inside you, the way his grip on your hands tightens.
“Please,” you beg. “Please let me—I need—”
“Not yet.” But his voice is strained. “Little longer, darling. Want to make this last.”
“Can’t—I can’t—”
“Yes you can.” He releases one of your hands to reach between your bodies, finding your clit. “Come on. Be good for me.”
You try, god you try so hard to hold it for him, but you’re right there on the edge, muscles tensing, breath coming in gasps—
“Now,” he finally says. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”
Permission granted, you shatter.
The orgasm oozes out of you, pleasure crashing through your entire body, and you hear yourself cry out his name. Feel yourself clenching around him, feel the way it drags him closer to his own edge.
“Fuck—fuck, I’m—” His rhythm stutters. “I’m gonna—where—”
“Stomach,” you gasp. “Pull out—”
He does, barely, and then he’s coming—hot across your stomach, striping your skin—and the sound he makes is broken and honest and absolutely devastating.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Just breathing hard, hearts racing, processing what just happened.
What you’ve done.
“Hey.” His voice is soft, grounding. “You with me?”
“Yeah,” you manage. “I’m here.”
“Good.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering. “That’s good. Just breathe, okay? I’ve got you.”
Then his medical training kicks in, but gentle, always so gentle when it concerns you.
“Hold still,” he says, voice tender. “Let me take care of this.”
He’s already moving, grabbing gauze and warm water from the supply station. His hands are gentle when they touch your stomach, cleaning you up with careful attention. The cum comes off easily, and he’s thorough about it, making sure your skin is completely clean before tossing the gauze in the medical waste bin.
“Okay?” he asks softly, hand coming to rest on your hip. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” Your voice is steadier now. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He lets out a breath he seems to have been holding.
“Good. That’s—that’s good.” His thumb strokes your hip absently. “Water. You need water. Don’t move.”
He crosses to his desk, still naked, and returns with a bottle of water from the mini-fridge he keeps stocked. Twists the cap off and holds it out.
“Drink.”
You take it, but your hands are still shaky enough that he notices.
“Here.” He guides the bottle to your lips, one hand supporting the back of your head. “Slow sips. There you go.”
The water is cold and perfect, and you didn’t realize how thirsty you were until it hits your tongue.
You drink half the bottle before pulling back.
“More,” he says gently.
“I’m okay—”
“Humor me.” His voice is soft but firm. “You need to rehydrate. Just a little more.”
You drink again, and he watches with that attention to detail that’s so distinctive of him—the doctor who notices everything, who makes sure his patients are properly cared for.
Except you’re not just a patient anymore.
And he’s not just your doctor.
When you’ve finished enough to satisfy him, he sets the bottle aside and helps you sit up properly, moving with you so you don’t have to do it alone.
Then he’s pulling you against his chest, arms coming around you like he needs the contact as much as you do.
“You okay?” His voice rumbles through his chest. “Really?”
“Yeah.” You let yourself relax into him, feeling his heartbeat start to slow. “Are you okay?”
He laughs, but it’s shaky.
“I don’t know.” His hand comes up to stroke your hair, slow and soothing. “I just—we just—”
“I know.”
“And I don’t—” His voice stills. “I don’t regret it. I should, but I don’t.”
“Me neither.”
He presses his face into your hair, breathing you in—cherry cordial mixing with sandalwood.
“We could get in serious trouble.”
“I know.”
“And I still don’t regret it.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face, tilting it up so you have to look at him. “I don’t regret you.”
The intensity in his eyes makes your chest tight. “Hoseok—”
“I need you to know that.” His thumbs stroke your cheekbones. “Whatever happens next, whatever we have to deal with—I don’t regret this. I don’t regret us.”
“Neither do I.”
His smile is small but genuine, and he leans in to kiss you—soft and sweet and nothing like the desperate kisses from before. This is careful. Reverent.
A promise.
When he pulls back, his hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together.
“We’re going to have to talk about this,” he says quietly. “About what it means. What we do now.”
“I know.”
“The rules—”
“Still exist.” You squeeze his hand. “But so does this.”
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; Missions often go sideways, and this one… It almost did. What you were not ready for, however, was to apparently have been included in a high stakes project called Chrysalis. And you realize then that the most profound transformations happen in recovery rooms, where a certain doctor tends to wounds that go deeper than skin.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠; jung hoseok x nb!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭; 11.6k ➜ one-shot
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞; crime/mafia au (kkangpae), forbidden romance, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort
𝐚/𝐧; hi hi hi! i’m dropping this here once and for all! i’m so excited to be sharing with you this canon-adjacent au in the kkangpae universe, in which the main lead is not our beloved jeon jungkook, but our grumpy, sandalwood-scented medical chief—jung hoseok. this beautiful piece was commissioned by the absolutely brilliant @billy-jeans23 and honestly? i can’t stop thinking about these two. what started as a writing commission has turned into a full-blown obsession with the psychological complexity of forbidden attraction in a world built on calculated risks and strategic thinking. fair warning: reader in this one is non-binary (they/them pronouns) and heavily implied as blasian! this y/n is competent chaos incarnate, the kind of person who gets bruised from pushing their limits and then shows up to medical like “fix me so i can do it again.” they’re trouble with a capital t, and hoseok is absolutely losing his mind about it. we’ve got the former alcoholic doctor who’s rebuilt his life around helping people, drawn to someone whose cherry cordial scent literally embodies everything dangerous about temptation, and y/n who’s physically vulnerable but mentally strong, finding safety in someone whose entire job is fixing broken people. it’s competence porn meets forbidden longing meets the kind of bittersweet tension that makes you want to throw your phone because why can’t they just kiss already (but also understanding exactly why they can’t). massive props to @billy-jeans23 for not only commissioning this but for creating such a nuanced oc and for the incredible psychological insights that helped shape this dynamic. anyway, i hope you fall as hard for medical chief hoseok and his impossible Pip as i have. time to make some poor life choices and read about people making worse ones! 💉🍒
You've done this before.
The red dress weighs less than a promise. It slips over your body like water, hugging curves that aren't entirely yours tonight.
The person in the mirror is a construct—someone soft-edged and harmless, with flirtatious eyes and pompous laughter.
Kim Jiwoo.
Not you, the dual-division ensign with roughened fingertips from too many keyboard hours.
The one who sometimes steals AD’s Monsters and gets their ass handed to them for that particular brand of audacity.
The one who gets lectured by Flower about proper infiltration techniques and then immediately proves they weren’t listening by doing something reckless.
Kim Jiwoo would giggle and bat her eyelashes. She would be impressed by everything Dr. Park says.
You wouldn’t. You could probably redesign his security protocols in their sleep.
"Again," Flower says, eyes crinkling at the corners despite the commanding tone. "Tell me who you are tonight, baby ensign."
You straighten your shoulders, tilting your head just so. The practice room's harsh lighting catches on Flower's diamond earrings as she circles you, fluid and catlike.
"Kim Jiwoo," you say, voice pitched slightly higher than your natural tone. "Biotech graduate student. Fascinated by Dr. Park's work on neural implants. Just smart enough to follow along, just dumb enough to seem harmless."
Flower stops in front of you, that distinct black widow presence making the fine hairs on your arms stand up.
Unlike the first time you felt it, now it's almost comforting.
Familiar.
She studies your face, tucking a loose curl behind your ear with unexpected gentleness.
"Very good. Now tell me about the walking disappointment you're targeting."
You snort at her description. You don't need the file to recite this. You've memorized every detail about Dr. Park Minjun, biomedical engineer and unwitting key to the Kkangpae's next move.
"Forty-two years old. Divorced—she left him, no surprise there. No children, thank god. Graduated top of his class from KAIST. His work focuses on neural-digital interfaces. He's brilliant but underappreciated by his peers because he's insufferable. Likes brandy, classical music, and women who make him feel smart."
Flower's lips quirk up into a genuine smile. "And his weakness?"
"He publishes papers on social engineering and cybersecurity, but he's pathetically susceptible to flattery. Classic case of 'physician, heal thyself.' Basically a walking ego with glasses."
The black widow sensation intensifies briefly—Flower's version of delight.
"I swear to god, men like him make our job too easy," she says, stepping away to adjust something on her tablet. "It's almost disappointing. Almost."
She glances up with a conspiratorial wink. Sighs, then smiles.
“RM wants those neural interface designs. The military applications alone..."
You nod, watching her fingers fly across the screen.
The mission parameters are clear:
Charm Dr. Park at the Nexus Biotech gala.
Get him comfortable.
Get him talking.
Get him to take you somewhere private—preferably near a server access point.
Plant the USB device AD prepared.
Extract without raising suspicion.
Simple. Clean. The kind of mission the Seduction Division handles monthly.
So why does your stomach feel like it's full of stones?
Flower looks up, eyes softening. "Hey. What's going on in that big brain of yours?"
"Nothing," you say automatically.
She sets down her tablet and approaches, adjusting the thin strap of your dress with gentle fingers. Her touch is sisterly, comforting.
"Your pupils dilate when you lie," she says quietly. "Dr. Park won't notice—men like him only see what they want to see. But I see you."
You swallow. "I won't let you down."
"Sweetie, this isn't about me." She squeezes your shoulder. "Dual-division ensigns are rare. You're special. RM and AD both vouched for you. I'm just making sure you're taken care of out there."
The weight of expectations settles heavier than the dress.
You've been with Kkangpae less than five months, but already the divisions are watching to see if you'll justify the unusual position.
"I understand."
Flower steps back, smile still decorating her doll like features.
“Good. Now listen—don't use technical language unless he uses it first. Laugh at his jokes even when they suck, which they will. Touch his arm when he says something 'impressive.'" She makes air quotes, rolling her eyes. "And for the love of god, don't let him see how much smarter you are than him. Male fragility is real and it's pathetic."
"I know how to play dumb," you say with a hint of Jiwoo's practiced giggle.
Something warm blooms across Flower's face—recognition, sisterhood.
She was recruited for the same skills, after all.
"Go see Jessi for your gear. And by the way?" She catches your eye. "Remember what happens to insects caught in a spider's web."
"They become dinner?" you venture.
"Exactly." She grins, sharp and genuine. "And tonight, you're the spider."
Jessi's domain is completely different from the Seduction’s space.
It smells like gun oil and leather, nothing like the perfumed air of the Seduction Division.
You find her hunched over a workbench, a disassembled pistol laid out before her. Her red hair is barely contained in a messy ponytail, and she doesn't look up as you enter.
"There's my favorite pain in the ass," she growls without looking up, fiery aura reaching you before her words do—heat blasting across your skin, not uncomfortable but intense, like standing next to a furnace running at full capacity.
"How'd you know it was me?"
She scoffs, finally glancing up. Her eyes are sharp as flint.
"Your footsteps. Too quiet for most divisions, too heavy for pure Seduction." Her gaze rakes over you, professional and quick. "The dress works. You don't look like you could hack into a child's iPad."
Coming from Jessi, that's basically a standing ovation.
"Flower sent me for equipment."
"Yeah, yeah."
She wipes her hands on a cloth that's seen better days and stalks to a cabinet, unlocking it with her palm print.
“Special occasion when my division crosses with Seduction. Usually I'm just supplying the boring stuff—guns, knives, the occasional brick of C4."
"Nothing boring about C4," you say, making her snort.
"True. But tonight..." She spins around, holding a small velvet box like it might bite her. "Tonight we get fancy."
Inside the box is a pair of diamond earrings that catch the light in a way that screams ‘expensive.’
You raise an eyebrow.
"Are those real?"
"Real enough to pass inspection," Jessi says with a dismissive shrug. "Left one has your comm link to AD. Right one has a GPS tracker and panic button. Press firmly on the back for three seconds, and we'll know you need extraction."
She shoves the box at you, then reaches back into the cabinet for something else—a lipstick.
"Standard issue for Flower's pretty little killers, but I modified it." She twists the base, and instead of lipstick emerging, a small compartment opens in the side. "USB device fits in here. The shell is scan-proof. They'll see normal cosmetics if they check your bag."
You take the lipstick, examining the clever design. "Nice work."
"Thank JM's division for the budget," she says with a sharp smirk. "Expensive toys for expensive missions."
The USB device itself comes next—barely larger than your thumbnail, matte black with no markings.
"AD's baby," Jessi explains, flicking it with her finger. "Once connected to their system, it creates a ghost terminal that he can access remotely. Self-destructs after twelve hours, leaves no trace. Poof."
"Clean," you murmur, appreciating the engineering.
"That's the idea."
She slams the cabinet shut and leans against it, crossing her arms. The movement makes the flames of her aura leap higher, warming your cheeks.
“Now for the serious talk. This mission goes sideways, you get out. No heroics."
You nod, but she fixes you with a glare that could melt steel.
"I mean it. Your job is intelligence gathering, not martyrdom. You feel threatened, you press that panic button. AD will have a team three minutes from your location at all times."
"I know protocol," you say.
"Everyone knows protocol until shit explodes in their face." Jessi pushes off the cabinet and stalks toward you, heat intensifying until you can practically see the air shimmer. "Park has connections we don't fully understand. Intel suggests Myung-dong Faction might have their hooks in Nexus Biotech."
That gets your attention.
MDF involvement would elevate the risk significantly.
"Was that in the briefing?"
"It's my addition to the briefing." Jessi's eyes narrow to dangerous slits. "Flower focuses on the seduction. My job is keeping our people alive. So you listen—any sign of MDF, any whisper, you abort immediately."
You straighten, suddenly very aware of the weight of the mission.
“Understood."
Her blazing pulls back slightly as she nods once.
“That’s what I like to hear.”
You smile, slightly. Her worry is not misplaced, but it’s often rare amongst the highest ranks in Kkangpae.
"Thank you," you manage.
"Don't thank me. Just come back in one piece.” She gives your shoulder a punch that's probably meant to be gentle. "Plus, the Doc would have my head."
The casual mention of Hoseok makes your pulse skip.
You roll your eyes to cover it, and Jessi laughs—a short, explosive sound.
"Alright, get out of my division. Go be pretty and dangerous somewhere else."
Your stomach won't stop churning.
The car glides through Seoul's glittering nightscape, a sleek black counterpoint to the neon-soaked streets. You sit in the back, breathing slowly and methodically as the Castle recedes in the distance.
"Testing, testing. Tell me you can hear my dulcet tones, or I'm coming down there to fix your ear myself."
AD's voice crackles through the comm link in your earring, sharp and clear.
"I hear you," you murmur, keeping your voice low even though the privacy partition between you and the driver is up. "Loud and clear."
"Good. Running final checks on the USB. You nervous yet?"
You smooth invisible wrinkles from your dress.
"Should I be?"
"Nah. This is baby stuff compared to what Flower usually handles. Consider it your training wheels mission."
Something about his confidence settles your nerves. AD doesn't sugarcoat—if he thought you were walking into danger, he'd say so.
"Security scan is showing standard measures at the venue," he continues, keyboard clicks audible in the background. "Metal detectors, bag check, ID verification. Nothing our gear can't handle."
You touch the earrings, making sure they're secure.
“Any word on MDF presence?"
A pause.
"Jessi talk to you?"
"She mentioned concerns."
AD sighs, the sound staticky in your ear.
"Nothing confirmed. Just chatter. But keep your eyes open. Don't do anything stupid."
The car slows sometime later as you approach the venue—the Grand Hyatt, facade gleaming with tasteful spotlights.
A line of luxury vehicles dumps Seoul's elite onto the red carpet leading to the hotel's entrance.
Your palms sweat.
"Remember," AD says, voice dropping to a more serious tone, "I've got eyes on the security feeds and a team on standby. But you're running point. Trust your training."
The car stops. Your door opens to reveal a white-gloved attendant.
It is time.
"I'll be in your ear the whole time," AD says, then adds with his characteristic snark, "Try not to fall in love with this asshole."
The comment strikes closer than AD could know, your mind jumping to someone else—someone with an earthy aura and hands that heal rather than harm.
Not now, you scold yourself, pushing thoughts of Hoseok away like a stubborn cat.
“I’ll try my best,” you snort right back, sarcastic.
You step out of the car, a practiced smile already on your face.
Kim Jiwoo has a biomedical engineer to seduce, and doesn't have time for forbidden distractions.
The gala unfolds in predictable luxury.
There’s… everything?
Champagne fountains, string quartet, the quiet murmur of the wealthy discussing how to become wealthier.
You navigate the crowd exactly how you’ve been taught, sipping champagne like it's water as you scan for your target.
"Northeast corner," AD's voice directs in your ear. "By the ice sculpture that's trying way too hard to be artistic. Looks like a dick."
You turn casually, spotting Dr. Park immediately.
He's exactly as his file described—tall, slim, with salt-and-pepper hair and designer glasses that cost more than most people's monthly rent. He's surrounded by a small circle of admirers, holding court with the confidence only mediocre men seem capable of mustering.
"Target acquired," you murmur behind your champagne flute.
"Great. Now go make him feel special while I hack into the hotel's HVAC system for fun."
You swallow a laugh and begin your approach, slipping through the crowd with measured steps.
As you get closer, you catch fragments of conversation—Park is explaining some complex concept, his audience nodding with the vacant expressions of people who'd rather be anywhere else.
Perfect timing.
You stumble slightly—just enough to draw attention without seeming fake—and your champagne sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
Park glances your way, then away, then back with renewed interest as he notices the red dress, your styled hair, the seemingly genuine embarrassment on your face.
"Careful there," he says, reaching out though you're nowhere near close enough for him to actually touch you. "These floors can be treacherous."
You widen your eyes, the picture of flustered gratitude.
"I'm so sorry. I wasn't watching where I was—" You stop, recognition dawning on your face. "Wait, you're Dr. Park Minjun, aren't you?"
His posture straightens like someone shoved a ruler up his ass, pleasure evident in the slight lift of his chin.
"I am, yes."
"Oh my god." You lower your voice, stepping closer to his circle. "I've read all your papers on neural interface technology. Your work on the P300 response integration is revolutionary."
In your ear, AD makes a retching sound.
Park's expression shifts from polite interest to genuine engagement.
"You're familiar with my research?"
"I'm doing my graduate work in related areas," you say, offering your free hand. "Kim Jiwoo. I never thought I'd actually meet you in person."
He takes your hand, holding it a moment longer than necessary.
His palm is clammy.
“A pleasure, Ms. Kim. Are you here with the university delegation?"
"Oh, no, I'm just someone's plus-one." You give a self-deprecating laugh. "I practically begged to come when I heard you might be here."
"Dear god, I think I'm going to vomit in my keyboard," AD mutters in your ear. "This guy is eating it up like free cake."
He is indeed.
Park's entire focus has shifted to you, the others in his circle forgotten. One by one, they drift away, recognizing they've lost their audience. One woman mouths 'thank you' behind his back as she escapes.
"Perhaps you'd like to discuss my research further?" Park suggests, gesturing toward a quieter area of the ballroom. "I rarely meet someone so... enthusiastic about my work."
"I'd love that," you breathe, like he's offered you the moon instead of a boring conversation about his research.
As he guides you away, his hand comes to rest at the small of your back.
The touch is proprietary, presumptuous.
You fight the urge to break his fingers, instead leaning slightly into it as Jiwoo would.
"His hand is at T9 vertebral level," AD narrates unnecessarily. "I count at least six hygiene violations already. When's the last time he washed those hands?"
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Park launches into an explanation of his latest project. His hand remains on your back, occasionally drifting lower before returning to a more proper position, testing boundaries like a toddler seeing what he can get away with.
Unbidden, your mind swaps in a different hand—steadier, warmer, worn smooth by latex gloves and long hours spent saving lives.
Hoseok's touch would feel grounding, like his earthy aura.
It would center rather than claim.
"—don't you agree?" Park is asking, and you snap back to attention.
"Absolutely," you say with conviction, having no idea what you're agreeing to. "Though I wonder about the practical applications beyond medical use."
It's a safe pivot, and he takes the bait eagerly, launching into a discussion of military and commercial possibilities. His eyes light up when he talks about the money, not the medicine.
As he drones on, you gradually guide the conversation toward security protocols and access limitations.
"The problem with cutting-edge research," you say, wide-eyed with feigned naivety, "is balancing collaboration with protection, isn't it? How do you share enough to advance the field without risking your intellectual property?"
Park's expression grows serious, pleased to explain complex matters to an attractive admirer.
“That's precisely the challenge. In fact, I've published on cybersecurity measures specific to biotech research."
"Really? I'd love to read that."
"I have copies in my office," he says, and you see the calculation in his eyes—weighing professional opportunity against personal interest. "Perhaps I could show you sometime."
You touch his arm, just as Flower instructed, and let your expression brighten.
“Is your office here? At the hotel?"
"Nexus maintains a suite for conferences and events," he says, now fully committed to the idea. "I have some materials there I could share with you. If you're interested."
So easy. Men are so easy.
"I'd be honored," you say, squeezing his arm lightly before letting go.
"Ten floors up, northwest corner of the building," AD supplies in your ear. "Security camera blind spot in the hallway outside the Nexus suite. You'll have approximately twelve seconds of invisible approach. Try not to trip."
Park glances at his watch, a move so transparent you nearly roll your eyes.
"I should make an appearance at the CEO's table first, but perhaps in thirty minutes? We could slip away without much notice then."
"That sounds perfect," you say. "I'll meet you by the west elevators?"
He nods, clearly pleased with how the evening is developing.
"Don't disappear on me, Ms. Kim."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Dr. Park."
As he walks away, AD's voice returns. "Well, that was disgusting and effective. Thirty minutes gives us time to review the suite's layout. Head to the west bathroom—I'll send the blueprints to your phone."
You make your way through the crowd, maintaining Jiwoo's slightly awed expression as you go.
Inside the bathroom, you check under the stall doors to make sure they're empty before speaking.
"Send the plans."
Your phone buzzes with an incoming message. The blueprints show a standard executive suite, modified for office use. The server access point is in what would normally be the bedroom, now converted to a secure file room.
"USB needs a physical connection to their closed network," AD reminds you. "Get him out of the room for at least forty seconds. That's all I need."
You study the layout, memorizing escape routes and hiding spots.
"What if he doesn't leave me alone in there?"
"Plan B is in your right earring. Micro-sedative. Twist the back completely off and shake the contents into his drink. He'll get drowsy within two minutes. Should buy you enough time."
You touch the earring reflexively.
"Noted."
"And Y/N?" AD's voice loses its sarcastic edge for a moment. "Stay sharp. This guy gives me bad vibes."
Coming from AD, that's practically a declaration of concern.
You're touched, though you'd never tell him so.
"Roger that," you say, tucking your phone back into your clutch. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. Stop thinking about J-Hope during the mission. Your vital signs spike every time you do."
Heat floods your face.
Sometimes you forget the earrings monitor more than just location.
"I wasn't—"
"Save it. Just focus on the mark and get this done." You hear keys clicking rapidly. "And try not to get kidnapped. The paperwork is a nightmare."
Easy for you to say, you think but don't voice.
He's not the one about to get pawed at by Dr. Handsy McCreeperson.
You take a deep breath, giving yourself one final check in the mirror.
The woman who stares back looks nothing like the real you—the you who curses when code won't compile, who can hack through a firewall in minutes, who sits on the medical wing watching a certain doctor work with quiet fascination.
That person is nowhere to be seen tonight.
Instead, there's just Kim Jiwoo, biotech student and admirer of mediocre men, ready to complete their mission.
You reapply your lipstick, making sure the USB compartment is secure.
The cherry note of your usual perfume clings to your skin, familiar and comforting in this unfamiliar role.
"Time to finish this," you murmur to your reflection.
"That's my problem child," AD says in your ear, almost fond. "Now go make Park feel like the most important man in the world. It's what he thinks anyway."
You straighten your shoulders, drop your clutch into your purse, and exit the bathroom.
Yeah.
Time to become the spider.
Park appears at the west elevators exactly thirty minutes later, looking pleased with himself.
"Ms. Kim," he says, offering his arm with exaggerated courtesy. "Ready for that private tour?"
You take his arm, letting Jiwoo's giggle bubble up.
"I can't believe you're actually willing to share your research with me."
The elevator ride up is mercifully brief, though Park uses the time to stand closer than necessary, his cologne competing poorly with your cherry cordial scent. His presence lacks any grounding quality—just nervous energy and poorly concealed intentions.
Nothing like the solid earth sensation you crave from someone else's proximity.
Focus, you remind yourself, pushing thoughts of Hoseok's steadiness away.
"Tenth floor, northwest corner," AD's voice confirms in your ear. "Right on schedule. Security sweep shows the hallway is clear."
The Nexus suite is exactly as the blueprints suggested—corporate luxury masquerading as functionality. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Seoul's glittering skyline, and the main room holds conference tables surrounded by expensive-looking chairs.
Park gestures grandly, like he personally designed the space.
"Impressive, isn't it? Nexus spares no expense for important conferences."
"It's beautiful," you breathe, allowing your eyes to widen appropriately. "Do you work here often?"
"When necessary. The real magic happens in the research facilities, of course, but this is where we handle the... business side of innovation."
He guides you toward a door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only’—the converted bedroom that serves as their secure file room.
Perfect.
"The papers I mentioned are in here," he says, producing a keycard from his jacket. "Along with some prototype displays you might find fascinating."
The secure room is smaller than the main suite, lined with filing cabinets and computer terminals. A single server tower hums quietly in the corner—exactly where the blueprints indicated it would be.
Your target.
"This is where the real work gets documented," Park explains, moving to a filing cabinet. "Everything from initial concept to market projection."
You maintain Jiwoo's interested expression while mentally calculating distances and angles. The server is maybe six feet from where you're standing, but Park would have a clear line of sight if you approached it directly.
"Dr. Park," you say, touching his arm again, "would it be terrible if I asked for a glass of water? The champagne was stronger than I expected."
His eyes light up—the perfect opportunity to play concern.
"Of course! There's a water cooler just outside. I'll be right back."
"You're wonderful," you say, adding just enough breathiness to make it sound like more than gratitude.
He practically preens as he exits, leaving the door propped open—a gentleman's gesture that speaks to either his arrogance or his complete underestimation of his ‘guest.’
The moment his footsteps fade, you're moving.
"Clock starts now," AD says in your ear. "Forty seconds, remember."
Your fingers find the modified lipstick in your purse, extracting the USB device in one smooth motion.
The server's access panel is exactly where it should be, and the device slides into the port without objection.
Your heart hammers as you step away from the server, trying to look like you've been examining the wall-mounted research displays the entire time.
Park returns with a paper cup of water, looking pleased.
"Here you are. Feeling better?"
"Much, thank you." You accept the water with a grateful smile, noting how his fingers brush yours deliberately during the handoff. "These displays are fascinating. Is this the neural interface work you mentioned?"
"Exactly." He moves closer, ostensibly to point out specific elements, but his proximity feels disingenuous. "This particular model can interpret complex thought patterns and translate them into digital commands."
"Sixty percent," AD updates quietly. "Keep him talking."
"The applications must be endless," you say, allowing wonder to color your voice. "Military, medical, even commercial possibilities."
"You understand the implications better than most," Park says, his hand coming to rest on your lower back again. "Intelligence and beauty—a rare combination."
The compliment feels slimy, nothing like the quiet appreciation you sometimes catch in Hoseok's eyes when he thinks you're not looking.
"Eighty percent," AD murmurs. "Almost there."
Park's hand slides lower, testing boundaries with the confidence of someone who's never faced real consequences.
"You know," he says, voice dropping to what he probably thinks is seductive, "there are more... private applications we could discuss."
Your skin crawls.
But of course, Jiwoo just looks flattered and slightly flustered.
"Dr. Park, I—"
"Please, call me Minjun."
"One hundred percent. Data transfer complete. Get out of there."
Relief floods through you, but you make sure to maintain Jiwoo's uncertain expression.
"Minjun," you say, testing the name like it means something. "This has been incredible, but I should probably get back to the gala. People will notice I'm gone."
His expression wavers—disappointment warring with the desire to maintain his sophisticated image.
"Of course. Though I hope this won't be our only opportunity to... collaborate."
"I'd like that very much," you lie smoothly.
He escorts you back to the elevators, his hand never quite leaving your back.
As the doors close, he leans closer.
"Perhaps dinner sometime? I know several excellent restaurants that cater to... private conversations."
"That sounds wonderful."
The elevator descends, and you mentally count down the seconds until you can shed this persona entirely.
"Device is broadcasting perfectly," AD confirms in your ear. "Mission parameters satisfied. Time to extract."
But something in Park's expression as you reach the lobby makes your instincts prickle.
"Ms. Kim," he says as the elevator doors open, "there's something I should mention."
Your blood chills, but you keep Jiwoo's expectant smile in place.
"Oh?"
"I hope you don't think less of me for saying this," Park continues, stepping closer as you exit the elevator, "but I feel like we have a real connection. It's rare to meet someone who appreciates both the technical and philosophical aspects of my work."
Just paranoia, you tell yourself. He's just being creepy, not suspicious.
"I feel the same way," you manage, though something cold is settling in your stomach.
You make your way back into the gala proper, Park's hand still possessive on your back.
The champagne fountain sparkles under the chandeliers, conversations flowing around you in multiple languages, everything exactly as you left it.
Normal.
Safe.
"The beautiful Ms. Kim returns," someone says, and you turn to see a man in an expensive suit approaching with champagne flutes.
Mid-forties, perfectly groomed, with calculating eyes that remind you of Flower's warnings about dangerous predators.
Park straightens beside you.
"Ah, Director Yang. I didn't realize you were attending tonight."
Director Yang extends a champagne flute toward you with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Business calls, Dr. Park. And who is your lovely companion?"
"Kim Jiwoo," you say, accepting the champagne with Jiwoo's grateful smile. "Graduate student. Dr. Park was kind enough to discuss his research with me."
"How fortunate for you." Yang's gaze lingers on your face in a way that makes your skin prickle. "Though I believe we may have crossed paths before, Ms. Kim. You look... familiar."
The cold in your stomach crystallizes into ice.
"I don't think so," you say with a light laugh. "I'd definitely remember meeting you."
"Hmm." Yang sips his champagne thoughtfully. "Perhaps at a university function? I occasionally guest lecture on biotechnology applications."
"Possible, though I mostly focus on the technical side. Less exposure to the business aspects."
"The technical side." Yang's smile sharpens. "How refreshing. Dr. Park, you mentioned Ms. Kim has been asking about security protocols?"
Park blinks, clearly not remembering the conversation quite that way.
"We discussed collaboration challenges, yes. Standard academic concerns about intellectual property protection."
"Of course." Yang's attention returns to you. "And what's your particular area of focus, Ms. Kim?"
The question feels like a trap, though you can't identify exactly why.
"Neural-digital interfaces, primarily. The cognitive mapping applications fascinate me."
"Sophisticated field for a graduate student."
"I've always been drawn to challenging problems."
Yang nods slowly, and you notice his free hand has moved to his jacket pocket.
"Dr. Park, would you mind giving Ms. Kim and me a moment? I believe there are some colleagues by the east wing who've been asking about your latest publication."
Park hesitates, clearly reluctant to leave you alone with Yang.
But social pressure wins out.
"Of course. Ms. Kim, I'll find you in a few minutes?"
"I'll be here," you promise, though every instinct is screaming at you to run.
The moment Park disappears into the crowd, Yang's demeanor shifts entirely.
Everything about him is making your insides recoil.
"Now then," he says quietly, "let's discuss your real area of expertise."
"I'm sorry?"
"Drop the act. We know exactly who you are."
Your mouth goes dry. In your ear, AD's voice is sharp with sudden alarm.
"Your heart rate just spiked. What's happening?"
Yang steps closer, crowding your space.
"Kim Jiwoo doesn't exist. The university records show no enrollment under that name. Your identification is excellent work—whoever made it has serious skills—but not quite perfect."
Shit.
"I think there's been some mistake—"
"The only mistake," Yang interrupts, "was assuming Nexus Biotech doesn't screen its gala attendees. Especially when they start asking very specific questions about our security protocols."
"Talk to me. What's going on down there?"
You can't respond with Yang watching your every micro-expression, but your silence is answer enough for AD.
"Your friend Dr. Park was quite helpful, actually," Yang continues conversationally. "He mentioned how surprisingly knowledgeable you were about neural interface technology. Far more knowledgeable than any graduate student should be."
The champagne glass trembles slightly in your hand.
"And then there's the interesting timing of your disappearance with Dr. Park. Thirty minutes, wasn't it? Just long enough to access our secure systems."
Yang's hand emerges from his jacket pocket holding what looks like a small device—signal detector, you realize with growing horror.
"Would you like to guess what this is reading from your current location?"
You swallow thickly.
"Multiple unknown signals detected," he continues when you don't respond. "Communication devices. Very sophisticated ones."
"I'm calling extraction now," AD's voice is tight now. “Get to the west exit. Emergency protocol alpha."
But Yang is already moving, his hand now clearly holding something more threatening than a signal detector.
"I'm afraid you won't be leaving just yet," he says pleasantly. "We have so much to discuss about your technical expertise.”
The device in his hand catches the light, and you realize it's not a weapon at all.
It's a syringe.
Your training kicks in before conscious thought does.
You stumble backward, the champagne glass flying from your hand to shatter against the marble floor.
The sound draws attention—exactly what you need—and several nearby guests turn to look.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" you exclaim, loud enough to ensure an audience. "How clumsy of me!"
Yang's expression tightens with frustration as a waiter hurries over with napkins and concerned murmurs fill the space around you.
"No problem at all, miss," the waiter says kindly. "Happens more often than you'd think."
"Thank you so much," you say, maintaining Jiwoo's flustered persona while using the distraction to put more distance between yourself and Yang. "I feel terrible about the mess."
"Extraction team is moving," AD's voice crackles in your ear. "Three minutes out. Get to street level."
Yang hovers nearby, unable to approach with so many witnesses focused on the commotion. His polite smile has returned, but his eyes are cold as winter.
"Ms. Kim seems to be having quite an eventful evening," he comments to the waiter.
"The champagne can be stronger than expected," the waiter replies diplomatically, shooting you a sympathetic look.
You're backing toward the main entrance now, still playing the embarrassed guest while scanning for additional threats. Yang isn't moving to follow, which either means he's confident you can't escape or—
Or he's not the only one.
"Hey," AD's voice is sharp. "I'm seeing movement on multiple security feeds. At least four individuals converging on your location."
Fuck.
The main entrance suddenly seems very far away, and you notice two men in suits positioned near the exit who weren't there before. They're trying to look casual, but their positioning is too strategic to be coincidental.
"West bathroom," AD directs. "Service corridor access through the maintenance panel behind the third stall. Move now."
You excuse yourself from the helpful waiter and head toward the bathroom, fighting every instinct that wants you to run.
Jiwoo wouldn't run.
Jiwoo would use the bathroom and return to the party, maybe find Dr. Park again, maybe have another glass of champagne.
When you make it inside, the bathroom is empty—small mercy—and you immediately head for the third stall, fingers searching for the maintenance panel AD described.
"Bottom right corner," he guides. "Should be a standard release mechanism."
Your fingers find the concealed latch just as the bathroom door opens behind you.
"Ms. Kim?"
Yang's voice, pleasant and concerned.
You freeze.
"Is everything alright? You seemed upset after the incident with the champagne."
"Fine," you call back, your voice slightly strained. "Just need a moment."
"Of course. Take all the time you need."
But you can hear him moving, footsteps approaching the stall area.
The maintenance panel comes free in your hands, revealing a narrow service corridor beyond.
You can hear AD breathing through the comm, probably watching security feeds and calculating extraction routes like a madman right now.
"The good news," Yang continues conversationally, "is that we retrieved your little device from our server. Quite sophisticated. Your people do excellent work."
Your blood turns to ice.
They know about the USB.
"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, but your voice cracks slightly.
"The device that was uploading our proprietary research for the last fifteen minutes? The one broadcasting on frequencies that don't appear on any civilian equipment?"
Yang's footsteps stop just outside your stall.
"You can come out now, Ms. Kim. Or should I say, Agent Kim?"
"Get out of there right now," AD hisses in your ear. "They made you. Move, move, move!"
You don't hesitate.
You push yourself into the service corridor.
And… It is exactly as narrow as it looked, barely wide enough for your shoulders, but it's escape.
You push through into darkness just as Yang's voice turns sharp behind you.
"Security to women's restroom, level one. Target is mobile."
Your heart rate inevitably picks up rhythm.
"Straight ahead fifty meters, then left," AD directs. "There's a service elevator that connects to the parking garage."
Your heels are too loud against the concrete (and way too overstimulateing right now), so you pause to kick them off, cold floor shocking against your bare feet.
"Thermal imaging shows at least six hostiles now," AD updates, his voice tight. "They're coordinating through building security. This is bigger than just Nexus."
At the end of the narrow corridor, the service elevator comes into view—a freight lift with industrial controls.
You punch the button for the parking garage level, adrenaline making your hands shake.
"MDF," you whisper as the elevator lurches into motion. "This has to be MDF."
"That's what I'm thinking. Extraction team is in position. Black sedan, license plate 서울42바7891. Driver will be wearing a blue baseball cap."
The elevator shudders to a stop, and the doors open onto the parking garage.
A parking garage that feels cavernous and threatening, full of hiding places and blind spots.
You can see the black sedan AD described, parked near the exit ramp. The driver's blue cap is visible through the windshield.
Forty meters.
You can make forty meters.
You're halfway there when the elevator behind you dings.
They found the service corridor.
"Run," AD says simply.
You do.
Your bare feet slap against cold concrete as you sprint toward the sedan, the red dress hampering your stride but not enough to slow you down significantly.
Behind you, voices echo through the parking garage.
"Target heading for exit ramp. Intercept vehicle alpha-seven."
They have radio coordination.
This is definitely bigger than Nexus Biotech.
Thirty meters, you count mentally, pushing harder.
Twenty.
Fifteen.
The sedan's engine is already running, exhaust visible in the underground chill.
The driver—young woman, not the man you expected—spots you approaching and begins moving the car to meet you halfway.
Ten meters.
A black SUV rounds the corner at the exit ramp, moving fast and heading directly for you.
"Vehicle incoming from your three o'clock!"
You can see it, tires squealing as it turns to cut off your route to the sedan.
The driver's window is down, and something metallic glints in the passenger's hand.
Not good. Not good at all.
You veer left, using a concrete pillar as cover just as something small and sharp embeds itself in the pillar where your head was a second ago.
Tranquilizer dart.
They want you alive.
Somehow that's not comforting.
"New plan," AD's voice is tight with concentration. "Service stairs, northwest corner. Two levels up connects to street access."
You spot the stairwell entrance—heavy metal door marked ‘Emergency Exit Only’—and change direction again.
Your feet are starting to go numb from the cold concrete, but adrenaline keeps you moving.
The SUV's doors are opening, disgorging figures in dark clothing.
Professional.
Military-style coordination.
Definitely MDF.
"Target is heading for stairs. Converge on northwest corner."
You reach the stairwell and tear the door open, taking the steps two at a time.
The metal stairs ring under your feet, but there's no point in stealth now.
Because they know exactly where you are.
"One flight up, then the fire door leads to an alley," AD directs. "Extraction team is repositioning to meet you there."
Your lungs burn as you climb, the tight dress making it impossible to get a full breath.
Behind you, the stairwell door crashes open.
"She's in the stairs. Moving to intercept at street level."
Shit.
They're faster than you anticipated, and they know the building layout as well as AD does.
You reach the fire door and push through into Seoul's night air.
The alley is narrow, lined with dumpsters and emergency exits from adjacent buildings as streetlights eerily light up what’s barely visible.
The black sedan appears at the mouth of the alley, driving fast.
But so does another SUV from the opposite direction.
They're boxing you in.
"You need to get off the street level. Fire escape on your right—building next door. Get to the roof."
You look up and spot the fire escape—old metal ladder system running up the side of what looks like an office building.
It's going to be a nightmare to climb in this dress, but…
Yeah.
Still way better than being caught between two vehicles full of people who want to drug you unconscious.
You jump for the lowest rung of the fire escape, hauling yourself up with arm strength you didn't know you possessed. The red dress tears along one side, giving you better range of movement.
Below, car doors slam.
"Target is climbing. Bring the equipment."
Equipment.
That can't be good.
You climb faster, ignoring the way the metal rungs bite into your bare feet.
One story. Two stories
"Three more floors to roof access," AD says. "Extraction team is moving to parallel building. They'll throw you a line."
Your shoulders are screaming by the time you reach the roof, but you don't stop moving.
The Seoul skyline spreads out around you, neon and glass stretching to the horizon.
Under different circumstances, it might be beautiful.
Right now, it just looks like a long way to fall.
"Careful!"
A voice from across the gap between buildings—maybe ten feet of empty air over a five-story drop.
A figure in black tactical gear is setting up what looks like a zip line.
"Jump harness incoming!"
Something flies through the air toward you—a climbing harness attached to a line. You catch it, working frantically to step into the leg loops while keeping an eye on the roof access door.
The door crashes open just as you click the harness closed.
Yang emerges onto the roof, no longer bothering with his polite businessman bullshit anymore.
Yeah, fucker is pissed.
Behind him, two figures in tactical gear carry what looks like a net launcher.
A net launcher.
They really want you alive.
"Go, go, go!" the extraction team member shouts.
You don't hesitate.
You jump.
For a terrifying moment, you're falling through empty air, the alley rushing up to meet you.
Then the line catches, swinging you in a pendulum arc toward the opposite building.
You hit the roof hard, rolling with the impact as rough concrete scrapes against your knees and palms.
But you're alive.
You’re free.
Behind you, Yang is shouting into a radio.
"Target has crossed to adjacent building. Initiate containment protocol seven."
That sounds ominous.
"Helicopter incoming," AD's voice is tight. "This operation just went from covert to very public very fast. We need to get you underground."
The extraction team member is already moving, unclipping you from the zip line and guiding you toward a different roof access.
"Service tunnels connect to the subway system," they explain quickly. "Once we're underground, we can disappear."
You follow them down into the building, through emergency stairwells and service corridors that blur together in your adrenaline-fueled state.
Your feet are bleeding now, leaving small smears on the concrete floors, but you barely notice.
Somewhere in the distance, you can hear the rhythmic thump of helicopter rotors.
They really, really want you alive.
The question is why.
And what they're willing to do to everyone else to get you.
"Almost there," the extraction team member says, pushing open a final door that leads to a subway maintenance tunnel. "Transport is waiting."
You stumble into the tunnel, and there—blessed sight—is AD himself, not just his voice in your ear. He’s standing next to a black motorcycle, helmet in hand, looking more rattled than you’ve ever seen him.
“Y/N!” His voice cracks slightly with relief. “Jesus fucking christ, when they compromised the sedan team—”
You make it maybe five steps toward him before your legs give out.
It hits you all of a sudden—a goddamn adrenaline crash—every injury and exhaustion you’ve been ignoring suddenly demanding attention.
Your vision blurs at the edges, and the world tilts alarmingly.
“Whoa, whoa, hey—” AD drops his helmet, catching you before you hit the concrete. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”
His hands are surprisingly gentle as he checks you over, cataloging injuries with a level of efficiency that would make Hoseok proud.
“Bleeding feet, torn dress, pupils slightly dilated but responsive, pulse elevated but not dangerous,” he mutters, like he’s informing someone else. “What the fuck did they do to you?”
“Nothing,” you manage, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. “Got away. USB—did the data—?”
“Data’s secure. Mission accomplished.” His voice is rough with an emotion you can’t quite identify. “But fuck the mission. Are you hurt? Did they inject you with anything?”
You try to shake your head, but the movement makes the tunnel spin.
“Just… tired. Adrenaline.”
“Yeah, well, remind me to never send you on a training wheels mission again.” But his snark is not believable, because it lacks its usual bite. “Can you ride? We need to move before they expand their search grid.”
“I can… ride.”
It’s a lie, but AD already knows that.
He helps you onto the back of the motorcycle, securing a spare helmet over your head with shaking fingers.
“Hold on tight,” he says. “And if you fall off my bike, I’m leaving you for dead.”
Another lie. You can hear it in his voice.
The motorcycle roars to life then, carrying you into Seoul’s underground tunnels.
Your head grows heavy against his back, and so without thinking, you murmur his name.
“Yoongi?”
He tenses slightly—he never lets anyone use his real name, and you’re not usually the exception.
But this time, he doesn’t correct you.
“Thank you.”
Then you’re drifting, consciousness slipping away as underground tunnels engulf both of you in streaks of light and shadow.
Your last coherent thought is that AD’s aura—that crisp winter morning—feels almost warm right now.
Almost like he actually gives a damn.
You wake up in pieces.
First comes the antiseptic smell—sharp and clinical, nothing like the cherry cordial that usually clings to your skin.
Then the soft beeping of monitors, the rustle of starched sheets against your legs.
The medical wing.
Your eyes crack open to ceiling tiles above you that have water stains in the corner—something you've never noticed during your previous visits here.
Previous visits.
The thought brings everything rushing back: the gala, Dr. Park's clammy hands, Yang's calculating smile, the rooftop chase, falling against Yoongi's back on the motorcycle—
"About time."
You turn your head—too fast, making the room spin briefly—and find Yoongi slumped in the visitor's chair. He looks like he's been there for hours, possibly days. His hair is messier than usual, and there are shadows under his eyes that speak to missed sleep.
"How long was I out?"
"About eighteen hours. Hobi said it was exhaustion and adrenaline crash, plus some dehydration. Nothing life-threatening."
Hobi.
Just hearing his name makes something warm unfurl in your chest.
"The mission—"
"Was a complete success," Yoongi interrupts. "Data extracted, USB worked perfectly, no casualties on our side. RM's pleased."
You try to sit up, but your body protests with a dozen small aches. Your feet throb where the concrete scraped them raw, and there's a persistent soreness in your shoulders from all that climbing.
"Easy." Yoongi's tone is gentler than his usual snark. "You went through hell last night."
"What happened after I—after the tunnels?"
"You passed out on my bike about ten minutes into the ride. Had to carry you up here unconscious." He pauses, then adds with characteristic bluntness, "You're heavier than you look."
Despite everything, you almost smile.
"Thanks for the rescue."
Yoongi's expression shifts slightly—not quite embarrassment, but close.
"You said my name in front of the extraction team."
Oh.
Shit.
You'd called him Yoongi on a comm channel.
In front of witnesses.
Using his real name when you were supposed to maintain operational security and proper hierarchy.
"I'm sorry, I was—"
"Half-conscious and running on fumes," he cuts you off. "People say stupid shit when they're crashed out. The team thinks you were delirious."
But the way he says it suggests he knows it wasn't delirium at all.
"Still. I shouldn't have—"
"It's fine." His voice carries an edge of something you can't quite identify. "We've got bigger problems than operational security breaches."
Something cold settles in your stomach.
"What kind of problems?"
Yoongi leans back in his chair, and for the first time since you woke up, he looks genuinely uncomfortable.
"The mission wasn't what we thought it was."
"What do you mean?"
"Dr. Park wasn't working on standard biotech research. The data you extracted..."
He pauses, choosing his words carefully.
"Ever heard of Project Chrysalis?"
You shake your head.
"Military application of neural-digital interface technology. The ability to enhance soldiers' cognitive processing, reaction times, even pain tolerance through direct brain-computer integration." His voice drops. "Whoever controls that technology controls the future of warfare."
Chrysalis.
Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Transformation at the most fundamental level.
"And Dr. Park was working on it?"
"Unknowingly, probably. His research on neural mapping and digital command integration—it's the foundation for everything Chrysalis represents. With his data, we can either develop our own capabilities or ensure our enemies can't develop theirs."
The scope of what you were involved in settles over you.
Not just corporate espionage or gang politics, but something that could shift the balance of power on a much larger scale.
"But the briefing said it was routine corporate intelligence gathering."
Yoongi's jaw tightens.
"The briefing said a lot of things."
Oh.
"RM knew."
"RM knew." Yoongi's voice passes as neutral, but there's something underneath it—frustration, maybe, or resignation. "He also knew that if any of us had understood the real scope, we would have insisted on sending someone with more experience."
"Someone like Flower."
"Someone like Flower," he confirms. "Or a full team. Not a dual-division ensign on what was supposed to be a training mission."
You think about the sophisticated security response, Yang's approach, the way everything escalated so quickly from simple corporate espionage to international intelligence warfare.
"But he sent me because of the dual-division thing."
"He sent you because you were the only available operative who could handle both the social engineering and the technical infiltration seamlessly. Most of us specialize in one area—you bridge both." Yoongi's expression softens slightly. "And because he's always twenty steps ahead. If he trusted you with this, it means he saw potential for advancement that the rest of us missed."
"Even if I nearly got kidnapped by hostile intelligence services?"
"Especially because you didn't get kidnapped. You adapted, completed the objective, and extracted successfully under extreme circumstances." Yoongi's almost-smile returns. "RM doesn't gamble with people's lives. If he sent you alone, it's because he knew you could handle whatever came up."
The way he frames it—as trust rather than endangerment—makes sense in the context of RM's strategic thinking.
Because RM never make decisions lightly, and he certainly doesn't treat his people as expendable resources.
"How angry is Hobi?"
Something flickers across Yoongi's expression—part amusement, part concern.
"Hobi's having a conversation with RM as we speak."
Oh no.
"Please tell me he's not—"
"He's absolutely tearing RM a new one for the deception and putting you at unnecessary risk," Yoongi confirms. "Has been for the last hour."
Your blood chills.
"He could get fired. Disciplined. RM doesn't tolerate insubordination—"
"RM's been putting up with Hobi's protective instincts for years," Yoongi interrupts. "He knows he can't afford to lose his Chief Medical Officer, especially not when he has regular meetings with the triads that sometimes end with people bleeding."
The casual way he mentions RM's diplomatic negotiations makes you remember exactly what kind of organization you work for.
"But still—"
"Hobi will be fine. RM respects people who stand up for their principles, even when those principles include calling him a self-serving bastard who puts valuable personnel at risk for strategic advantages."
Jesus.
"He actually called RM that?"
"Among other things." Yoongi's expression suggests he finds the whole situation more entertaining than concerning. "I may have declined to stop him."
"Why?"
"Because he's not wrong about the information control, and because watching Hobi lose his temper is educational." Yoongi stretches, joints popping audibly. "Besides, someone should call RM out when his strategic thinking overlooks the human cost."
But you don’t miss the affection in his voice when he talks about both of them—RM and Hoseok.
It’s the kind of complicated loyalty that comes from years of shared danger and mutual respect.
"He's officially requested to be the one supervising my case this time again, right?"
The question slips out more pointed than you intended, and Yoongi goes very still.
"...Yeah."
The pause before his answer says everything.
Because Council members don't personally handle ensign medical care—Hoseok only sees critical cases, life-threatening injuries, or Council-level personnel who require his expertise.
Not dual-division ensigns with bruised feet and exhaustion.
Yoongi shifts uncomfortably in his chair, clearly wishing this particular conversation would go somewhere else.
"He's been handling your medical care since you started getting injured regularly," he says finally. "Consistency of care, he says."
Consistency of care.
Right.
"Makes sense," you say, even though you both know it doesn't make sense at all.
Yoongi's expression suggests he'd rather be anywhere else than navigating this particular minefield.
"Anyway," he continues with obvious relief at changing the subject, "the data you extracted is already being analyzed. RM wants a full debrief when you're cleared for duty, but that's not happening until Hobi says you're ready."
"How long do you think they'll be talking?"
"Until one of them says something they can't take back, or until RM acknowledges that maybe next time he should trust his division chiefs with operational intelligence."
He snorts—almost a laugh—then stands up from the chair with a stretch that suggests he’s been sitting there far longer than is comfortable.
"Could be a while."
You wonder what Hoseok told RM about your condition, how much detail he provided about your injuries and recovery needs.
“Yoongi?” You catch his attention before he reaches the door. “Thank you. For coming to get me yourself.”
He pauses, hand on the door handle.
“Hobi would have killed me if I’d sent anyone else.”
Then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the quiet beeping of monitors and the antiseptic smell that can’t quite mask the cherry cordial still clinging to your skin.
You decide to lie there cataloging injuries and replaying the mission in your head.
Every detail feels important now that you know the true scope of what was at stake—Project Chrysalis, neural enhancement technology, the kind of breakthrough that could shift global power dynamics.
And you were worried about charming some boring scientist.
Plus, right now, your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache.
The concrete rooftop was unforgiving, and your feet feel like someone used them for target practice. But you’re alive, and more importantly, you’re safe.
Safe in Hoseok’s medical wing.
The thought brings warmth that has nothing to do with the heated blankets.
You think about his hands—always gentle when he examines you, clinical but somehow personal at the same time. The way he notices things: how you favor your left ankle when you’re tired, the pattern of bruises that maps your training schedule, the fact that your veins are notoriously difficult to find.
He pays attention.
In a world where most people only see what directly affects them, Hoseok notices the small details that matter. It’s what makes him good at his job, but it’s also what makes him dangerous to you.
Because you can’t stop wondering what it would feel like if that attention wasn’t purely medical.
If those gentle hands were touching you because he wanted to, not because you were injured.
If the warmth in his eyes when he checks on you meant something more than professional concern.
Stop it.
The gang’s rules are clear, and they exist for good reason.
RM rebuilt Kkangpae on the principle that personal attachments create vulnerabilities, and everything about your organization’s success proves him right.
But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally are two very different things.
And right now, exhausted and vulnerable in a hospital bed, you can’t quite convince your heart to care about organizational policies.
The cherry cordial scent grows stronger as your body warms under the blankets, mixing with the antiseptic in a way that somehow feels like home.
This room, this wing, the quiet competence of medical equipment—it all feels safer than anywhere else in the Castle.
Because this is Hoseok’s domain.
Where his word is law and his protection extends to everyone who enters seeking help.
Where the harsh realities of gang life soften into something approaching actual care.
You close your eyes and allow yourself, just for a moment, to imagine what it would be like if the world were different.
If two people could simply care about each other without it being a threat to everything that’s been built.
But when you open your eyes again, the medical wing looks exactly the same.
Fluorescent lights, beeping monitors, the faint chemical smell of industrial cleaning supplies.
Reality, unchanged by wishful thinking.
You’re still a dual-division ensign who just completed a mission of international significance.
And Hoseok is still the Chief Medical Officer whose job it is to keep you healthy enough to complete the next one.
Nothing more.
Nothing more.
The door opens quietly, and you know it’s him before you turn your head. Something about the way Hoseok moves—economical, precise, but never harsh. Like he’s always conscious of taking up space in a world full of people who need healing.
“Hey,” he says simply, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Your pulse quickens despite your best efforts to stay calm.
“Hey yourself, doc.”
He approaches the bed with that familiar combination of professional distance and personal concern that makes your chest tight.
Today he’s wearing a simple turtleneck under his white medical coat, and there are tension lines around his eyes that suggest he’s been running on too little sleep.
“How are you feeling?” He asks.
“Like I got hit by a truck. Driven by someone who really had it out for me.” You say, because there’s no point in lying.
That earns you a small smile—not the polite expression he uses with most patients, but something warmer and more genuine.
“That’s fairly accurate, considering.”
He reaches for your chart, scanning the vitals with the kind of focused attention that most people reserve for life-or-death decisions.
“Yoongi said you were asking about the mission.”
“He told me about Chrysalis.”
Hoseok’s hands still on the chart.
“Did he.”
“Military neural enhancement. The kind of thing that makes last night make a lot more sense.”
“It does.” He sets the chart aside and moves closer to the bed, studying your face with an intensity that makes you feel exposed. “How much do you remember about the extraction?”
“Most of it. Up until I passed out on Yoongi’s bike.”
Something flickers across his expression—relief, maybe, or concern that you remember more than he hoped.
“He was worried about you. More than he’d ever admit.”
“I figured. He stayed here all night, didn’t he?”
“Seventeen hours.” Hoseok’s voice carries a note of fond exasperation. “I had to threaten him with sedatives to get him to eat something.”
The image of Yoongi being bullied into basic self-care by an exasperated Hoseok makes you smile despite everything.
“He called you, didn’t he? During the extraction.”
Hoseok nods, moving to check the IV line in your arm. His fingers are warm against your skin, and you fight the urge to lean into the contact.
“Real-time medical assessment. Torn dress, bleeding feet, elevated pulse, dilated pupils.” He pauses. “He was scared. Really scared.”
“Were you?”
The question slips out before you can stop it.
Hoseok goes very still, his hand still resting against your arm where he’d been checking the IV.
“Yes.”
Simple, honest, devastating.
“The whole time you were gone, I kept thinking about all the things that could go wrong. All the ways you could get hurt that I wouldn’t be able to fix.”
His thumb traces unconsciously against your skin—just once, barely there, but enough to make your breath catch.
“Your veins are impossible to find on a good day,” he continues quietly. “If you’d been seriously injured…”
“But I wasn’t.”
“But you could have been.”
You feel the weight of his words on his chest.
All the ways the mission could have gone wrong, all the variables that could have ended with you not coming home at all.
How he would have beaten himself up forever for it.
“I’m okay,” you say softly. “I’m right here.”
“You are.” His voice carries a note of wonder, like he’s still not quite convinced.
“How did the meeting go?”
He pauses, licking his lips and considering his response like he’s been busted. But then he just sighs loudly and actually replies.
“About as well as expected.”
“Which means?”
“RM and I had a frank discussion about operational intelligence sharing and the medical risks of deploying personnel without adequate briefings.”
Which means the conversation was more heated than his diplomatic phrasing implies.
“Are you in trouble?”
“No more than usual.” He approaches the bed. “RM understands that medical officers occasionally have strong opinions about risk management.”
“Strong opinions?”
“I may have suggested that his strategic brilliance sometimes overlooks the human cost of calculated risks.”
Jesus.
“And he didn’t fire you?”
“He pointed out that my job is keeping people alive, not second-guessing command decisions. I pointed out that those two responsibilities sometimes conflict.” Hoseok’s mouth quirks into something that might be a smile. “We agreed to disagree.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” He sighs loudly. “Though he did mention that your performance exceeded all expectations and that future operations will benefit from better intelligence sharing.”
Future operations.
The phrase brings with it a complex mix of pride and apprehension.
“So I’m not in trouble either?”
“You completed a mission of international significance with minimal support and maximum complications. RM’s exact words were ‘exemplary adaptation under extreme circumstances.’” Hoseok’s eyes finally land on yours. “You’re not in trouble, pip. You’re being fast-tracked for advanced operations.”
Pip.
It makes something flutter in your chest, intimate and fond in a way that professional relationships definitely shouldn’t be.
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s recognition that you’re capable of handling situations far beyond your current rank. Whether it’s good or bad… Well, that depends on how you feel about increasingly complex missions.”
You don’t know how you feel about increasingly complex missions.
“I should probably start an IV,” he continues, deflecting from whatever he sees in your expression. “You’re still dehydrated, and knowing you, you haven’t eaten anything substantial in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Do you have to? The needle thing?”
He gives you a look that’s equal parts professional concern and personal amusement.
“Yes, I have to. And it’s not going to be fun, given your vascular situation.”
You make a face, and he laughs—actual laughter, warm and genuine.
“Come on, pip. When have I ever hurt you?”
Pip. Again.
“There’s a first time for everything, crocs.”
“Call me that again and I’ll use the biggest needle I can find.”
But there’s no heat in the threat, just the easy teasing that’s become natural between you despite all the rules it probably violates.
He prepares the IV kit with the kind of meticulous care you’ve come to associate with everything he does.
“This might take a couple tries,” he warns, settling beside you on the bed to get better access to your arm.
He’s close now—closer than usual, and the proximity makes your heart race in a way that has nothing to do with medical anxiety.
You can smell his cologne—that sandalwood scent that always makes you think of solid ground and safety—and feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“Just… try not to turn me into a pincushion.”
“I’ll do my best.”
His fingers probe gently along your arm, searching for a vein that will cooperate. The touch is clinical, professional, absolutely appropriate for a medical procedure.
So why does it feel like something else entirely?
“There,” he murmurs, finding what he’s looking for. “Hold still.”
The needle slides in smoothly—no pain, just a brief pinch and then relief as the IV line seats properly.
“Show off,” you mutter.
“Years of practice on difficult patients.”
“I’m not difficult.”
“You’re the most difficult patient I have.” But he says it with a fondness that takes any sting out of the words. “Always getting hurt in the most inconvenient ways.”
“I don’t do it on purpose.”
“Don’t you?”
The question catches you off guard, and you look up to find him watching you with an expression you can’t quite read.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He finishes securing the IV line and moves to check the flow rate. “Just… you end up in here a lot for someone who’s supposed to be trained in avoiding injury.”
There’s something underneath his words—not quite an accusation, but close.
Like he’s noticed the same pattern you’ve been trying not to think about.
The way you find reasons to visit the medical wing. The way minor injuries seem to require his personal attention. The way you linger in conversations that should be brief and professional.
He knows.
Or at least suspects.
“Sometimes people get hurt,” you say carefully. “That’s what medical wings are for.”
“Sometimes,” he agrees. “But usually not the same person, with the same frequency, requiring the same level of personal attention.”
Your cheeks warm, and you look away from his too-knowing eyes.
“I bruise easily. You said so yourself.”
“You do.” His voice is gentler now, less probing. “But that’s not what I’m talking about, and we both know it.”
Silence falls between you for a beat. Two.
“Hobi,” you say quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For taking care of me.”
“It’s my job.”
“Is it?”
He looks at you then—really looks.
“Yes,” he says finally. “It is.”
But the way he says it suggests it stopped being just a job a long time ago.
Because there are moments—small ones, easily missed if you weren’t paying attention—where it’s clear.
The way he lingers when checking your pulse, fingers resting against your wrist longer than necessary.
How he adjusts your pillows with a gentleness that goes beyond medical courtesy.
The fact that he’s personally handling your care instead of delegating to the night staff.
“You don’t have to stay,” you tell him as he settles into the visitor’s chair Yoongi vacated hours ago. “I’m sure you have other patients.”
“Not tonight.” He stretches his legs out, looking more relaxed than you’ve seen him in weeks. “Quiet evening in the medical wing. Just you and a couple of routine check-ups.”
“Lucky me.”
“Lucky you.”
Your perfume mixes with his now, and it takes no effort for you to identify it.
Cherry cordial, sandalwood.
The sterile medical room feels almost cozy. Like a space that belongs to both of you instead of just him.
“RM wanted me to pass along his congratulations,” Hoseok says, pulling out a tablet and scrolling through what looks like official communications. “Mission success, minimal complications, valuable intelligence gathered.”
“Minimal complications?”
“His words, not mine.”
His tone suggest he doesn’t agree with RM’s statement.
You snort. “I nearly got kidnapped by hostile intelligence services. That seems like more than minimal.”
“But you didn’t get kidnapped. You completed the objective and extracted successfully.” His eyes meet yours over the tablet. “That’s what matters to RM.”
“What matters to you?”
Silence.
His eyes rise up from his device to stare into yours for a couple seconds.
“That you’re safe,” he says then. “That you’re here, in one piece, complaining about IV needles and calling me ridiculous nicknames.”
That you’re here.
Not that the mission succeeded, not that KGP’s objectives were met, but that you specifically are present and accounted for.
“The nicknames aren’t that ridiculous.”
“Crocs?”
“You wear them all the time!”
“Because I’m a doctor!”
“You literally wear designer turtlenecks to perform surgery.”
“I wear scrubs for surgery.” But he’s smiling now, the tension of the last day finally starting to ease. “The turtlenecks are for meetings with people who think doctors should look respectable.”
“You don’t think you look respectable?”
“I think I look like someone playing dress-up in a world where appearances matter more than competence.”
“You look like someone who saves lives,” you say quietly. “Everything else is just packaging.”
He goes still, tablet forgotten in his lap.
“Pip…”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head, but something has shifted in his expression. “You should get some rest. It’s been a long day.”
“I’ve been resting for eighteen hours.”
“You’ve been unconscious for eighteen hours. That’s different.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You’re exhausted. I can see it in your vitals.”
Always paying attention.
Always noticing the things you try to hide.
“Will you stay?” The question slips out before you can stop it. “Just… until I fall asleep?”
Something vulnerable flickers across his face.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I can do that.”
He moves the chair closer to the bed, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to.
Close enough that the scent of sandalwood mingles with cherry cordial until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
“Better?”
“Better.”
You close your eyes, listening to the quiet sounds of him settling in—the rustle of fabric, the soft beep of monitors, his steady breathing that somehow makes the whole room feel safer.
“Hoseok?”
“Mmm?”
“I’m glad you were scared.”
A pause.
“Why?”
“Because it means this matters to you too.”
You don’t open your eyes to see his reaction, but you hear the sharp intake of breath, the way his breathing changes rhythm.
“Get some sleep, pip,” he says finally, voice rougher than before.
“Stay?”
“I’ll stay.”
And he does.
When you drift off, lulled by exhaustion and the warm weight of his presence, Hoseok is still there in the chair beside your bed. Still watching over you with the kind of careful attention that speaks to feelings neither of you can afford to name.
Still close enough to touch, even though you both know you never will.
Where a doctor tends to wounds that go deeper than skin.
Where someone learns the difference between being cared for and being cared about.
Where Project Chrysalis represents transformation on a global scale.
But the only metamorphosis that matters is happening right here.
In the quiet space between two people who are learning that some rules are harder to follow than others.
im doing a full reread and oh my god this hit SO hard with the right playlist and stuff. The smells, the visuals, the inner dialogue, the build-up, the danger, the release... All DELICIOUS. From AD in the comm, to the seduction techniques, then the running away and the spy vibes, I AM FED. VERY WELL FED. This AU is a buffet with 5 star Michelin quality.
tumblr just added an update that requires you to verify your age in order to view "mature content". I'm not sure how they do the verification (haven't yet checked), but given recent similar updates from things like Discord, it most likely involves sending them a photo of either your face or your ID.
In addition, over the past few months, and also years in the long-term, tumblr has been incorrectly marking things as mature content. These include:
Notifications about missing persons and requests for help
Posts about youth liberation
Posts about sex education
Posts about how the mature content is poorly implemented
Posts about being trans, more specifically about trans women and transmisogyny by both tumblr and users on tumblr
Non-sexual selfies by trans women/transfems
Trans womens'/transefems' ENTIRE BLOGS even if the blog contains no sexual content
Reblogs made by various blogs, mostly trans women, which add no additional content but somehow are marked as containing mature content, when the original post is not
Posts talking about racism and antiblackness both on and off tumblr
Posts by black people, especially black trans people, that are non-sexual
And likely many more I haven't seen
In essence, this update has mandated that a majority of users must either a) submit their personal information to tumblr, a website whose moderation has been EXTREMELY biased against marginalised people and who I would not trust with my ID, or b) be excluded from absolutely all conversations tumblr decides are "mature content", whether they are actually sexual in nature or not. Furthermore, anyone not over 18 will also not be allowed to take part in these conversations, or even see them, or interact with many trans women or people of colour on this site, as tumblr decides.
This update is complete bullshit designed to censor and exclude marginalised people, poorly hidden under a guise of "protecting teenagers from sexual content", and they know it.
Summary: As an agent you must remain anonymous. No names, no pseudonyms, nothing that can identify you as an individual rather than a cog in the machine called Epoch. When the violence starts to get to you, the reputation of a good agent slips through your fingers. You burn through handler after handler, until you're given one last opportunity to live up to the agency's expectations. What should be a simple task becomes near impossible when you are met by the deep voice of your new handler. You find yourselves divulging detail after detail, until unknowing becomes impossible and living becomes an inconvenience to the agency that built you.
Tags and Warnings (To Be Updated): Spy AU, Angst, Slow Burn, Potential Smut, Yearning, Major and Minor Character Death, Violence, Descriptions of PTSD and PTSD Episodes, Depersonalization, Derealization, Forced Anonymity, Crisis of Identity, Memory Distrust, Sociopolitical Conflicts, Systemic Control
Chapter Specific Warnings: Blood and Gore, Violence, Gun Violence, Minor Character Death, Life or Death Situations, Child Death, Derealization, Dissociation, Descriptions of a PTSD Episode, Hallucinations, Breaks From Reality, Suicidal Ideation
Author's Note: Ok welcome to the first fic I have ever posted, be nice to me pls and thank u!! This chapter functions as the prologue so you will not meet Yoongi in this one, but I promise he will be introduced in chapter 2. This is giving you a look at our main character and the events that lead her to getting assigned to Yoongi as her handler. And please look at the warnings, this chapter is very violent and quite a heavy read. I had to give a look at the reality these agents face and how uncaring their handlers typically are. I'll be holding your hand through the screen during the rough parts. Enjoy!
You had done this job long enough to know when a mission was about to go to shit.
You woke up that morning to the buzzing of your ear piece on the bedside table. Its bright red glow pulsing, scattering crimson hues across the back of your eyeballs. You groaned, turning to bury your face into the pillow beneath you. Shielding your sleeping self from the constant flash of light. It wasn't the first time you were woken up like this, and in your sleep-addled mind you still knew exactly what it meant. A mission given to you directly from your handler. No job boards, no scrambling to get good pay with a low risk to your personal well-being. A mission picked out specifically for you. Orders coming straight from the top.
And that had a tendency to never go well.
You sigh into your pillow, vision still obscured by your face plant into the cushion. One deep breath. In and out. You could do this. You had to do this.
Bracing your palms flat against the mattress you rise slowly. Squinting and blinking rapidly as your eyes try to adjust to the darkness and the constant strobe at your side. You just barely make out the digits on the clock by your bed. 0200.
Too fucking early. That's points off the "mission go well" counter.
You swing your legs off the side of the bed, already reaching down to move loose floorboards out of the way. To those who wouldn't know what to look for, the sight underneath the wood would be largely underwhelming. A dusty book, an old tea tin and a biscuit package that was starting to grow mildew.
You slide down to the floor and swipe the ear piece from the table on your way down. Arranging yourself to sit criss-cross you grab the items out of the floorboards and hook the blinking device into your right ear. Your fingers fumble with the dial, turning until the feedback goes from a high pitched screech to a dull hum. When you find it, you flick a small notch at the top of the device.
"Agent reporting", you say and begin to open the filthy items.
A crackly voice echoes in your ear. Old and creaky, making the feedback of your earpiece sound that much worse.
"Extraction. 44 degrees North, 26 degrees West".
You furrow your brows and hook a finger into the dusty old book. Flipping to a practiced location, halfway into it, a hollowed out section holding an old 9mm. "The old boarding schools? What's the target?".
"Female, Straad. Civilian".
You freeze, halting in your twisting of a silencer onto the end of your gun. "A person? Am I transporting, what's my time line?".
"no transportation, other agents will handle that. Deliver the target to the west bay of the complex, there is an old loading dock. Transfer of goods will occur there. You have an hour".
You fly through assembling your weapon and pocket extra magazines from the old tea tin. You swear, clumsily knocking the containers back into the floor and kicking the wood back into place. "Shit, you could have led with that you know? It's going to take 20 minutes to get there! Target description", you bark out. Flinging clothes off of your body and throwing on tactical gear with frantic urgency.
You are midway through lacing your boots when the crackling voice returns. "You have your description".
You halt in your task once more, laces hooked around your thumbs. "Oh, you're fucking kidding".
"Female, Straad, Civilian", the handler repeats.
Delightful, what a clear statement. Like that gives you a lick of sense. You are in Lekestraad for gods sake. It would take you all of 5 minutes to bump into "female, straad, civilian".
"What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Did you feel like narrowing it down to a city, rather than the entire country?".
"I'm sorry, but further information is classified".
"Classified?", you let out a shocked laugh and finish lacing up your boots. You reach for your bullet proof vest, pulling it over your head and then strapping a knife to the side of your thigh. "Did the council want me to succeed in this mission, or is this some incredibly late hazing?".
"The target will be the only civilian, no further information is necessary".
"The only civilian?", you repeat. "just who exactly is in the building?", but you already knew the answer before it came.
Classified.
Said in that crackly voice you were beginning to fear would lead you into a very painful and arduous mission. You look to your pistol hanging at your side, the knife on the other. The standard weapons issued to all agents. The only weapons they were allowed to keep on their person. It was built for stealth, simple in and out missions. Anything requiring combat was to be issued on a mission by mission basis.
"Do I need a different weapon?", you ask incredulously.
"No time for a supply center, pistol only. You will be fine agent".
You fume to yourself, not quite ready to get into with the old man when you just woke up 5 minutes ago. If the issuers didn't move, you would just ignore him and go get properly supplied yourself. But you needed direction, guidance. The only one who knew where supply would be is in your ear telling you to figure it out. Do with what you have. And with your recent history with Epoch, you could not afford to risk a mission. Especially not by disobeying direct orders.
So with a slow, creeping sense of dread, you watch the mental "mission go well" counter spin triple digits into a casino jack-pot. But instead of money, you know you are awarded an absolute fucking shit show.
"Fine, ok", you whisper to yourself. It was just extraction, those were relatively easy missions. No blood, no violence just… get the target and move her somewhere else. You could do that.
You take one deep steadying breath, pulling your mask over your face, letting the fabric mold to the contours and curves of it. The one barrier between you and the person the agency molded you into. All you had to do was survive.
"Agent on the move".
At any other point in the year, you would have to put far more energy into stealthing. Any other location even. As it was, your objective put you right in the middle of the old boarding schools. A remnant from the time of unification. Cultural erasure under the guise of education and peace. It was like misery rolled off from the concrete in waves. The towering prison architecture sloping over you, casting you in shadow as the snowfall quieted your footsteps. It felt every bit as oppressive as you were sure it did when the schools were open. And you could taste it in the air, the syllables mothers spoke that their children forgot.
Histories of the old war, the current war. Memories from a time many would like to ignore, boarded up and abandoned. A new city built over the scars, so nobody else could see them.
In short, no one was just walking around the neighborhood. The few that were here were ah- indisposed. So to speak.
Thus, instead of darting around back alleys and taking quadruple the time it would take to reach your assignment, today you were able to waltz right up the sidewalk.
"Status?", the handler asks in your ear.
"I can see it up ahead, 5 minutes", you say low and slow. Voice hushed to match the quiet serenity of the snowfall around you.
"Good, enter in from the northeastern corner. There is an old service door which should be left unguarded. Observations of the location indicate that the target is being held on the 5th floor. There will be a stairwell in the same hall that the basement leads you out of".
You hum your affirmation. Ducking around foliage to keep in shadow for your journey up to the building. The streetlights were old, and mostly defunct. Many flickered in and out, long bursts of darkness before sputtering into life again. It offered you a convenient path right up to the service door, dark combat gear matching the shadows perfectly.
The door itself is just a well in the ground. The entrance to an old cellar or basement. You slink down the stairs with practiced movements, minimizing your risk of potential sighting. You reach the iron door, rusted and red with age. Chains are piled up in the corners of the cellar, broken with an even split. A cut, and there is an old keypad which is so aged that the oils of previous fingers have melted through the plastic.
"The chains have been cut", you say in a hushed voice.
"By us", says your handler. "Observations indicate that the service door has remained unused".
"And you left the chains out for them to find?", you ask, trying to shake off the odd feeling this assignment keeps giving you. The whole thing just felt too… rushed. Not to mention sloppy, but that was a whole separate issue. It wasn't exactly uncommon either, for a handler to get a slapdash poorly put together mission. Then, instead of tying up loose ends themselves just leaving it to the agent to pick up the slack.
"Not by me", he responds.
You huff, rolling your eyes and turning to rest against the door. "The recon team then".
"I'm not their handler".
"Yeah? Then file a formal complaint, I don't intend to get shot today because someone else did their job shitty. What's the code?", you bark.
"0-8-4-7", the handler says, voice starting to have a twinge of annoyance to it.
Turning to the keypad you punch in the numbers, as best you can with the buttons nearly melted away. "How did you even figure this out?", you mutter to yourself as you slide open the door. "Have some poor greenie punch in all possible combos until they found the right one?".
"Agent, focus on the mission".
You roll your eyes and reach into one of your pouches to pull out a flashlight. "You are absolutely exhausting, you know that?". You give the end of the flashlight a couple of good whacks. The force of it flickering the light to life as you scan the dark room the door puts you in.
It seemed to be just an old storage room. An old water heater, furnace. Old desks and chairs stacked precariously on top of each other, turned grey with years worth of dust settling over them. You move slowly around the room, pistol held out in front of you. Spending a couple of moments, you do a slow perimeter and catalogue the lack of footsteps in the dirt on the floor. "Basement is clear, proceeding". You move forward slowly, coming upon a large stairway. The steps were wooden, beat up. A few odd nails sticking up from the wood bent at an angle, like whoever built it just slapped random wood together and called it good. Gently, you press down on the step, not allowing your full weight to settle onto it. Testing the dips and bends, seeing which sections would cause any creaks and groans. You traverse them quickly, but cautiously.
"I've reached the main floor entrance", you say, pausing to test the door handle. It moves a couple inches before reaching an invisible barrier, which prevents you from fully twisting it. "It's locked".
"Tools, agent", the old man grunts in your ear impatiently.
You scoff quietly to yourself, pulling out a lock pick kit. "Thought you had recon run this path", you say, inserting needles into the lock and begin to feel around the inner mechanisms.
"Current occupants must have locked it".
"Righhhht", you drawl and mutter to yourself. "These mysterious non-civilian occupants". Your brows furrow as you concentrate on moving the pieces inside the lock. You just catch on a small sliding piece when your thoughts are interrupted by the far away sound of something sharp. Something launched with velocity, repeated, a loud and aggressive sound. Bullets. You drop the needles, and turn to press your ear to the door. Counting to yourself there's 1, 2… 3? Alternating shots, hard to discern with them layering over each other. Several gun men, a full fire fight by the sounds of it. But the sounds are softened, not as loud as a typical shot would be. Silencers, they were using silencers.
"Gunfire, lots of it", you whisper. "transportation team?". It is silent for a couple of moments.
"No, transportation was directed specifically to only transfer goods. They should be armed no more than you. They shouldn't even be here yet. Pick up is at 0300".
You swallow. "Friendly fire?"
The handler makes a noise of disagreement. "the only non-civilians in location should be hirelings. Protection for the target".
"then who the hell is firing?".
The question bears down on you both, implications heavy and dread growing.
"Updated objective agent. The end goal remains extraction but now… for now it's extermination".
The word dawns on you slowly, fuzzy like the static in your ears. When it processes you feel your breath pick up speed, and you flex your fingers against your gun, the tips of them starting to go a little numb. You gasp quietly to yourself, system shocked like you had just been plunged into ice cold water.
"No", you say firmly.
"This is not up for negotiation, you have your new objective", the words come out steely.
"You can't-", and you gulp down the shouts that want to come screaming from your vocal chords. He can't ask you to do this, you won't do this. Not this many people, not all at once. Not by your gun. "What do you expect me to do? I have one pistol, I can tell-", you pause to listen to the gunfire again. "These have to at least be semi-automatic, if not fully. My Kevlar is not built to withstand those shots. I only have 41 bullets, I would have to get a one shot kill for everybody and I'm fucked if there's anymore targets than that!".
"Then take down a target and use their weapon".
You imagine operating a militarized weapon and shudder to yourself. You had seen what they could do to bodies. Turn them unrecognizable, vaporize them into nothing but a bloody heap. The thought of it turns you a little sick. "No", you repeat firmly. "Call for back-up, this is not a one agent mission".
"I was specifically instructed to minimize agent contact with the target. I will call for no one else. Your objective is extermination".
"You were given instructions with old information. This is the new information, the parameters need changed-".
You are interrupted by a snarling, angry voice in your ear. "I am your superior, you do not give me orders, I give them to you. That is an order, agent".
You flinch, head drooping into your hands. You feel the cold harsh lines of the pistol digging into your cheek. So much blood… it was going to be so much blood. You saw different outcomes spastically rushing through your mind. All ending with a violent and bloody death. But the ones where you succeed- you knew it was going to be up close and personal. You were going to have to get past those weapons, look them in the eye as you…
"Please don't make me do this", you whisper to the uncaring voice in your ear.
"You've killed before", says the handler, pausing to wait for your answer. It's a prompt that unlocks some part of you. The old uncaring agent that you used to be. Who was able to wash blood from her fingernails without thinking of the face it came from. Some part of you leaves itself as you are once again faced with the choices Epoch makes for you.
"And I will do so again", you breathe. Finally, you wrench yourself from the floor, finish the picking of the lock and push past the door that will lead you to gods' know where.
"All of them agent, no extraction until not a single one is left".
In other words, figure it out.
"Understood", you say, leaning into the hallway. You do a brief check of the area, no targets visible. Shots still sounding far away. You would have to delve deeper to find the fight.
Darting out into the hallway you lead with your gun, prepared to fire at the slightest sign of movement. It's how you were going to get through. To survive what you were beginning to believe was just an elaborate scheme to kill you off. You knew your handler didn't care for you. Not that any handler ever cared for the agents they threw into missions. Your last 4 certainly didn't. But this one, you swore this guy hated your guts. Possibly even more than you hated him. Did he choose an impossible mission just to get rid of you? So he didn't have to take the reputation hit of requesting a transfer? I mean, none of this made any sense. A target you had to capture, to identify on sight, but any knowledge of her was classified. That meant she was someone important, key to protecting the creed. That should result in more agents, not less. Which means logically, there was something being hidden from you. Information so important that if you were to learn more… well. It would be easier to handle a couple agents rather than a whole squadron who knew too much. And these orders given to you, not getting proper supply, and choosing to exterminate an entire building of people.
Your handler was going rogue, you knew it. No sane person would make these orders, no leadership would risk a target on the slim chance one agent could accomplish this task. He was desperate, and you had no idea why.
You turn a corner, hallway widening into what looked to be a play room. There were decaying plushies everywhere, old circular rugs and toys scattered about the area. Small kitchens and other things for young girls to play grown-up. Set out and left in their spots like every kid who used to go here all got up and left at the same time. The sounds of bullets spraying were steadily getting louder and louder. There was a second entrance on the other side of the room, opposite of where you entered. Whoever was in here, the sounds were coming from that direction. They would have to walk right through here to make it to the stairs that led to other floors. The area you came from. You quickly scan the room, locating a desk in the southwest corner. It was the perfect spot to sit and wait. There was a wooden board in the front so they wouldn't see you as they entered, and it provided cover for whatever weapons they had on them. You snatch a toy compact mirror off one of the faux vanity desks, the mirror is small and warped. But it was reflective enough to allow you to see behind the desk. You slide underneath it, pushing an old office chair out of the way and place the old compact on its surface. Pointed so you could watch the back entrance, and prepare for whatever was coming to you.
It took several minutes for them to reach the play room. Their scuffle slows their pace significantly. You see two vague figures on the mirror's surface, armored but in clothing similar to you. Not military then, maybe mercenaries. They were shuffling back slowly, shooting in front of them and occasionally looking around the room.
"Cover!", one of them shouts. "Get cover!".
"On it!", the other one shouts back, turning and sprinting through the room. You watch as his path leads straight towards the desk, your muscles tensing and preparing to launch from your hiding spot. Before you can take a full breath, the man has traversed the room and launched himself over it. You hear the sounds of him skidding along the surface as he knocks your mirror to the side. He collapses down to the floor in front of you, weapon held at an awkward angle, tip of the barrel brushing against the floor. As he falls, he makes eye contact with you, eyes widening slightly as he tries to adjust his weapon that is too big for the space. Too late, too slow. Your gun is pointed and with a sharp, quiet bang, you paint the walls with a fresh coat it has not seen in decades.
You rush forward, trying to untangle the weapon from the body before his partner turns and starts shooting at you. Your eyes pointedly look away from his face, away from the walls. The only type of thought in your head is mission objectives. Target down, several approaching. Fire imminent behind you. Retrieve the weapon, take down the second target. Cold clinical analysis. You didn't have time to feel afraid.
As you wrench the strap of the rifle off of the body, you hear the sound of thundering footsteps in the distance. The man in the room takes another volley of shots in their direction. He's yelling, shouting for his partner. The pitch of it growing more frantic the longer he and the approaching group trade shots.
"I said get cover! I need back-up Cas-".
No. Don't think about it. You don't want to know.
You continue patting down the uniform of the body in front of you. Finding extra rounds and pocketing them. You press against the drawers of the desk, turning slightly while you wait for the other team to arrive. Rifle pressed into your chest, hands on the trigger, prepared to launch an assault.
You hear it when it happens, all the violent bloody details of it. The panicked sounds of the man. The brief fight he puts up, the sounds he makes as he chokes on his own blood. And you sit there the whole time, pressed up against the body he called his partner, and let them hurt each other before you finish the job.
Quiet, unnervingly quiet. Your breath shakes, your fingers slip against the trigger as the sweat of your own hands turns the metal slick.
"Wasn't there another one?", the new target asks. And in that brief moment where they realize there is a danger they have not accounted for, you are roaring up from the desk to place a bullet between their eyes.
You crouch, head barely visible above the surface of the desk and brace the rifle onto it. Eyes cataloguing the number of targets in a second, 3. 3 who have all seen you and are preparing to take shots. You take several before their fingers can even twitch along a trigger. The first, a one shot kill, right in the head, between the only space his helmet did not cover. The outcome is repulsive, an explosion of-
It distracts the second target long enough for you to down him, shot fired into a shoulder, and then another in his Kevlar padded abdomen. The force of the shots wind him, the velocity stumbling as he trips over dusty old toys. You duck behind the desk once more, preparing for the incoming shots from the 3rd target who remains standing.
You barely have enough time to tuck behind the drawers of the desk rather than the thin padded front, when bullets are ripping holes in the old particle board. Embedding themselves into the wall and body in front of you. The heat of them brushes by your side, a pressure uncomfortably close to the vulnerable tissue of your ribs. They whizz by, just narrowly missing your own Kevlar padded side.
Crouching, you start to turn and come around the edge of the desk, rather than poking your head over. You expected their guns to be trained right at the spot you popped up and you were not going to give them a 2nd chance to try to shoot faster than you.
As you just peak out from the edge, you see the uninjured one pulling a walkie-talkie affixed to his shoulder close to his mouth. Buttons pressed down he shouts into the device "new assailant!, female to the north. It's gotta be Ep-". You hold down the trigger, gun ripping a trail of carnage across him. He falls, body going limp and twitching in a growing pool around him. The other flinches, trying to operate the large rifle one handed, as you rendered the other one useless with a shot to the shoulder. Too slow, almost laughably so. In a pitying way. The third is quiet before he even gets the chance to properly point his gun.
Your eyes flick across the room once more, making sure there are no other targets hiding in the corners. When you see nothing but empty space you sprint forward, snatching the walkie-talkie off of the body and pocketing it.
Breathless and panting you turn tail and run straight back the way you came. To the old stairwell that will lead you to other floors. Pushing yourself to go faster, trying to get there before any squadrons could meet you head on in an open hallway. There is chatter coming from the walkie.
"Alek, status? We will send a group down to your area".
You fly past old tattered posters, sliding your way through corners and barreling forward. "Target alerted other squadrons of my presence. It sounded like-", you gasp. The pace turns your words into a stuttered mess. "They know I'm with Epoch!".
"Objective remains the same, exterminate all targets-".
You interrupt him, yelling into the receiver. "God dammit, if you're not going to say anything helpful I would rather you just shut the hell up!". You turn on your heel, boots screeching as the plastic slides across the linoleum floor. You skid in front of the stairwell, launching yourself up the first flight of stairs without pause. You can feel the stairs vibrate as dozens of feet pound down them to meet you.
It was not a good location to fight in at all. Tight, close quarters, nowhere to take cover and it wasn't easy to run away if you had to. The way stairwells are built, turning corner after corner, it significantly reduces your speed and running up an incline expends far more energy. You were going to be packed like rats, crunched up in the staircase together. However, at the same time, whoever was coming down the stairs was going to be limited by the same factors you were.
You are just about to crest the platform to the 3rd level when you encounter your first target on the stairs. Taking the steps two at a time he traverses them quickly, a second hireling just behind him. Their weapons are raised, one shouts "assailant spotted!", up the stairs.
You hold down the rifle trigger, one long press and let the bullets spray haphazardly in the stairwell. The bodies fall and roll down the stairs, limbs twisted at odd angles. You leave bloody footprints along the stairs as you continue your path of violence. Trigger held down, letting the bullets catch wherever. Not conserving ammo, just concerned about getting targets down before they could get you.
In the attention you could manage to give them, you saw that not every target had the same weapon. The same armor even. Some were strapped with Kevlar, rifles held at the ready like the targets you killed downstairs. Others… others just had pistols, hand guns. Small weapons that couldn't hold a candle to this massacre dressed in metal clothing.
Your weapon clicks repeatedly, interrupting your thoughts. You press down on the trigger harder click click click. No bullets leave the barrel.
"Fuck!", you swear. Hands fumbling in panic, trying to reach the place you pocketed those extra mags. The target in front of you takes the opportunity to strike. Shooting a couple times he places a few bullets in your chest. The pistol ammo is crunched against your vest and the pain of the shots stumbles you a little. You reach for your pistol, the one strapped to your belt, but he is shockingly fast for a man of his size. Huge and lumbering, arms the size of tree trunks. You scramble backwards as you see massive hands reaching for you. Hand to hand combat with this guy was sure to end in disaster. But he catches you around your belt, heaving you into the air as your rifle goes clattering down the stairs. You feel your heart launch itself into your throat as he throws you down the stairs. Butterflies scream around your stomach as you enter free-fall.
You attempt to twist yourself in the air, optimize your landing as best you can. All you can really do is tuck your arms around your head, protect your skull from the painful landing you were about to take down concrete stairs.
You connect with the edge of the steps on your left shoulder. You let out a choked noise, yelping in pain as the sensation fires down your nerves. The impact of the blow is felt throughout your entire arm. You careen down the stairs, tumbling and rolling. Body taking a beating even through the padded vest you have on. Your descent is stopped only by your back slamming into the railing of the stairwell. The force of it rips the air from your lungs, gasping and heaving as you try to shake off the pain.
There is no time to gather yourself before the man is upon you again. Gripping your forearm in one hand he wrenches you up, shoulder screaming in protest as your arm is forced straight in the air. Blinking through the dark spots in your vision you rip a knife from the strap near your thigh. You thrust upward, towards the arm that held you aloft, and stab right into the underside of his elbow. He screams as you meet resistance, but you lean up with your body weight, serrated edges designed to slice through ligaments and bone. With a pop, you cut through the resistance and you pull backwards on the knife until you feel the joint dislocate from its socket.
The man is screaming in agony, as you are instantly released from his grasp. You rush forward, knife gripped in your palm, and you strike right at his throat. The fabric of his shirt sliced in an instant, and a long gash of red opening in the tissue. You are doused in blood. Hands slipping and sliding on the grip of the knife from the gap you cut in his arm, and mask uncomfortably wet from the slash in his throat.
You gasp for breath as you kick him away from you, let him tumble down the stairs. Adrenaline pumping from the encounter, sending your muscles twitchy. Prepared to spring and run, tensed for survival. You turn and scramble up the stairs, pulling your mask tighter to your face as you work to get up from your knees. Turn away from him, from the target. So you didn't have to look him in the eyes as he bled out alone among the bodies of his comrades. You run, boots slipping on the gore. Fleeing up the steps until you reach the 5th floor.
You pause to catch your breath, and listen to the shots fired on the other side of the door. Groups of people mowing each other down for who knows what. An endless scene of violence, of carnage. Your eye twitches at the slick feeling of your blood soaked mask.
"The target", you gasp. "Where is she?".
"Have you exterminated all others?".
"No, I'm on the 5th floor-".
"Extraction will not occur until you have eliminated-".
"The target will die!", you shout. "The target might already be dead! There are two groups here all fighting and taking shots at each other. If the other isn't here to take her, then she might get caught in the crossfire. There is too much fighting, I need to locate her and pull her out!".
"Your job as an agent is to make sure the objective is completed despite all obstacles-".
"I am doing that!", you seethe. "My objective is to deliver goods to the extraction team! I can sweep after they're out. If they're armed with pistols, they're going to die before they can get her out of here!".
"With the updated parameters-", you nearly slam your head into a wall as you hear him start ranting about the updated objective again.
"God dammit, if you don't know where the target is just say that!"
There is a brief silence, before he is back in your ear spouting bullshit once more.
"The observations of the complex did occur several days-".
You nearly scream out loud. "Holy shit, so you actually have no idea what you're doing. I have a fucking moron in my ear hellbent on making sure I reach my demise tonight!". The statement is emphasized by you sending a kick into the 5th floor door. It swings open, hinges swiveling as you send it flying into the other side of the wall.
The sight you are met with, is nothing less than a blood bath. Dozens of bodies, scattered in the hallways. All of them in different uniforms. New hirelings make it into the hallway, but they are dropped as fast as they arrive. People dressed in all black, various clothing that didn't exactly match their counterparts. Others dressed in militarized uniforms. Armored and padded, expensive weapons in their hands and at their hips. Armbands are tied around them, with a symbol stitched into it. Whoever these groups were, one of them was clearly organized. Not to mention well funded.
You dart forward, sliding onto your knees to search one of the bodies. You grab at his arm, ripping at the band tied around his bicep. Four circles, all intertwined with each other, S curves leaving one and forming the other. It looked like some sort of complex knot. You stuff the cloth into your boot. If your handler didn't have any idea what was going on here, you were going to make damn sure you could see these guys coming in the future.
You continue on, opening old doors, checking classrooms for a woman. Someone who would supposedly look distinctly civilian. You trade shots with targets you encounter, ammo dwindling and energy waning. You feel your moves get more and more sluggish as the number of fights you find yourself in keeps increasing.
"Shit", you mutter to yourself. "There's no way I'm not past extraction time". You swing open another classroom door, leading with your gun and checking for any active targets. All you are met with is an, admittedly, alarming amount of bodies. From what you can tell they look to be the hirelings, dark mismatched clothing, no arm bands to be seen. You close the door, barring it with a chair propped up underneath the handle. A quick break, that's all you needed. Time to rest your limbs, search these guys for any extra ammo and continue with the mission.
You press your back to the wall, slowly sliding down as you face the pile of bodies. The exhaustion takes you straight to the floor, legs spread out in front of you, head resting back on the brick work. You pant quietly, listening for any targets who might be creeping close to the classroom door.
At first it seems like a good idea, taking a rest. Allowing your body to adjust before you launch yourself back into the fray. But as you sit there, your heart stops pounding, your breath returns to normal and your adrenaline… it flat-lines.
You feel nothing as you sit there, other than the dull throb of your shoulder. Then all at once there is a searing white hot pain in your side as your body allows you to feel it in full once more. It was burning, but aching like someone had cracked the side of your ribs with a bat. All the unbearable lingering sensitive ache of blunt force trauma. If you didn't know any better, if you weren't familiar with how adrenaline could mask the severity of injuries, maybe you could have been fooled into thinking that's all this is. You had been tossed around a couple of times in the mission, you could've easily broken some bones. But that burn… you are violently familiar with it. This kind of pain. A sneaking sensation. Dull at first, and then all at once hitting you like a freight train. It's a slow enough feeling that it often convinces plenty of green agents to just ignore it. To just finish their mission. Press on until they notice their gear is damp with their own blood, bleeding out for the money. For the cause that chewed them up and spit them out as fast as it put a gun in their hands.
Shot. You've been shot.
You hiss, and suck in air through your teeth. A pained whistled breath. You press the butt of your heel into the bullet wound, applying pressure that makes stars burst across your vision. As you pant through the pain, the intake of air presses the damp cloth of your mask to your nose. Each breath pastes it to your skin and blood restricts the flow of air through cotton. Impatiently you set your gun on your thigh, and rip the wet fabric from your face. It falls to the ground with a sickening wet smack, staining the concrete a deep red.
You begin to unbuckle your tactical gear with practiced movements. Fingers working quickly to snap off the individual pieces of your armor. Pouches and outer layers are removed, until you're left in just your undershirt. Gently, you peel it back and unstick the fabric from the bullet hole. Your fingers reach blindly into the pack that you know has emergency gauze, rummaging around blindly as you focus on the gaping hole sat in your ribs.
"Extraction", you say. The word shatters the silence. A disruption to the unsettling peace of the bodies around you.
"Come again?", comes a crackling voice in your ear. You wince at the fizzing and popping.
"I need extraction", you repeat. "I've been shot". Your fingers finally snag on the familiar texture of gauze. Grabbing it you produce a very small roll, well used in the past. It was just enough to properly wrap the wound, but not enough to reapply.
You hear a snort in your ear. "We don't extract for bullet wounds, you are trained in first aid for a reason, agent".
"Yes, and I'm also trained with enough medical knowledge to tell you when I need extraction. I was shot in the ribs, send a team to secure the area and get me out of here", you bark at the handler.
"I will search for the nearest hospital to your location and guide you-"
You interrupt him, fuming and swearing. "I'm sorry are you a fucking moron? What makes you think I can walk anywhere with a god damn hole in my ribs? Who knows what the hell the bullet nicked, I'd bleed out before I could even get to the damn lobby!".
"You cannot afford extraction, we cannot afford extraction. The target is essential. If we wait for a team, enforcements will come and we will lose the opportunity to take her today. You and I both know that you are walking on thin ice as it is. Anything less than absolute success is unacceptable, agent".
You snarl at him, absolutely infuriated by his idiocy, and fueled by a fierce refusal to die at the inept direction of this fucking handler. A person who sits in their chair and listens to the violence you inflict without having even a drop of blood stain them. Scott free of the consequences they throw you in daily.
"I refuse to die because a coward behind a microphone commanded me to."
His reply is cold and steely. Every bit the reflection of the organization you now find yourself trapped under. "You signed up because you were willing to die and kill for the creed".
"No", you sneer. Just as cold, just as fierce. "I signed up to protect the creed, what good am I to it dead?".
"That is for the agency to decide".
You nearly rip out your earpiece in your instinct to shout down the line. Almost jump to yell so loud in his ear that the vibrato would make his ears bleed. Maybe then he'd understand the toll and expectations of an agent. Instead your eyes narrow into slits, words hissed at him. This faceless man who demands you bleed and break because he decides it's necessary. A man who wouldn't so much as sneeze over your absence from the world. "The agency can decide after I'm out, for now, I choose to live".
In a tense moment of anger between you, the atmosphere is punctured by the sound of a click. Something intimately familiar to you. The sound of a rotating chamber, a bullet spinning slowly, until it locks into place. Primed to take a shot. One well aimed on a distracted target and it could be lights out. Permanently.
It is instinct that moves your hand. It is survival. Something deeply seeded in the recesses of your mind, a command that sounds like "eat or be eaten".
You don't even have time to properly direct the muscles to grab your gun. To face the threat before it can get you, you are moving with the propensity of a trained killer.
Not a chance in hell. Before anybody can move a finger along a trigger, a gun is in your hand and you are once more the architect of someone's end.
The kickback barely moves your hand, the sharp sound of the bullet fleeing its chamber. A sharp crack, reverberating across your eardrums. When the body slumps, when you return to yourself once more, it is with a deep sense of horror. The cold plunge of anxiety as if your head had been dunked underwater.
A girl, younger than you. Certainly no older than 18, and the unfurling of a crimson flower. Petals blooming and spreading across her chest. Growing larger and larger until it stains the entirety of her white shirt. The clattering of a gun as it fell from limp fingers, sliding across the concrete away from her. And eyes…. eyes that were looking directly at you.
Your hand trembles, fingers shake as they gently touch your cheek. You flinch when you feel the confirmation. No mask, face bare and fingers touching skin.
The sounds of the world around you fizzle out as you and she look at each other. As she drifts further and further away from you. The sounds of pounding footsteps in the hallway all fall on deaf ears, as slowly the only thing you can hear in them; a high pitched ringing. Breaths come in sharp and fast. Vision hazy and arms suddenly feel as if they weigh 20 pounds.
As you sit in your haze, shaking, unable to tear your eyes away from her, you process that the ringing in your ears isn't that… rather it was screaming. Someone is screaming. An angry voice is yelling right against your ear drum, it's a familiar frustration. You parse the sounds together, syllabus repeated to yourself individually.
a-gent….. a-gent.
You take the buzzing thing from your ear, and slowly place it on the concrete by your boot. You rise slowly, braced along the wall for support. Numb, all numb. Can't feel your feet, can't tell where they are in relation to your body. If you have a body. Fingers fumble with the weapon, nearly dropping it in your trembling.
The small object is still buzzing, still vibrating next to you as you catch your breath. Get a somewhat normal pace, less gasping and wheezing.
agent
You cock your head slightly. Ear tilted down towards the offending device.
"My name is not agent", and the statement is punctured by the crack of something being crushed beneath steel-toed boots.
There is a droning sound in your ears, a long buzz. Something, someone is trying to get your attention. You absently trail your hand up to your ear, looking for something to turn off. To quiet the buzz.
You slide along nothing. Just empty space. There's nothing to stop the drone.
There is no device in your ear.
As the thought processes, you slowly return to yourself. Vision becomes less hazy, a little less dark. You feel lighter, thin fabric rustles across your shoulders as warm air disturbs it. A mechanical sound, a whirring above you. A counter. There is gum, lighters… cigarettes in the back. In front of them? A person… a boy. His brows are furrowed, pinched together. Eyes dart over you, they bounce from your eyes, to your face and back again. Concerned, you decide. He's concerned. You squint your eyes as you take him in, trying to reduce the strain his- quite frankly, visually assaulting red t-shirt puts on them.
"Miss", he says tentatively.
You blink at him. "I'm sorry?".
"It's-", his eyes dart down to your hand. "for 2 bags of ice it's… 6 keping".
Your thumb rubs across your palm, coming into contact with something thin and papery. It crinkles as your hand moves. You try to parse together your own thoughts and memories, as old knowledge struggles to rise through the murky surface that is your current level of functioning. Your mouth feels dry as you peel your tongue from the roof of it.
"It's always 5 keping", you manage to spit out.
The cashier shuffles around nervously. You see sweat start to form on his brow. "The owner- he changed the prices recently. It's 3 keping a bag now". He looks at you a little pleadingly, like he's begging for you to just drop it. How long had he been trying to get your attention?
You nod slowly, wincing a little as you reach back to look for your wallet. You test various pockets, each pat down compounding the nervous energy of the service worker in front of you. Finally, you locate it in the pocket by your calf. Pulling it out you fumble around until you find the proper change and drop one keping coin into his hand along with the bill.
He visibly deflates as you hand him the change. Letting out a long and audible breath. "You should… uh-", his eyes flicker to your face again. "You should ah… drink some water when you get back to your room".
You quirk a brow at him. He jumps in response, rushing to bag up your ice. "Straad liquor you know its- strong! Always puts tourists on their ass".
Your spine straightens in response, a chill running the length of it. "Do I look like a tourist to you?", it comes out harsher than you like. Syllables jumping wildly as you try to emphasize those trained neutral tones. It doesn't hit the right marks, makes you sound more out of place than you already did.
He smiles kindly, and perhaps a little pityingly. He looks pointedly down at your clothes, "only someone who is used to cold sea air could stand to walk around in short sleeves during a straad winter".
You gnash your teeth in response, his comment sending a wanting tremble through you. You lean forward and snatch the bag from his hands. "I have not smelled the sea in decades", you grind out and turn to stalk angrily towards the door. The bell above dings harshly as you push it open with more force than necessary. When you take the first step out he calls out to you again.
"Miss!", he shouts. "Are you… are you alright?".
You freeze, foot suspended in the air. You see flashes of red, crimson on a bright white background. A face that looked…
Stop it.
You turn towards him, trying to smile but end up just grimacing.
"I'm alright, kid", and how you wished that statement was true.
When you next come to, you are watching yourself dump ice into a bathtub. There is a comically small amount of it when compared to the volume of water.
What are you doing?
You brush a hand along your side, coming into contact with rough and raised scars. You run your thumb across skin you know holds a wound. You feel it there, delicate little threads are holding you together. You look down to see your skin clear of blood, but it is painted with fresh bruises. You examine the gap in your flesh closely. Clean, and definitely staunched before being stitched up. Whoever did it was trained, knew what they were doing.
When did you do that?
You take a deep steadying breath and shake your head to get it clear. Leaning down you grip the edge of the tub and stretch your leg to get over the side. You wince as your muscles scream in protest, not wanting to be used after-
After what?
After nothing.
You lower yourself into the water and fuck- it's freezing. But the ice feels good on your bruises, on your inflamed shoulder. You press your fingers into the joint, rubbing deep circles as you whimper through the pain.
Ok think, think. You turn to take in your environment, looking at the cracked and checkered tile. The old water damaged and peeling wallpaper. This is familiar. This is your bathroom. That means you're safe, home. Your wound is stitched up. You aren't bleeding and there are bandages sprawled across your sink. There is a bucket in the corner of the room, empty bottles of peroxide are scattered around it. That's used to clean-
Blood.
You flinch. Clasping your hands underneath your knees, you pull them close to your chest and press your forehead into the bone. "Please stop", you mutter. Eyes squeezed tight. "Please stop, please stop, please stop", repeated over and over to yourself like a mantra.
Are you ignoring me?
You squeeze your eyes tighter, willing the thoughts away, but it is banging on your cerebral walls. A crimson flower on a bright white background. A face that you can't escape, that you just want to stop looking at it. But here it is, with such clarity. Floating around like a virus in your mind, making you look at her. At the expression when you-
Does she remind you of anything?
The smell of sea air. Laughter drenched in sunlight. Hands smaller than yours, feet trailing after you. Pressed together under the covers during a storm. A name whispered in your ears, the sound of raindrops pattering on the ground.
"Stop it!", you shout, voice cracking at the end.
But it won't.
Knobbly knees pressed together, trembling hands held in your own. Eyes wide and frightened. A card in your hand, nameless with just a number. "We could change the world", said with absolute wonder. Pinkies held up and tied to each other with a seaweed rope. "Together".
Your heart is thundering in your chest. The pace of it shaking your collarbone. You launch yourself out of the tub, feet slipping as you almost send yourself careening into the ground. Just focus on the wounds. The wound, they still need bandaged. You left them on the sink.
You watch your hands tremble along the basin, trying to pick up the gauze but you drop it repeatedly. You shake, wheeze, try to catch your breath. Try to just be normal.
You tilt your head up, eyes catching the reflective surface of your bathroom mirror. And she is right there. Fingers gripping the edge, peaking out from it. Face leaned forward, teeth bared and looking at you with absolute disdain. Your heart stops in your chest before kicking itself into a higher gear. The velocity of it is painful, and your knees feel weak as you start to droop to the ground.
The specter opens her mouth, blood running out of the corners of it. "Maybe you should just die". It sneers and tosses you a gun. A 9mm, with its rounds still loaded. The contours of it are memorized as you find your fingers naturally sliding into place. Your index finger flicks the safety off without thinking, without conscious movement. The click of it is enough to shock you back into yourself.
You punch the mirror with the butt of your gun in fear. Shattering the glass and the creature before you. Shards spraying outward and catching on your hand.
You don't want this.
You were going to survive.
But the want isn't enough. Burying it underneath old floor boards isn't enough. The tempting call of gun metal between your fingers. Whispering to you. The sounds of ocean waves and the smell of sea air.
Your hands are shaking, they can barely hold the gun straight as you turn to run into the living room. You bump into walls and knock down pinned up papers as you focus on unloading the magazine from the gun. It unlocks with a distinct click and you let the pistol plummet to the floor.
Trembling, you reach the only window in your shoebox apartment. The paint on the sills splitting and peeling, wood aged and grey. You unlock the latch, destroying the cobwebs that had been built around it, and start to press up on frame to open it. It slides up slowly, with a screechy groan. The wood grains rub together and make a grating noise. The cool winter air floods your lungs as you wrench it open. Small pinpricks of cold needles across your lungs and goosebumps rise on your wet skin.
You push the bullets out of the magazine one by one. Your thumb presses down as you slide them out individually. Your hands shake so bad that you drop a few and have to go scrambling onto the ground to retrieve them. You get each one popped out of the magazine, palm overloaded with the amount of rounds, and you stare at the lead resting in the center of it. The breeze from the window rustles your hair. You turn gasping, chest heaving, bracing your opposite arm along the frame of your window. You lean forward, fling your hand out and let the bullets scatter in the air. The sleek shape of the casings catch the streetlamps. Brief flickers of light that quickly vanish as they tumble one by one to the ground. Clattering across the bricks, making a musical note out of each bounce and roll.
Your breaths even out slightly, eyelids droop in relief as you watch them roll away. You close the window gently, rolling it shut with far more grace than you did when you were wrenching it open. The danger is reduced, but not enough to feel safe. You catch the reflection of your abandoned gun on the surface of the window.
You needed to get rid of it.
You could find somewhere to get more bullets. If you looked long enough, hard enough. If you were pushed hard enough. You flinch as you catch the broken shards scattered across the bathroom floor out of the corner of your eye.
Somewhere you wouldn't be able to find it.
You have enough wherewithal to at least pull on a shirt before you are sprinting out of your apartment. Sprinting out into the moonlight with an empty gun clutched tight in-between your fingers and the bottom of your feet stinging and numb from the snow. You dash behind apartment complexes, running through the icy grass, shuddering as the cold seeps itself into your bones. You dart through underbrush, the branches of dormant trees scrape against your exposed skin. Tripping your way through the flora until you arrive at the edge of a bank. You gasp, breaths heaving from the effort it took you to run here. You pad your way closer to the edge of the bank, watching the rushing of the river before you. It was wide, deep. Water turned brown and muddy from the rush of melting snow. The winter precipitation increased its volume drastically. The current is strong and it tears loose roots from the banks, ripping branches as it drags them deep beneath the surface of the water.
You look at the gun held in your hand. Eyes trace its lines, a shape you are intimately familiar with. Memories you wish would just drown. It would be carried a mile away before you could even think about jumping in after it.
With as much strength as you can muster in your overworked limbs, you cock your arm back and chuck the gun into the air. It whirls across the sky, spinning across stars, and lands with a deeply satisfying plunk. Sinking down into the murky water, never to be seen again.
As you watch it disappear you feel all the strength- all the fight leave you. Collapsing onto the ground, you clench reed grass between your fists, nearly crying out in relief. You shake, teeth chattering, knees stinging as you rest in the snow and ice.
"There's no need to cry, my love". Hands pull you deeper into the water, small footprints dissolve with the push and pull of the tide. "Let the ocean take those memories, let the water wash them away".
And you want to follow it. Deep underneath the waves.
Hiiii! This is an interest check for an OT7 one-shot series I am planning to write. All in the same AU, but each member got their own story like with a member. This is totally inspired by their "Keep Swimming" airport fashion, btw, and totally self-indulgent.
Kim Seokjin: the wide shoulders senior is ambitious, as he seeks to show for his last year that he deserves his spot at the National University competition, and maybe, even catch the interest of the olympic team. Too bad you're coming too, ready to distract him.
Min Yoongi: Just coming back from an injury, he is eager to prove he still got it, especially when he has a grudge against the opposite team. You catch him hiding his pain, and from then on become the most reliable ally he has.
Jung Hoseok: You're only coming to support you best friend/crush/ ex-situationship, you promise yourself. Okay, maybe because you also like partying with the other nerds of the swim team. But that's it, you swear. Not because you like staring at his shoulders and naked abs once in a while. He only sees you as a friend anyways, right?
Kim Namjoon: You accepted to become an assistant kinesiologist for the swimming team for the practical experience. You didn't expect academic weapon, stupid, idiot, genius, annoying Kim Namjoon to be part of the SWIM, him and his fucking dimples.
Park Jimin is a true campus sweetheart, easily catching the attention of anyone with functioning eyes. Too bad he fucking hates your guts, and now you're stuck together in an uncomfortable situation.
Kim Taehyung: When you were called to assist at a college swimming event, you were more than shocked to find in the SWIM team the man you had to save from drowning at a pool party a few months ago.
He, on his side, can't believe the first time the hot paramedic touched him was checking his airways right before attempting to perform mouth to mouth.
Jeon Jungkook is the rising star of the swim team, with his tattoo sleeve and his temper worthy of a hockey player. Sadly, it's your job to write an article about him and his performances for the university journal.
Hi ! This is the secret santa surprise I made for @yeahimacapricorn in @jungkoode server, as well as a couple of moodboards inspired by you. Enjoy!
CapriJoon relationship:
TaeCapri Relationship:
Capri x JK One-shot under the cut:
Papers were strewn around the coffee table, glasses on your nose and your eyes extremely focused on the astrology article, you were completely ignoring the environmental science-related homework you were supposed to be doing that evening.
Instead, here you were, opening links after links about earth sign-earth sign compatibility. For science only, of course.
"Im home!" You heard Jungkook says from the door.
You barely acknowledged his presence with a grunt. He responds by dropping a kiss onto your cheek and rudely interrupting your researching time with his need for affection and the smell of after-practice sweat rolling off of him.
"Go take a shower, you animal."
He laughs in the crook of your neck.
"Weren't you supposed to finish your homework? If you were free you should have said so, I would have made you come dance with me."
"… I got caught up in my research."
He snorts. "Virgo sun-Virgo moon compatibility? Since when are you graduating in the mystic arts?"
You lightly shove him off of you while rolling your eyes.
"I was busy working, young man, don't disturb my flow."
You open back the tabs for your assignement, putting a pause to the astrology research. You hear him hum behind you, reading over your shoulder.
"You made a mistake, here," he points to a citation your wrote before you changed subjects in earlier in the afternoon.
"No, it's not."
"Uh, yes it is. You mixed up the two chart legends there."
"Nu-uh, they're the right ones."
"Yu-uh, you mixed them up."
"And since when are you an expert on amphibian species reproduction cycles and how they are impacted by climate change in central Asia huh?"
"You're not either, you wanna go in marketing!"
You grumble, checking the citation he pointed out.
Shit, he was right, you mixed up two species of Bufo, because of a typo when you typed your citations.
Not that you'd tell him that.
"Shut up, Virgo."
He laughs.
"Only when you'll admit I'm right, Capri."
You give him a dirty look.
"You're a J man, tattooed and Virgo Sun, the only thing i should admit is that i'm green-red colorblind when it comes to your flags."
He laughs even harder, then gets up and started tugging on your hand.
"C'mon, I'll give you a bath that will get your Taurus Rising something to gloat about".
A/N: Here we are, epilogue. Thank you guys for staying on this journey with me.
masterlist | Ao3
You knock lightly on the training room door, trying to balance the bouquet of purple flowers and the basket of fruits.
A dimpled face opens the door, smiling. Kim Namjoon, if you remember correctly.
"Hi! You must be Y/N!" He bows to you quickly before opening the door.
"Oh my god, is that the trooper?" A loud unknown voice screams on the other side of the room.
You barely have time to turn around before you get engulfed in a familiar pair of arms.
"Trooper."
"Boss," you give each other a second to hold each other close before the fruits start to slip away.
"Shit," Yoongi whispers before pulling back.
A very young face starts picking up the fruits for you. Jeon Jungkook, Yoongi explains. He introduces you to the rest of the team, as you hand him the bouquet and basket.
"For all of you "Bangtan Boys" to share. You probably need the vitamins, you heathens. Consider it your first fangift" They all bow in thanks, you are pretty sure some of them are tearing up but hiding it.
"Congratulations on the debut and on the name by the way, it suits y'all."
"We're releasing the fandom name today by the way. I think you'll like it."
"Oh yeah ? Don't tell me you're calling them troopers, I'll get jealous."
He snorts.
"No, trooper is just for you. But we did get inspired."
"Really? What is it, then?"
"ARMY." He smiles as he looks at you so softly. "Sounded fitting for a an adorable team of fighters."
And at this moment, as you look at each other, you might just believe he was right everytime he said that you'll be okay.
A/N: Light gore in this chapter as well as temporary death. I repeat, TEMPORARY, but there is a description of someone getting attacked here.
masterlist | Ao3
The next morning, you just call in sick to your two jobs.
It's Friday, and honestly, you are pretty dead. Probably from dying once and almost dying every night for the last week or so.
So you spend the day with Yoongi, who didn't have the heart to out to sell his CDs that day either. Most of your afternoon was spent on the couch, eating ramen and Chapagetti, and throwing theories at each other about what the fuck you went through and what could happen during the night.
You're honestly not even sure if what happened was even real. Maybe the Pizzeria is ridden with hallucination gases and Yoongi and you keep getting collective(?) psychosis over the posters of the old animatronics.
You would prefer the hallucination gases over any other hypothesis to be honest.
The two of you discussed at length how to survive the night. It seemed pretty clear that the location from last night was task-based and not time-based like the previous ones. You had absolutely no awareness of time and no clock, compared to the three previous nights, which makes it, in your humble opinion, even harder to survive, since you can't satisfy the "game" by just surviving, you have to be an active participant to your escape by accomplishing those tasks to.
The true evil really is productivism all the way in, isn't it.
"The good thing, it doesn't seem we die definitely in any way." Yoongi says softly.
"Yeah, that's good, I guess."
"You guess?" His voice carries a hint of teasing and his eyes a little bit of a spark.
"I mean we don't really know it, do we?" He nods.
"I think we do though. When I died the other night, we came back at midnight. Last night, we came back into the control room. I think the nights are split into like, save points. At least last one was."
"Do you think it will be like that too for this night?"
"I dunno," he shrugs, "I looked online and I couldn't find much about that place or… what it does. Only the typical rumors, the murders, the haunting, the lawsuits…" he sighs.
"Boss?"
"Hm?"
"I'm glad we are doing it together." He smiles softly at your before poking your forehead.
"You idiot. You wanted to do all of this on your own? On top of your two other jobs? You utter idiot."
"I'd do it again for you." You hear his breath catch in his throat when you said it.
"Trooper…"
"Yeah?"
"I promise I'll pay it back. Everything. One day, we'll be sitting on a beach in Busan, we'll be able to live comfortably with my music, and it's going to be my turn. I'm gonna take care of you, I promise. Everything. I'll pay us a full expense trip to Jeju Island, just the two of us." He brings your hand to his lips as he finishes.
"I just want you to be happy."
"Me too, Trooper. All I want for us is to be happy."
The cuddles allow you to find enough comfort to nap for a few hours, before you have to ready for one last night at Freddy's.
The two of you are silent while you get ready, wearing sweatpants and jackets that would allow you to run, crawl or hide easily.
You don't break your silence on the bus ride, nor walking from the bus stop to the pizzeria. The way your hands hold onto each other so tightly says everything about how much you trust each other and are willing to go through it again together once last time.
You breathe in one last breath of fresh air for the night before opening the service door, and walking into last night's elevator.
Two handheld devices with one earphone each greet you on the side of the elevator, that you put it immediately.
“Welcome back to your last day on the job," Hand-Unit welcomes you already, it seems. His words already making Yoongi grunt in annoyance.
"That is, the last day of your first week. Some of the most valued qualities that we like to see in new employees are determination, fearlessness, and a genuine disregard for instinctive self-preservation."
Good thing you applied then.
" You've earned your one-week bonus which will be given to you in the form of a delightful gift basket, the cost of which will be taken out of your next paycheck. We've gift baskets containing fruit, nuts, flowers, and of course the ever-popular cash basket. Using the keypad below, please enter the first few letters of the gift basket you would like to receive.”
You and Yoongi look at each other, wary.
By now, you know you get fucked over whatever you try.
But you still try, because you would definitely love a cash basket right now.
As expected, the screen glitches and doesn't allow you to type.
“It seems you had some trouble with the keypad. I see what you were trying to type, and I will autocorrect it for you. Thank you for selecting...Exotic Butters. "
Welp, at least you'll have something to cook with. Butter is still quite worthy, in this economy.
"Please be aware that there are still two technicians on site today. Try to avoid interfering with their work if possible. Also, feel free to ask them why they are still there, and encourage them to go home.”
Yoongi snorts, "Not if I leave first," he mutters.
You are kind of curious to meet someone who is potentially stuck in the same predicament as the two of you are.
The elevator finally stops in front of the vent from yesterday. You breathe in strongly, only to let out a huge sigh at the same time as Yoongi.
This time, you let Yoongi go in first. (Maybe because if you're going to die you'd like to watch his ass a little more before. Maybe.)
You barely have time to get back on your feet when Hand-Unit is already giving out orders again.
“Let's check on Ballora, and make sure she's on them stage.”
Completely blasé now, Yoongi slams the blue button.
You swiftly grab his arm as you see the view through the window.
He gulps.
Instead, of Ballora, the graceful, ballerina animatronic, is the shadow of a hanged person.
“Great. Now let's check on Funtime Foxy.”
Yoongi hesitates, so you reach and delicately press the blue button on Foxy's side.
A similar figure hangs in Foxy's auditorium.
“Great, it looks like everything is as it should be in Funtime auditorium. Your task today will involve more maintenance work. Circus Baby had a rough day, and is in need of repair. You will be required to reach the parts and service room by once again sneaking through Funtime auditorium. Unlike Ballora, Funtime Foxy is motion-activated. For this reason it's important to keep the room dark, as to not accidentally activate them. You have been provided with a flash beacon. Use it if you need to get your bearings and to ensure you don't bump into anything. However, use it as sparingly as possible. Proceed forward to reach the parts and service room.”
No. Fucking. Way.
"Well, that is a new level of unreliable narrator bullshit if I have ever seen one." Yoongi mumbles.
"What do we do?" you ask, "Should we go together?"
Yoongi doesn't even let you entertain the possibility of going with him before equipping himself.
This time, he gets a flash beacon, which you reckon seems to be much better equipment than the first time.
His walk to the Parts and Service door is strangely easy.
"Okay, I'm in", you hear him whisper.
"Great job reaching parts and service. Circus Baby has been deactivated for an unknown reason. It's your job to make sure she is structurally stable and secured to the conveyor. Our technicians will take it from the...[static]”
Neither of you like how Hand-Unit got cut off.
""Can you hear me? I’m pretending. Remember how I said I could pretend?"
"Holy shit, Trooper…"
"I know, shush."
You focus to listen to Baby's voice through the earphone.
"The cameras are watching. I must be careful not to move. Something bad happened yesterday. Something bad always happens. I don’t want it to happen again. There is something bad...inside of me. I’m broken. I can’t be fixed. I’m going to be taken to the scooping room soon, but it’s not going to fix what’s wrong with me. What is bad is always left behind. Will you help me? I want you to save what is good, so the rest can be destroyed and never recovered. But you must be careful. Ballora is here...in the room with us."
"Boss?"you whisper.
"Yeah?" He breathes out.
"You think we can trust her?"
"I think we don"t have any choice, Trooper."
You nod.
"I'm scared."
"Me too." Your hear his voice get stuck in his throat.
"Trooper?"
"Yeah?"
"If I don't make it…"
"Shut the fuck up."
"But if-"
"Shut up or I'm coming to get your ass myself."
"Okay, just-" he sounds like he's on the verge of crying.
"I love you too, now shut up and listen to her."
"Ballora will not return to her stage. Ballora will not return to her body. You must be careful. You must remain calm, and listen to my voice. There is a button on my cheek. You must find it, and press it. There is a passcode that you must enter before you can retrieve me. Enter the code carefully," Baby says again.
You hear a click, indicating Yoongi found the button.
You hear bips for every number Baby tells him, then a faint mechanical sound.
""Good. A hatch should've opened. Take the card that you find inside." You can hear Yoongi's heavy breathing in the earphone.
""Now you must turn back. I will guide you through Funtime auditorium so you can reach the scooping room. When you are there, I want you to destroy this body. Put the card into your handheld device, and I can continue to speak to you. Now, press the green button to your left. This will send me to the scooping room."
You hear the heavy sound of a machine whirring, probably the system moving Baby's heavy metallic body into the so-called Scooping Room.
"You must follow my instructions in Funtime auditorium. Ballora is going to follow you. She will try to catch you. I will help you avoid her. She will not follow you inside the scooping room. She is afraid. Go back now."
Yoongi is silent as you hear him move around.
Your anxiety is only growing as you listen to her instructions and to Yoongi's steps through the earphone.
"Go forward. Stop. Go forward and left. Keep going. Stop! Be...silent. Go forward and left. Stop. Go forward. You are almost there."
Tension is at its paroxysm, you can barely see from here where Yoongi is in the auditorium. You have no way to know, no way to tell him or ask him anything, no way to help.
You have never felt so helpless, knowing the person you love the most is out there, trusting the voice of a rogue animatronic, with no idea of what her intentions are.
Maybe that's just what love is sometimes.
"Stop. She is right in front of you. Don’t...move."
You hold your breath.
"He is here to help, Ballora. He is not here to hurt us. Ballora, he is here to help us."
You don't like the way Circus Baby is talking to Ballora about your best friend.
"Go forward again, Ballora is behind you. She is afraid of the scooping room. She will not follow you."
If even Ballora is afraid, you're honestly not sure if Yoongi should actually be entering.
"“Warning."
Hearing Hand-Unit voice again makes you jump.
" You've entered a highly dangerous area. You've entered from maintenance hatch 1B, reserved for cleaning and repair of the scooper. Entering this side of the room is strictly prohibited by unauthorized personne...[Static]”
Fuck,Fuck,Fuck,Fuck,Fuck FUCK.
"You are in the scooping room now.
"Funtime Foxy has already been here today.
"Funtime Freddy has already been here today.
"Ballora has already been here today.
"Circus Baby has already been here today."
"Yoongi! Get out. Please just go." You're begging. You never begged in your life, and now you're begging. For his.
"I can't," you can hearing the fear in his voice. "I can't Y/N, it's locked from this side-"
""I’ve been out before, but they always put me back. They always put us back inside. There is nowhere for us to hide here.
"There is nowhere to go... when we look like this. But if we looked like you, then we could hide. If we looked like you, then we would have somewhere to go."
You brace yourself. You want to tear off the earphone. You want to scream, yell, beg, anything to make it stop.
But you know nothing will.
And you can't do that to him. You can't give up on him on his last moment. Not when he's dying because of you.
"The scooper only hurts for a moment."
Yoongi doesn't scream.
You can hear a grunt, and the disgusting noise of the metal stabbing into his chest.
You don't have time to think. You slip through the vent and starts running through the auditorium. You don't know where, you don't know how, but you know this can't be where it ends.
You're stopped by Ballora jumping you.
The world tilts, the air leaves your lungs, and you're back into the control room...
With Yoongi.
He's sat down against a wall, eyes haggard, breathing way too fast and clutching his chest.
He's whole. He's alive.
He's back.
"Yoongi!" You throw yourself in his arms, as he rushes to check his own body. No cut, no bruise, no scooper mark.
As if nothing happened.
"Trooper, the scooper… it was real. I felt it. I know I did. Not like last time. I was dying for real." He looks at you, " What did you do?"
You smile awkwardly, "Threw myself into danger hoping it would help?"
"I-Okay. Yeah. Fair. It helped."
"We gotta find a way out."
He shakes his head.
"I'm not sure if there is one."
"We'll make it happen. Hand-Unit is unreliable, Circus Baby is unreliable, so we'll make our own way out."
You hold tightly one last time, before heading out to the vent.
"What are you doing?"
"Just like you did, except I'll find another way out when I come back".
You see him hold himself back from saying anything, then he nods.
"Okay, don't die. Not for real, please."
You nod, " and you, rest, you just died, for fuck's sake."
You head out, and you also don't face any issue going to Parts and Service.
“Great job reaching parts and service. Circus Baby has been deactivated for an unknown reason. It's your job to make sure they is structurally stable and secured to the conveyor. Our technicians will take it from the...[static]” Hand-Unit starts again.
""Can you hear me? I’m pretending. Remember how I said I could pretend?" Circus Baby starts too.
You wait for her to finish her monologue before focusing again when she tells you the number to type in.
On a whim, you decide to type all zeros.
Well tried.
Her face opens up, showing her inside electronic mangling, scaring you into spawning back into the control room.
"Back already?" Yoongi teases.
You sigh heavily, "yeah, tried using a completely different code. She didn't like it."
"I don't think the code is wrong though, it did what it was supposed to do."
You nod, "So I guess I'll try every single option until i find a way out."
"Okay, you do that, I'll enjoy having all my organs and my heartbeat for a couple more minutes." he sighs, almost relaxing onto the floor. You smile at him, before heading back out.
This time you tried not pushing the button to send her to the scooping room.
Didn't work, Ballora caught up to you.
After a couple of other tries, you're back in the room with Yoongi, the two of you trying to formulate plan with the little information you have.
"So the code didn't work, it wasn't the card either, it wasn't the button to the scooping room either. The only thing we haven't tried yet is not listening to her in the Auditorium." You explain, sitting next to Yoongi.
"Yeah, except this thing is huge and the way out could literally be anywhere." You nod.
"So there must be some sort of clue about the location of that thing, right?"
"Yeah." He agrees, "but where?"
"I don't know… Is there maybe a map somewhere we may have missed?" You start looking around the control room, but nothing looks like a map. Only posters and creepy masks and buttons. After quickly searching through the room, you sit back down next to Yoongi who is looking deep in thoughts.
"I- I think I have something." he starts, careful.
"What? Where?"
"You didn't see it. It was when I was out last night in the Breaker Room. There was a map on that screen, and I think I remember seeing a Private Room, somewhere in there."
"Where was it?"
"Exactly on the opposite side of the scooping room. We can access it through the auditorium."
You look at each other, the idea hanging heavy in the air like a cartoon lightbulb.
"It does sounds like something crazy enough to be worth trying."
"Together?"
"Together."
You help each other back up before heading to the front of the vent.
"I won't miss this spot, let's go."
Yoongi laughs, "I think it has been our safest spot of all of our spots this week, be grateful, yeah?" You poke him in the ribs.
You're really excited for this to be over with.
You walk together into the Auditorium. You stay close to Yoongi as he manages the flash beacon, and you head closer to Parts Service.
For the last time, you hope, you listen to Baby's tirade while typing in the code, then sending her to the scooping room.
When you are about to head out, you hold Yoongi's hand as tight as possible.
You got forward whenever Baby tells you to go forward, but when she tells you to go left, you go right instead.
You have no idea where you are, somewhere in the middle of the room, you can only hear Baby's voice continuing to tell you to go left.
Her voice only stops once you hear an automated say "Access granted."
The breath you and Yoongi let out makes up for all the air you couldn't breathe calmly since you left home this night.
“It seems that you have accidentally wandered into a restricted area. Due to the sensitive nature of the materials that you may be exposed to here, you will not be allowed to leave until the cleanup crew arrives at 6 am. So hang tight! Rest assured that you will be promptly rescued, fired, then sent home. Thank you for being an employee. We hope that your experience has not been as regrettable as ours.”
"Go fuck yourself" Yoongi mutters.
Truly a shared sentiment.
An analog clock shows midnight. A digital device shows 98% battery.
This is your chance.
The monitor only shows 7 cameras. Three buttons stand to close doors on each side of the desk and a vent on top of it. Three screens stand on top of the desk, only showing a constant static. The desk also carries your steadfast fan and a couple of crumpled papers and paper soda cups.
"No light this time?" Yoongi asks.
You shake your head "only cameras and doors this time."
"Why didn’t you trust me?"
You hear Baby's voice ask from far away.
As you switch around between the different cameras, you hear Yoongi gasp and see him run to close the vent. His eyes are blown wide, and you recognize the signs of a state of survival you'll both be in for one last night.
"Boss?"
"Saw it move at the corner of my eyes. it looked like… Inside organs, but metal." A shudder goes through him, "I think I recognized him from the window of the scooping room."
Not good.
Not good at all.
You check on the vent camera and indeed, here it was in all its terrifying glory. A sort of mashing of all the animatronics you came across in the facility: Baby, Foxy, Ballora, Freddy, Bonbon… All holding onto each other by iron limbs and pressure valves and buttons falling apart. A white clown face, red nose and a party hat served as his face, only adding to the extreme eerieness and deranged vibe of the…body? Animatronic? You weren't sure anymore.
You were trying not to think about this… monstrosity trying to steal Yoongi's body to escape. Taking his place, replacing his organs.
You were really, really trying to not think of it.
"Sometimes I don’t understand why people do the things that they do."
Ennard is still in the fucking vent, and it's draining your energy storage.
By 1AM, he finally left.
"I thought you liked me."
For a few minutes, you don't see him at all.
A pipe sound make you and Yoongi check back a full round on the cameras.
Ennard is thankfully still far away,
"I thought I did everything right."
A squeaky sound make you close the door on the right, while Yoongi check on the cameras, only to see he is right in that hallway.
Outside of the repetitive dying, you're becoming real good at this.
"We don’t want to hurt anyone, but we need you."
A hint of worry passes on Yoongi's face, and disgust etches itself on your face.
You don't know how many shots you get at this, but you are not willing to let Yoongi go at the hands of that freak robot.
"We need you, so that we can leave. We need you, so that we can hide."
"What you need is to shut the fuck up," you mumble, your fingers dancing between the different cameras.
By "3AM", you have 56% battery, and you have stopped Ennard 5 times.
"We need you... ..so that we can look like you."
"If they find us like this, we won’t be able to try again."
By 4AM, Baby/Ennard still hasn't shut the fuck up.
You're very much intending for them to be found like this at 6AM and burnt in the pits of hell where they belong.
"You must help us."
Your reflexes are faster than your awareness now. Every noise leads an action: checking the cams, closing a door, closing a vent.
You haven't said much to each other.
"You must let us inside the room."
"You must let us inside the room."
"You must let us inside the room."
By 5AM, her voice is getting really, really insistent.
"You must let us inside the room."
"I don't understand."
5:23 AM. You only have 18%.
You hope it's going to be enough.
"You won’t die. And it will only hurt for a moment."
You don't wanna die again.
You dont wanna see Yoongi die again.
The booth is completely silent except for your breathing, and you and Yoongi taking turns wordlessly with the monitor and the buttons. By now, you got a rythm. You caught onto all the auditory clues that signals he's moving closer or further away.
You're only waiting for 6AM to free you from your shared nightmare.
You only have 14% left, and you don't dare checking the cameras for more than a second at a time to not waste energy.
You gotta make it till 6.
You only have 9% percent left now.
Your hand reaches for Yoongi's in the dark, your eyes not losing sight of the screen.
5% when you open back the vents, after hearing Ennard move away.
3% when you open back the door when you don't see him in the left hall camera.
You're holding Yoongi's hands so tightly now. Your hands are sweaty, your fingers cramping, but neither of you have the heart to let go of each other now.
You know the clock was at 5:59 AM when everything goes dark.
"I will find a way out."
For the first time that night, you want to agree with her.
You can only hear your heartbeat and your own breathing. One beat, then two.
Then out of the right hallway, you hear the familiar click of the service door opening .
At the same time you see a metallic glint from the left hallway.
"Run!"
Yoongi's hand tug you violently towards the right hallway, you feel your ankle twist on itself on the tiles. He tugs you harsher as he almost drags you towards the door and out.
As you turn around you almost make eye contact with the thing until Yoongi slams the door with his shoulder.
You suddenly come back to yourself to help it push it close, your strength fighting Ennard's on the other side, and with one last push, the door closes on him.
You hear a metallic gurgled scream from the other side.
You let yourself fall down against the door for a second, catching your breath, and Yoongi follow you.
"Hey," he starts, "Look."
His finger is pointing at the device.
5 green lights.
Your work is done.
You let out a snort, which then turns into a giggle, which then becomes a series of nervous bursts of laughter that Yoongi follow you in.
"C'mon", he gets up, giving you hand, "Let's get you home."
You wince as you take get back to your feet. Now that the adrenaline, and the euphoria from being alive, wears off, you notice it got red and inflamed.
Yoongi notices too, as he always does. So he puts your arm above his shoulder and holds your waist as he starts gently walking forward.
So you huddle together, your shoulder against his, him supporting your ankle, two friends walking out of hell together on a cold Seoul morning.
And you never got your fucking basket of Exotic Butters, goddamit. Fuck capitalism.
A/N: Night 4, and with it a new setting for our two main characters, Boss and Trooper!
Enjoy <3
masterlist | Ao3
Yoongi barely lets you out of his arms when you have to leave for your dayjob. He takes you a whole lot of persuading for him to let you go.
It's even worse once you're napping, or more like laying together, on your couch, between your evening job and the beginning of the Freddy shift.
"I died, last night, Trooper. I'm sure I did, then I came back. This should be illegal. We should call the authorities."
"And for what?" You mumble, turning around to face him. "We have no evidence. You're still alive. They're gonna think we are a couple of teenagers pranking them."
"We shouldn't go back, Y/N," he shakes his head. "What if we die again? Permanently? What if im the one losing you tonight? I don't want you getting hurt. Any of us, in fact. We can do without the money. Hell, i'd rather find a loanshark-"
'Yoongi," you interrupt him, caressing his cheek with a finger, "We are already in deep enough shit, we don't need loansharks on top of that. Also, it would damage your career if it comes out later on. I'd rather we do it all in the most honest way possible, no lawsuits, no loansharks."
"And that means completing at least 5 nights in your contract, lest Fazbear Entertainment will sue you. I don't even think it's legal."
"Well, I don't have enough money to get a labor lawyer to look at it."
"Do they even have enough money to sue you?"
"I don't even want to try them on that,"you huff, "With our luck, they got bought back by Disney or some shit and will be suing us to the end of world if they can."
Yoongi rubs his nose up and down the column of your throat.
"I'm just…"He starts.
"Scared?"
"Yeah."
"I'd be worried if you weren't."
A beat of silence passes through the two of you.
"What do you think it will be like tonight?"
"I dunno. The whole place seems to live in some sort of liminal space, or some multiverse shit."
"I have a feeling we'll get a new location."
"You do?"
"Yeah," he props himself up on his elbow to look at you. "Let's say, this worked like some sort of video game. Don't look at me like that."
You must have unconsciously made a face.
"I didn't say anything."
"Yeah, your face did the talking for you."
You poke him on his ticklish side as he lightly pushes your shoulder further into the back of the couch.
"As i was saying," he sighs, " If this was a videogame, the first night was your first level solo player. Second night was first level multiplayer, right? So once we succeeded the first stage, we went to the second stage, which was a whole new office, as a second stage multiplayer."
"I don't know, Yoongi. I can't believe this old dusty pizzeria has some sort of nerdy, murderous conscience that wants us to go through all of these stages."
"It's the most probable explanation. Listen-" he props himself back to a seating position." The device near the door? It looked like a counter. You said there was no light on on the first night, so it's either counting the numbers of current players- us, or counting the number of nights, five. We can check today what it shows." You nod, trying to process his theory.
"Up until now, Phone Guy was always the one explaining to us how it works, so in theory as long as we listen to him, we should be able to live through the week."
"I don't like it."
"I mean yeah, listening to an unseen man for survival sounds like the worst possible option, but it's the only thing we have. The only time I did different, I died, and I don't want to test how many lives we get before it's Game Over, if you know what I mean."
You nod, the anxiety of not having that information settling heavy in your stomach.
"How many do we get you think? Don't video games usually have like 3? maybe 5 lives?"
He sighs, shoulders falling.
"I don't know, Trooper. Maybe there is even a way for us to get more lives, if there are some sort of side quests, but I haven't seen anything that looks like it yet."
You groans as you put your head in your hands.
"Why does it have to be so hard?"
"Capitalism. Poor labor protetion laws. Other question?"
Your groan even harder, earning a chuckle from him.
"C'mon, we got an hour left before we have to go. Let's try to sleep, just a little."
The two of you try your best to rest, fully aware that any form of sleepiness or tiredness might cost you your life, or at least one of your lives, tonight
The device at the door now shows 3 green lights.
And the service door opens to an elevator about as big as your living room.
A very different voice instructs you, this night.
"Welcome to the first day of your exciting new career!"
You and Yoongi groan in unison.
"Whether you were approached at a job fair, read our ad in Screws, Bolts and Hairpins, or if this is the result of a dare, we welcome you. I will be your personal guide to help you get started. I’m a model 5 of the Handyman’s Robotics and Unit-Repair System, but you can call me Hand-Unit. Your new career promises challenge, intrigue and endless janitorial opportunities."
Yes, cause janitorial opportunities were exactly what your career needed, currently.
"Please enter your name as seen above the keypad. This cannot be changed later so please be careful."
Yoongi and you turn to each other, hesitating for a moment, before you reach your hand trying to type onto the glitching screen. The tremble of the elevator do not let you though, as you don't even see which letter you are hitting.
"It seems that you had some trouble with the keypad. I see what you were trying to type, and I will auto-correct it for you. One moment. Welcome:"
You were about to be pleasantly surprised by the Fazbear technology for once, before-
"Eggs Benedict"
The sigh you let out might have been heard from New York.
" Eggs Benedi- Isn't that the British guy who plays Sherlock?" Yoongi asks, a half-smile on his face. His joke got him poked on the cheek.
A few seconds later, the elevator stops as some music jingle starts playing.
"You should sample that, you know, for your debut album." Yoongi shoves you to his side while rolling his eyes.
"You can now open the elevator using that bright, red and obvious button." The elevator voice interrupts your antics.
"Let’s get to work!" he excitedly says, as Yoongi walks towards said button.
The door opens not to a hallway as you expected, but to a small vent.
You gulps, before sharing a look with Yoongi.
"It's my job, I should go in first."
"Sure."
"It's not a good reason to be staring at my ass, Boss."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Trooper. Besides, i can get plenty of staring at home."
You poke his shoulder before heading in.
"Allow me to fill this somewhat frightening silence with some light-hearted banter." The disembodied voice starts, "Due to the massive success and even more-so the unfortunate closing of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, it was clear that the stage was set – no pun intended – for another contender in children’s entertainment. Unlike most entertainment venues, our robotic entertainers are rented out for private parties during the day, and it’s your job to get the robots back in proper working order before the following morning."
Sure, you would hate to be dealing with some sort of malfunctioning, maybe even murderous and aggressive, robot.
A weird thumping on the vent wall get you to pause to turn around to Yoongi, who looks at you with panic in his eyes, suggesting he was not the one knocking on the metallic surfaces.
You make a point to crawl even faster and quieter.
In less than a minute, you reach an actual, human-sized room. The walls present screeens only showing snow right now, and a huge clown mask you can probably reach if you jumped. The room is mostly made of windows though, that probably allow you to see into each of the animatronics' room. On your left, three human-like masks seem to be animated, one of them even blinking. Two keypads are standing on your left and on your right, with a red button and a blue button each.
"You are now in the Primary Control Module," the voice explains, " It’s actually a crawlspace between the two front showrooms. Now, lets get started with your daily tasks. View the window to your left. This is the Ballora Gallery Party Room and Dance Studio, encouraging kids to get fit and enjoy pizza. Let’s turn on the light and see if Ballora is on stage. Press the blue button on the elevated keypad to your left. "
You push the blue button your left while Yoongi is dusting off his knees.
There is no robot on that stage.
"Uh-oh, it looks like Ballora doesn’t feel like dancing. Let’s give them some motivation. Press the red button now to administer a controlled shock. Maybe that will put a spring back in them step."
"We are tasked with shocking the robots this time?"Yoongi exclaims, his frown matching yours.
"They are so gonna take revenge for this, aren't they?"
"Do they even feel pain?"
For all intended purposes, you certainly hope not.
The sounds of the shock when you hit the red button makes the hair of your neck stand.
A weird garbling sound resonates from the stage. You don't dare checking on the light again.
"Let's check on Funtime Foxy, make sure he's ready for show time tomorrow."
Another garbling sounds emits from Foxy's spot, a mix of metallic and organic sounds that sounds like its repeating one word:
"GREAT. GREAT. GREAT."
"There seems to have been a problem with the voice synthesizer," Hand-Unit continues.
No shit Sherlock.
"Default settings have been restored. Please proceed through the vent ahead of you to Circus Baby’s Auditorium."
You want nothing less than to go back into a vent deeper into this facility.
But you don't know how to leave yet, there's not clock this time, and you need the money, so you barely insists Yoongi goes first this time.
As you go through, you hear another voice, feminine this time : "MOTION TRIGGER: CIRCUS GALLERY VENT."
Ah, at least the next ones will know where to find your bodies. Except maybe for your eyeballs and teeth.
The room you reach this time is more chaotic. There are 4 colored lights above the window screen, and a whole center console that you don't understand much too in addition to the double button keypad. Several half-made dolls are hanging aroung the space, contributing to its creepy nature.
"Circus Baby had a busy day today! Let’s check the light, and make sure she’s in proper working order."
This time, Yoongi is the one reaching to the keypad to turn on the light.
"Oh Circus Baby, we aren’t here to play hide and seek. Let’s encourage baby to come out of hiding with a controlled shock."
Yoongi makes a very reluctant grimace when he reaches for the shock button.
The shock does not make a sound that seems normal.
"Let’s try another controlled shock."
The sounds still isn't right.
"There seems to be a power malfunction that is affecting our ability to properly motivate Baby. Please stand by, while I reboot the system. I will be offline momentarily during this process. Various other systems may be offline as well, such as security doors, vent locks and oxygen. "
"Did he just say security doors and oxygen ?"
"Commencing system restart."
Then everything went black.
All the lights, completely turned off. You pick up on the absence of any fan sound or mechanical background noise.
You reach for Yoongi's hand in the dark, his clammy hands reassuring yours.
"MOTION TRIGGER: ENTRYWAY VENT."
"Oh, you, go fuck yourself." Yoongi whispers sharply.
"FUNTIME AUDITORIUM MAINTENANCE VENT OPENED."
You bring Yoongi closer to you.
"BALLORA GALLERY MAINTENANCE VENT OPENED."
You are bracing yourself now for whatever comes next.
"I don't recognize you." A soft, feminine voice comes out of you don't know where, making you jump and hold Yoongi closer.
"You are new." The voice continues.
"I remember this…scenario…however."
In your heart, the hope that maybe, just maybe, those animatronics do have a heart and won't ALL try to hurt you.
"It's a strange thing to want to do. To come here."
On that you can both most definitely agree. Although you're not sure Voice Girl understands the complexities of capitalism, korean traditional society and dreams.
"I'm curious what would lead a person to want to spend their nights… in a place like this…willingly…"
You almost want to explain to the disembodied voice that given the choice, you would have left by 1AM on Night 1.
"Maybe curiosity? Maybe ignorance."
Definitely a good balance of both.
"There is space under the desk. Someone before you crafted it into a hiding space, and it worked for him."
Good to know.
You and Yoongi quickly proceeds to hide under the desk, again.
"You will be safe there. Just try not to make eyecontact."
Eye contact?"
Should be easy enough.
"It will be over soon. They will lose interest."
You're not sure you wnat to know who.
Heavy footsteps on a metallic surface resonate from the other side of the hiding place, growing closer and closer to your location.
You hear a fake sweetly voice way too close to the desk for your taste.
"Hello in there~"
You hear some scraping on the door.
Yoongi cover your mouth and his, hoping to hide the sound of your fast breathing.
"Someone is inside~"
"Is it the same person?~"The voice asks itself.
A quick tapping sound make the hair on your arms stand up straight.
Your eyes struggle to adapt to the dark as the tapping gets slower and louder at the same time.
You almost scream as you see the door starting to open.
You rush to grab at it, starting to close it, when the force behind the door doubles. The door starts to espace your fingers under your widened eyes, when Yoongi reaches from behind you for the door as well.
The two of you struggle for a few seconds before you succeed at closing it back.
"We always find a way inside~"
You would really rather not right now.
The door moves again, and this time even with four hands, you still struggle at trying to close the door and keeping it there.
"We have to leave now~"
"We'll see you again soon~"
"When you 'guide' comes back online," the slightly older female voice comes back, "he is going to tell you he was unsuccessful. That you must restart the system manually. He will then tell you to crawl through Ballora's gallery as fast as you can to reach the breaker room.
If you follow his instructions, you will die."
Well, at least this one is honest.
"Ballora will not return to her stage anymore."
Well shit.
"She will catch you. The power will be restored shortly."
"When you crawl through Ballora Gallery, go slowly. She cannot see you and can only listen for your movement.
When you hear her music become louder, she is growing near, listening for you. Wait, and be still."
You and Yoongi look at each other as you help him out of under the desk.
"Can we trust her?" He asks.
"Can we trust him?" You answer.
"Thank you for your patience. It seems that the power system cannot be restarted automatically. You will need to restart the power system manually. Please return to the primary control module." The male voice starts again.
The look Yoongi and you share is as heavy in sense as it is in questions.
When you reach back to the main control room, the male voice speaks again.
"You will now be required to crawl through the Ballora Gallery using the vent to your left to reach the Breaker Room. It is recommended that you stay low to the ground, and reach the other side as fast as possible as to not disturb Ballora. I will deactivate myself momentarily, as to not create an auditory disturbance. Deactivating."
Your sigh is heavier in doubt than it is in fear this time.
"What do we do?" Yoongi asks.
"I'll go first," you offer, "I'm smaller than you and quieter on my feet."
"And if you die?"
"Then you go, and you listen to her."
He kisses your forehead.
"I wish we didn't have to do this, trooper."
"We are lucky, we get two shots. Whatever number of lives we get, it's doubled compared to if i was on my own." You don't want to think about it. About how he chose to follow you there three night in a row. How the question of how many chances you get at this remain in the air, as heavy as a ghost story and as volatile as a sense of safety.
You kiss his cheek before you lose your bravery, grabbing a flashlight heading into the Ballora vent.
Once out, you keep your light close to the ground. You dash on your feet, trying to be as light and as quick as possible.
You hear a faint musical sound on the side of the room, shifting from far in front of you to your left.
You stop just for a second.
As you see a faraway light, you dash even faster, the hope of finally reaching your objective cementing yourself into your mind so hard that you dont pay attention to the rising sound of music coming closer to your left.
You don't notice it until Ballora is right in front of you and her face opens.
Once again, your hearts stops, and the whole world shift in place and goes black.
When you are done falling, you are on the floor of the main control room.
"Trooper!" You are glad it's Yoongi's voice that greets you first.
"You will now be required to crawl through the Ballora Gallery using the vent to your left to reach the Breaker Room-"
Okay, back to the last save then, you guess.
Yoongi helps you sit up, a very determined look on his face.
"Are you alright?" His eyes search your body for any sign of hurt, bruises or cuts.
"I'm… alive, it seems." He gives you a small smile, dusting over your clothes.
"You are. I'll go in there then," he says pointing at the vent,"I'll follow the female voice this time. Stay here. Don't get hurt. If you hear something, go back to hide under the desk in the other room." You nod, not fully present yet after your actual… Lazarian experience?
You look at his figure slide through the vent. From the window you can see a light spot directed towards the floor, moving slowly towards what is probably the room you were looking for too.
You watch Yoongi expertly stop everytime the music draws near, fingers holding tightly onto the control deck whenever you see the robot Ballerina turn a little too close to him.
You're getting breathless as you see him get further and further away from you, and closer to the door only 20 meters in front of him, then 15, then 10… until Ballora turns to stand right in front of him.
You're holding your breath, body completely tense as one beat, then two passes. Finally, Ballora moves on his right. You watch him wait completely still for a couple of seconds until he finally make the finally stretch and enter the door.
MOTION TRGGER:BREAKER ROOM
At least you have the confirmation he made it to there.
You finally allow yourself to relax and your lungs to let go in a hot minute.
"You may now interface with the breaker control box." Hand-Unit continues. "Using the interface may disrupt nearby electronics. If you feel that you are in danger, feel free to disconnect the interface temporarily, until it is safe to reconnect.”
He we go again.
Except that now, Yoongi has to do it alone.
You have no idea what is happening now, all you can do is trust your best friend can do it on his own, without dyin-
Your worry gets interrupted by Yoongi popping into existence next to you.
"Shit!"
"Fuck!"
"Yoongi! Are you okay?!"
"No, I died stupidly!" You are left perplexed by his annoyed expression.
"What is it like out there? How can I help?"
"It's exactly like it was last night except there is no door and no vent. There is only one screen to reset each part of the system independently from each other, and there's some fake-cutesy fuckass evilbot laughing his ass off trying to kill me for excessive screen-time."
Against yourself, you snort.
"Don't laugh, motherfucker got me…"Yoongi's pout makes laughter spill out of your mouth even more.
"I'm sorry, but we are stuck in some creepy robot facility under an abandoned pizzeria, we found a real-life Jesus-on-Friday button, and we are stuck here trying to fix shit we didn't break for rich assholes and their screentime limiting robots. I think I have earned the right to laugh a little." His pout just got even more obvious on his face, making you want to pinch him and bite him even harder.
"Okay, I'll try to go back there. everything I told you earlier remains." He walks towards the vent. "I've never been so fuckin' excited for 6AM…".
You giggle, the pretty noise slipping from you, before you stop yourself by hiding behind your hand.
Yoongi gives you one last of his warm, gummy smile before heading in.
You watch him move through Ballora's gallery, more confident now as he stops whenever the music gets too close to him, and starts again whenever she draws further away from him. He reaches the door even faster than he did the first time you notice.
The two of you might be getting better at surviving this.
A few minutes later, you jump again from Yoongi literally spawning into the control room.
"Fuck!" he exclaims as his fist hit the floor, "Fuck Funtime Freddy and his fucking Bonbon!"
"Who is that?"
"The motherfucking animatronics who caught me again!"You barely have time to stand up he's already heading to the vent again,"I'm going back there, don't endanger yourself."
It's only once he left you realize he technically went over the 3 lives "rule".
One Yoongi pop later plus a few minutes, you hear Hand-Unit voice again.
"Great job. This completes your tasks for the night. Please proceed back through the Ballora gallery with care, and we'll see you back here tomorrow.”
Oh, so this location is not based on time, but on tasks.
That means your only way of getting out is finishing the tasks.
When Yoongi crawls back from the Ballora, you hug him tightly.
When the two of you crawl through the vent and get on the elevator to the outside world, you struggle let go of each other's.
"Look", Yoongi point to the mystery device," Four nights down, one to go." Indeed, 4 LEDs are lit green, one last is still off. You are torn between the relief of almost getting to the end, and the fear of what night 5 reserves for the two of you.
pairing: taehyung x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 10k | warnings: here
genre : football AU, arrogant!tae, e2l, smut, unimpressed!reader
"wang"
“Nomad is in Madrid, and so is his brother Jackson Wang. His parties are legendary, Sofia says. So apparently, you're going. You just hope it's worth it.”
next | index | taglist | general masterlist
↦author's note : Hi. Hello. HIIIIIII. Are we ready for OFL!Taehyung's usual brand of weaponized menace?? Because I don't think you are. I wasn't and I'm the one writing him.
Okay sooooo we start strong. VERY strong. He's a menace. Sir. And I won't apologize. He won't either, I fear (...for now. hehehehehehehe). But like. Look. I love ramping up tension even when the characters absolutely cannot stand each other?? It's such a delicious little dance of 'I'd punch you if you were on fire but also I'm cataloguing your abdominal structure like I'm prepping for surgery' and it's SO satisfying. I'm a total slut for chemistry-building, and doing that while they're in mutual loathing™ mode is extra fun because what do you MEAN you're noticing his V line????? I would like to hang MYSELFFFF.
The tension is only going to get worse. Which means the smut? Will be so, so, SO good. And you know I love to edge. This is a slow burn. We suffer beautifully in this house.
Now. Let's talk about the fangirl element. Because it's so real. Like, painfully real. The 'I want to see him with my own eyes' ache mixed with the 'but I don't want to bother him' guilt? If you've ever stanned anyone (especially BTS), you get it. That dichotomy lives in my brain rent-free, and I really wanted to explore it—not just as a fandom thing but as a psychological experience. That feeling of proximity and distance, of reverence and yearning. Ugh. It's so fandom-coded, I love it here.
Also. Jackson Wang. Listen. Jackson Wang parties need to make a comeback and I'm driving the car, running the engine, printing the flyers, and DJing the playlist. He is chaotic good energy incarnate and I love writing him SO much. (He has a larger arc btw... he's not just comic relief. Just wait.)
AND YES. We finally know who Nomad is!! Hello baby!! Some of you were right. Some of you were wrong. Some of you were unhinged (and I love you the most). But the boy is HERE and he's already so brother-coded it hurts.
Now. The end of the chapter was special to me. It's not just about getting ready for the party. It's about image and performance and Taehyung's control over what you see and what you don't. The piercings are real. He does have them. But UEFA bans visible ones during matches, so he only wears them on his terms—when he wants attention. When he wants to feel wanted. When he wants to win. V for Victory. That's our boy. Validation-seeking, image-conscious, stubborn to the core. He doesn't give up when something hurts. He doesn't stop just because something is difficult. That's why he puts the smiley back in. Because someone got under his skin. And that, my friends, is how we start.
Okay enough psychological dissection. Go read. You've suffered long enough.
AND REBLOG / PRESS THAT HEART BUTTON. Or else... (ง ื▿ ื)ว
The pool is empty at this time of day, and you thank everything that's holy for that.
Wednesday mornings are your secret. Classes don't start until eleven, which means you get Valdebebas to yourself while everyone else is either sleeping off Tuesday night or pretending to be productive somewhere else. The training facilities are pristine, untouched—like having a five-star gym all to yourself.
At least something good comes from this Madrid exile.
You've already done forty-five minutes in the gym. Legs, mostly. The kind of exercise that make your muscles burn in that satisfying way, where you know tomorrow's stairs will be interesting.
Now it's pool time. The best part.
Changed into your basic black one-piece—nothing fancy, just functional—cap snapped over your hair, goggles hanging around your neck.
The chlorine smell hits different when you're alone.
You like it, having the pool to yourself. Less public chaos, more private sanctuary.
Water's always been your thing.
Your dad never pushed physiotherapy on you, but watching him work for years made it feel inevitable. Natural. Like learning your mother tongue—you don't remember not understanding how bodies work, how they break, how they heal.
He'd explain muscle groups over breakfast, demonstrate joint mobility while you did homework.
Sharing what he loved, when his love extended to someone else apart from you and grief didn't haunt every second of every day.
Somewhere along the way, you started loving it too.
The cold under your feet startles you out of your thoughts—the pool deck is merciless. That specific cold that makes you walk faster, anticipating the water's warmth. You pull the goggles down, adjust them twice because the first time never feels right.
The thing about water that most people don't get—it's not just exercise. It's therapy. Literally. Aquatic physiotherapy is a whole field, and honestly? Underrated as fuck.
You slip into the pool after a quick pre-shower, and the temperature is perfect. That sweet spot where it's cool enough to wake you up but warm enough that your muscles don't seize.
Water supports 90% of your body weight when you're neck-deep. Means you can move in ways that would be impossible on land. Means injured athletes can maintain fitness without impact.
Means recovery happens faster, gentler, better.
You push off the wall, starting with an easy breaststroke. Nothing aggressive. Just movement.
Your dad used to bring you to pools like this in Barcelona. Not the Camp Nou facilities—you were too young for that—but public pools where he'd volunteer on weekends, helping kids with disabilities learn to swim. Teaching their bodies to remember movement patterns their conditions tried to steal.
You guess that's when you really got it.
Physiotherapy isn't just about fixing athletes so they can score goals.
It's about giving people their lives back.
You switch to freestyle, finding your rhythm. One-two-three-breathe. The repetition is meditation, almost. Your mind empties of everything except stroke mechanics and breath control.
This is what Madrid hasn't ruined yet. This focus. This drive to be genuinely good at something that matters.
You're not here playing dress-up as a physio student. You're not floating through university on daddy's reputation.
You actually give a shit about biomechanics and treatment protocols and the twelve different ways to tape an ankle depending on the injury.
The water holds you up. No effort. Just trust and technique.
Sometimes you wonder if your mom would be proud.
She valued education above everything else—real education, not just degrees to hang on walls. Understanding things deeply. Contributing something meaningful.
Physiotherapy feels like that. Like contribution.
Not that Madrid sees it that way. Here, you're just the physio's daughter. The Barcelona refugee. The girl who doesn't fawn over their precious players.
Fuck them, honestly.
You flip at the wall, pushing off hard. The burn in your lungs feels clean. Honest.
The thing is, you're good at this. Not the swimming—though you're decent—but the studying. The understanding. Top of your class in anatomy. Perfect scores in biomechanics. Your professors at UEM keep trying to fast-track you toward research positions.
But research isn't where your heart is.
It's in the practical application. The hands-on work.
Watching someone walk again after being told they wouldn't. Seeing an athlete return to sport after career-ending injuries.
Your dad does that every day.
And maybe following in his footsteps is predictable.
Maybe it's basic.
But at least it's real.
Unlike everything else in this city.
You surface, breathing hard. The echo of your gasps bounces off empty walls.
Still alone. Still perfect.
Ten more laps, you decide. Then shower, then class, then back to pretending Madrid is anything other than a very pretty prison.
You settle into the monotony—counting lengths, water slipping over you in smooth sheets—until the slap of sneakers on tile drills a small split through your focus.
Not loud. Just enough to annoy.
Someone who can't be bothered to respect the sanctity of silent swimming or personal space.
You pretend not to care. You do it all the time: intruder steps up, hopes you're the approachable type, realizes you're really not.
You flick water from your wrist, steady your breathing, lap the tether of your own heartbeat. Just movement. Then the footsteps get closer. Louder. Then they stop, shadow scuffing the pool's edge.
Great.
Surface. Clean. Inhale.
Your eyes find his. Of course it's him. Who else?
Towel slung over his shoulder like he's about to star in some doomed ad campaign for overpriced fitness water, tan lines sharpening the map of his chest. Six-pack out, as if there's a law here against clothing below sunrise. Sipping—because of course he is—a Coke Zero, bottle half-sweaty in his hand.
You blink at him. Doubt he notices through the fogged glasses.
Not like he deserves it anyway.
He grins—no, it's not a grin. It's the mouth equivalent of an elbow to the ribs. He lifts the bottle, gives it a little shake like you're supposed to be impressed.
"You know, didn't have you pegged for the type to use professional facilities for personal gain," he says.
Mock-innocent, like he's hosting a bad game show and you're the prize he didn't want to win.
You slot your goggles at your hairline, water drip-dripping into the cap.
Silence. Let him choke on it.
"Sorry, are you lost?" Your voice comes out so flat it's practically horizontal. "VIP sauna's that way. I'm told the mirrors are extra flattering."
He tilts his head. His hair's a mess—dark, wet at the ends, probably from some half-assed shower to look presentable for nobody.
"Funny. Thought this place was invite-only. Unless you're moonlighting as a lifeguard today?"
He doesn't bother with subtlety, not even trying.
"If you start drowning, you're on your own," you deadpan. "I don't do mouth-to-mouth on strangers." Pause. "Especially the ones with Coke addictions."
His eyebrow jumps up, left side. You clock the way his mouth twitches like he's swallowing a retort or maybe just carbonation.
He catches himself. Shrugs. Sips.
"There are worse things to be addicted to," he shoots back, chin cocked, eyes skating over the pool like he's looking for ripples. "Besides, you're the only one abusing the facility dress code."
He jerks his chin at a sign on the wall—'TEAM KIT IN ALL AREAS.'
Then he looks back at you, corner of his lip wavering upwards. "Not that I mind the... minimalist approach."
The pause isn't accidental.
You sigh. It comes out more bored than exasperated, which is its own flavor of victory.
"It's called 'function over fashion.' You should try it sometime, but then you'd have to put a shirt on."
He laughs—if you can call it that. Sharp, too-loud in the echo chamber of the pool, bouncing off the walls and right back at you, Coke bottle dangling between his fingers.
"You've got jokes this early? Impressive. Most people just stare. Or ask for a selfie." He says it like it's a tired complaint. Like being famous is a food allergy.
"Sorry to disappoint. I left my camera at home."
He searches your face—goggles, cap, water-slick skin. "So, what is it? Training for something? Or just here to dodge Madrid's brilliant social scene?"
You could list reasons. Practicals, ambitions, spite.
But giving him that feels like oversharing, and you're allergic to generosity before noon.
"Just making sure nobody contaminates the pool with ego," you reply, not bothering to watch his reaction. "It's a full-time job, apparently."
He grins wider. "And how's that working out for you?"
"Clearly not enough chlorine in Madrid."
His snort is quick, surprised. "Good thing I brought my own cleaning agent," and he raises the Coke like he's toasting you, the faint fizz hissing in the hush.
You blink. "Pretty sure that stuff dissolves teeth and dignity equally."
He gives you his back, towel abandoning his shoulder to the bench behind him.
He does that the only way he knows how to do things—with the confidence you only get from having too many people say yes to you.
"Ah well, if you're so concerned, maybe you could supervise my hydration routine. Y'know, in the name of public health."
You stare at his back. Long enough that the silence clicks into awkward, then back out again into your own amusement.
"I'd rather supervise traffic."
He tilts his head towards you and you catch the lip bite—a small, impulsive gesture, as if he's unused to being pushed off his line. Holds your gaze. You hold it right back, legs drifting in the water, dead calm.
He cracks first, glancing down, shrugs like he's bored but the muscles in his cheeks betray that twitch—restless, hungry for response.
"Awws. Shame. You seem like you know your way around a lecture."
You want to roll your eyes, but settle for sinking deeper until only your nose breaks the surface.
Now he's more of a blur—exactly what he should be.
Golden skin and dark hair and that stupid confident posture that screams 'look at me, aren't I incredible?'
You're not looking.
Except you are.
Because studying muscle groups is literally your major, and his back is... educational. The latissimus dorsi cuts a clean V from his shoulders to his waist. Serratus anterior visible when he moves his arms.
You hate that it's good.
His phone buzzes against the towel and he reaches for it, abs contracting as he leans forward. Probably texting some Instagram model about meeting up later, or his manager about damage control from whatever scandal he's brewing.
He drops it, stretches his neck for a second before he turns around and starts walking the pool perimeter.
You surface fully, settling your forearms back against the pool's edge. The tile's warm under your skin, heated by whatever expensive system keeps this place perfect year-round.
His eyes find yours when he's near your position.
Quick glance down—chest, clearly—then back up like nothing happened.
The deadpan you throw his way could freeze hellfire.
He presses his lips together. Holding back laughter, probably. Like your irritation is entertainment designed specifically for his amusement.
You lean your head back. Close your eyes. Maybe if you ignore him long enough, he'll get bored and find someone else to bother.
The water ripples.
Footsteps on the stairs to your right. Of course. Because respecting personal space is apparently a foreign concept.
You don't open your eyes. Don't give him the satisfaction.
"You getting in?" Your voice echoes off the walls.
"Thinking about it."
"That would require brain cells."
"I know. That's why I'm taking my time."
You open your eyes finally, grimace in his general direction. He's sitting down on the edge, feet inside the pool.
He shrugs like your opinion matters exactly as much as the weather forecast for Mars.
Your eyes drift to the Coke in his hand. Red label, half-empty, condensation beading on the aluminum. The air around the pool tastes like chlorine and something else. Something sharp and citrusy that doesn't belong.
Lemons.
Weird.
"Normal Coke?"
"Zero, actually."
"I gathered that. I mean flavor."
He blinks. "There's flavors?"
You narrow your eyes. He's either genuinely confused or playing dumb, and with him, both options are equally probable.
He just bites back a smile like your question was the most adorable thing he's heard all week.
He dangles the can, realizes it's empty, sets it on the pool's edge with the kind of casual disregard that probably extends to most areas of his life.
He stands.
And now it's the front that your eyes track.
The external obliques that create those lines pointing down from his hips. The rectus abdominis that forms the six-pack everyone's always posting thirst traps about. V-line cutting sharp below his swim trunks. Hip flexors that suggest flexibility. Some softness in his pecs that suggests he's human rather than a marble statue.
Not that you're looking.
"Enjoying the view?"
Caught.
You blink. Deadpan. "Thought footballers were too important to use empty facilities."
"And I thought physio daughters didn't do extracurricular voyeurism."
"Big word."
"I know some." His abs flex as he steps into the water, and you catch the way goosebumps rise across his skin from the temperature change. "Want me to spell it out?"
"Pretty sure you couldn't spell it if you tried."
"Try me." He's waist-deep now, water lapping at that V-line you definitely weren't cataloging for academic purposes. "I've been told I've got a nice tongue."
The way he says it makes your skin crawl in ways that have nothing to do with the pool temperature.
You exhale through your nose. "Generosity isn't really your brand."
His laugh comes quick. Too pleased. "I can rebrand."
"You'd need a miracle worker."
"Lucky me, I'm surrounded by therapists." He gestures vaguely at you, at the space around you. "Surely one of you can fix my reputation."
"Reputation implies you had something good to ruin."
"Harsh." His teeth catch the inside of his cheek, grin crooked. He drifts closer, just enough to shorten the water between you. "But fair."
You study him because pretending not to would be worse.
The water clings when he moves, silvered against his skin, catching on every muscle he clearly wants you to clock.
"Since you don't believe I can spell, let's make it educational," he says, smirk cutting across his face like a dare. "Alphabet lesson. A through F. Oral exam only."
The chlorine sting in your eyes feels like mercy compared to this.
"A, for ass. Obvious choice. Perfect example right here, by the way."
You blink at him. "I did not ask."
"B's for boobs." He drags his tongue over his teeth. "Self-explanatory. Yours are..." His eyes dip again, bold, then right back to yours. "Pretty nice."
"Congratulations on learning anatomy."
"Thanks. C, for cunt." He says it like it's poetry. Lets the word hang, lazy, shameless. "Could spend hours on that one."
You raise your brows, unimpressed. "That's supposed to scare me? Because if so, congrats."
"Supposed to tempt you. I could show you." His grin stretches. "Which brings me to D for dick. Mine's got great reviews, by the way."
You push your forearms harder into the edge of the pool, like holding yourself steady against the tide of bullshit.
"From who? Your reflection?"
He tilts his head, like he's actually considering it. "E's my favorite, though."
"Is it."
"Eat." His tongue darts out, quick, mocking. "You know. Pussy. Out. In. Whatever direction you want it."
Your face doesn't move. Not one twitch. Just a blink, maybe.
But the chlorine feels hotter, heavier.
He's all grin and gleam, soaking up silence like it feeds him.
"F," he goes on, almost sing-song. "Fuck. Obviously. Multiple entries in that one. Variations too."
He shrugs. Shoulders ripple like he's immune to shame. "Not rediscovered. Perfected. I could spell the whole alphabet if you want. Mouth's good for more than trash talk."
He does that thing—tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek as if he's biting back laughter.
He's not laughing, though. He's watching you like he's waiting for the crack.
Then you lean in. Just enough that he perks, attention snapping to your mouth like a dog on a leash.
He thinks he's about to win.
"G," you say.
His brows flick. "Yeah? G for..."
"Gilipollas." (Asshole)
His head cocks, grin slipping, just for a second. "What?"
You don't clarify. Just raise two fingers in a mock salute, wrist lazy like you're signing him off the field.
"Disfruta la piscina, Taehyung." (Enjoy the pool, Taehyung)
"You're literally internet famous and you never told me."
Sofia's accusation echoes off the hallway walls as you both walk toward your next lecture, her voice pitched somewhere between betrayal and genuine excitement.
Students weave around you—the usual mix of international business majors and trust fund kids who treat university like an extended vacation with occasional essays.
"I'm not internet famous," you say, adjusting your bag strap. "My ferrets are internet famous. There's a difference."
"Bullshit." She stops walking entirely, forcing you to halt mid-step. "You're joking, right? You're the owner of Nube and Hari. Say sike right now."
"I am so not saying sike, regardless of whether I am or not."
Sofia grabs your shoulders and shakes you—actually shakes you—until your vision goes slightly wonky and you have to brace yourself against the wall.
"Girl, you have like seven hundred thousand Instagram followers! You're basically a celebrity!"
"My dad technically is, and I see the Real Madrid players constantly, against my will, so—"
"But that's like by proxy. You're an actual, like, actual celebrity."
"My ferrets are," you correct, because it feels necessary.
Sofia's eyes narrow, that specific look she gets when she's about to deploy some twisted logic that'll somehow make perfect sense. "And legally ferrets can't represent themselves in court, so you're their guardian, which means you also guard their fame, and thus it corresponds to you."
You blink at her. "That's the most backwards logic I've ever heard, Sof."
"But is it wrong though?"
You don't answer because honestly, you're not sure.
The ferret account started as a joke—two criminally cute chaos agents doing criminally cute chaos things. Stealing socks, building pillow forts, falling asleep in impossible positions. You posted maybe once a week, captions kept minimal because who needs paragraphs when you've got Nube dramatically flopping over like she's been shot every time you stop petting her?
Somehow that turned into six-figure follower counts and sponsorship offers for ferret food you wouldn't feed to your worst enemy.
"Besides," Sofia continues, linking her arm through yours as you resume walking, "your content's actually good. Half these influencers just post the same recycled quotes about self-love and call it a day. Your ferrets have personality."
"They have crime records."
"Same thing."
The hallway opens into the main corridor, glass and steel and architectural statements about the future of education. UEM loves reminding everyone how modern and international they are—like charging twenty-five thousand euros a year wasn't reminder enough.
Sofia's still buzzing with ferret-related excitement, gesturing wildly as she talks. "I mean, my mom follows your account. My mom, who thinks Instagram is a government conspiracy to steal personal information. She sends me your videos constantly."
"Your mom has excellent taste in chaos."
"She keeps asking when you're going to monetize properly. Says you could have your own ferret merchandise line, maybe a YouTube channel—"
You tune out the business strategy because Sofia's mom works in marketing and treats every hobby like a potential empire.
Instead, you pull out your phone, thumb automatically navigating to Instagram out of habit.
Your own account sits at the top of your story feed—seven hundred and thirty-two thousand followers, last you checked. The number still feels surreal, like it belongs to someone else's life.
You scroll past the usual suspects. Sofia's story from this morning—coffee and textbooks arranged in that effortlessly aesthetic way she's mastered. Some girl from your biomechanics class posting gym selfies. A few Real Madrid official updates you haven't bothered to unfollow yet.
Then you see it.
Nomad's story.
Your finger hovers over his profile picture—currently sporting white hair that should look ridiculous but somehow doesn't. You've been following him since his debut, back when he was just another trainee with impossible dreams and a face that belonged in museums.
You tap his story almost reflexively, the way any dedicated fan would.
The image loads and you stop walking so abruptly that Sofia takes three more steps before realizing you're not beside her anymore.
"What?" She turns, blue hair bouncing in those high ponytails she's been experimenting with lately.
Her hands find her hips, weight shifting to one foot in that classic Sofia pose that means she's waiting for an explanation.
"Heeey?" she prompts when you don't immediately respond.
You stare at the screen. At the background. At the details that make your chest tight with recognition.
"It's Nomad," you say, voice coming out weird and strained.
"Huh?" Sofia's ears practically perk up—she's just as much of a Traveler as you are, has been since his first mixtape dropped. She sidles up to your side, pressing close to see your screen. "What about him? Oh yeah, he's rocking the white hair, huh? Looks good on—"
"No." You zoom in on the image, fingers slightly shaky. "Look."
The photo shows Nomad in profile, white hair catching afternoon sunlight, wearing some designer jacket that looks way too good on him.
But it's not him you're focused on.
It's the sign above his head. Clear as day, impossible to mistake.
Café Luna. The little coffee shop three blocks from campus that you and Sofia discovered during orientation week. The one with the overpriced cortados and the barista who always judges your order.
"That's the coffee shop near our campus!" Sofia's voice jumps an octave, excitement crackling through every syllable.
You twist to look at her, hands automatically reaching for her forearms as she grabs yours—that unconscious mirroring thing you do when news is too big for just standing normally.
"He's in Madrid."
"Oh my fucking god."
"He's literally here."
Sofia's eyes are wide, pupils dilated like she's just witnessed a miracle. "Can we go check up on himmmm?"
The question comes out as a whine, complete with that pout she deploys when she wants something unreasonable.
You sigh, torn between fan instincts and basic human decency. "Sof, we can't just stalk him."
"It's not stalking if we're getting coffee!"
"At a place we never go to."
"We went there once!"
"During orientation. Four weeks ago."
Sofia's pout intensifies. "Okay, but consider this—we're both Travelers. We've supported him since day one. We deserve this."
"That's not how celebrity encounters work."
"Says who?"
"Says basic social contracts and the concept of personal space."
But even as you say it, you're already thinking about it.
Café Luna is a fifteen-minute walk. Your next class isn't until three. If you just happened to be in the area, getting coffee like normal students do...
"Look," Sofia says, clearly sensing your resolve weakening. "We don't have to approach him. We can just... observe. From a respectful distance. Like wildlife photography but for Korean rappers."
"That's definitely stalking."
"It's appreciating art in its natural habitat."
You look at the photo again.
Nomad's wearing sunglasses, expression relaxed in that way that suggests he's not expecting to be recognized. Just a guy getting coffee, trying to blend into a foreign city.
The part of you that's been a fan since before he was famous wants to respect that privacy.
The part of you that's been having the worst month of your life wants something good to happen, even if it's just glimpsing someone whose music got you through your mom's death and the Barcelona move.
"Fifteen minutes," you hear yourself saying. "We get coffee, we sit outside, we don't bother him."
Sofia's squeal is so loud that three business majors turn to stare.
"But if he's not there, we just get coffee and leave," you add quickly. "No stalking, no waiting around, no posting about it on social media."
"Deal." Sofia's already pulling out her phone, probably checking her appearance in the camera app. "Should I fix my hair? I feel like I should fix my hair."
"You look fine."
"Fine isn't good enough for potentially meeting a Grammy-nominated artist."
"We're not meeting him. We're existing in the same general vicinity."
But Sofia's already applying lip gloss, the kind of emergency beauty routine she usually reserves for unexpected encounters with cute guys from marketing seminars.
You check the timestamp on Nomad's story. Posted twenty-three minutes ago. Which means he could still be there, or he could be halfway across the city by now.
Only one way to find out.
"Come on," you say, shouldering your bag properly. "Let's go commit some very respectful, very distant celebrity appreciation."
Sofia beams like you've just agreed to rob a bank together.
"This is going to be the best day ever."
The assault of yellow hits you before you even clear the doorway.
Every surface screams sunshine optimism—walls painted the color of highlighter markers, chairs upholstered in what can only be described as aggressive cheerfulness.
Even the fucking napkin dispensers are yellow.
It's like someone decided that subtle design choices were for cowards and went full nuclear with a color palette that makes your retinas want to file a complaint.
You want to turn around immediately. Walk back to campus, pretend this was never an idea, maybe find a nice dark corner to contemplate your life choices.
But Sofia's got your forearm in a grip that suggests she's prepared to physically drag you to whatever overpriced caffeine experience awaits.
"Oh my god," she breathes, and you follow her gaze to the display case. Rows of pastries arranged like precious gems, each one more Instagram-ready than the last. "They have blueberry coconut muffins? I think this is my favorite place already."
You examine the display; croissants, scones with names like 'papaya dream' and 'sunset burst', and overall complex artisanal baked goods that make you miss the simple honesty of supermarket cookies.
"The aesthetic is very..." You search for a diplomatic word. "Committed."
"Committed to being amazing." Sofia's practically pressed against the glass now, breath fogging the surface as she catalogues every option. "Look at that raspberry tart. It's like edible art."
The yellow continues its assault as your eyes adjust. Yellow tiles behind the counter. Yellow accent lighting that makes everyone look slightly jaundiced. Even the barista's apron has yellow piping, because apparently subtlety is a concept this place actively rejects.
Your gaze drifts to the menu board, handwritten in that deliberately imperfect chalk style that screams 'we're quirky and authentic.'
Coffee, tea, hot chocolate—the usual suspects, all priced like they're infused with liquid gold.
But your eyes keep moving down to the cold drinks section.
Iced coffee. Cold brew. Kombucha that probably tastes like disappointment.
And there, third from the bottom: fresh lemonade.
You don't know why you're suddenly craving citrus. It's not particularly hot outside, and you're not usually one for sweet drinks. But something about the idea of sharp, clean tartness appeals to you. Something that cuts through all this aggressive optimism and grounds you in something real.
"What do you want?" you ask Sofia, who's still conducting a thorough analysis of the pastry situation.
"Hmm?" She doesn't look away from a particularly impressive-looking éclair. "Oh, um. Cappuccino. The biggest one they have. And maybe... no, definitely... that blueberry coconut muffin."
"Okay."
Sofia finally tears herself away from the display case, scanning the seating area. "You go order, I'll find us a table. Somewhere with good sightlines but not too obvious."
She's already moving toward a corner table that offers a perfect view of the entrance while maintaining plausible deniability about why you're here.
The girl's got stalking instincts that would make a private investigator proud.
You approach the counter, where a barista with carefully cultivated bedhead and the kind of ironic mustache that suggests he takes his coffee very seriously is waiting with forced enthusiasm.
"Buenas tardes, ¡bienvenida a Café Luna! ¿Qué te gustaría pedir?" (Good afternoon, welcome to Café Luna! What would you like to order?)
His name tag says 'Alberto' and he's definitely the type who judges your order while pretending to be friendly about it.
"Cappuccino, grande. Y la magdalena de coco y arándanos." (Cappuccino, large. And the blueberry coconut muffin.)
You pause, studying the lemonade description on the menu. Fresh-squeezed, it claims. Organic lemons. Lightly sweetened.
"Y una limonada." (And a lemonade.)
"¡Muy buenas opciones! La limonada es la especialidad de la casa—utilizamos limones Meyer importados directamente de—" (Excellent choices! The lemonade's our house specialty—we use Meyer lemons imported directly from—)
"Solo la limonada." (Just the lemonade.)
His enthusiasm deflates slightly but he recovers quickly, punching buttons on a tablet that's probably worth more than your textbooks.
"Serán 15 euros." (That'll be fifteen euros.)
Fifteen euros for coffee, a muffin, and citrus water.
Madrid prices are a special kind of violence.
You hand your card and wait as the espresso machine hisses and gurgles and your ears pick up the surrounding sounds.
Steam wands screaming, beans grinding, the gentle chaos of caffeine production. It should be comforting, but something about the yellow walls makes even normal sounds feel aggressive.
The shop is not too packed at the moment. There's students with laptops, freelancers pretending to work while actually scrolling social media, the occasional actual professional who wandered in by mistake and now looks trapped by the color scheme.
No sign of striking white hair against yellow hell.
Maybe Nomad's already gone. Maybe he was never here to begin with—Instagram stories can be misleading, posted hours after the fact. Maybe you're just two university students spending too much money on coffee while engaging in very sophisticated celebrity stalking.
The lemonade comes first, served in a mason jar because of course it is. The liquid's pale yellow, almost translucent, with actual lemon slices floating like tiny life preservers. Condensation beads on the glass, and when you lift it, the scent hits immediately.
Acidic in the best way.
You take a sip and it's perfect—tart enough to make your jaw tighten, sweet enough to be drinkable. The kind of brightness that cuts through mental fog and makes everything feel more defined.
The cappuccino arrives next, foam art swirled into what might be a leaf or might be abstract expressionism. Alberto slides it across the counter with the pride of someone who's just completed a masterpiece.
Then, after he's done heating the muffin up, he gives it to you—and with that you're finally free to go.
You carry the drinks to Sofia's strategically chosen table—she's positioned herself with her back to the wall, phone discreetly angled toward the entrance.
Which, you know, doesn't give her away at all.
"Any sightings?" you ask, settling into the chair across from her.
"Nothing yet." She accepts her cappuccino. "But this gives us time to properly case the joint."
"We're not robbing, Sof."
"Same principles apply."
You sip your lemonade again, letting the burst of sharpness ground you while Sofia launches into detailed analysis of the café's layout.
The yellow walls continue their cheerful assault, but the lemon helps. Cuts through the visual noise, makes everything feel more honest than the aggressive optimism surrounding you.
You watch Sofia bite into the muffin like it holds the secrets of the universe, her eyes rolling back in what can only be described as a borderline pornographic display of satisfaction.
The sound she makes—somewhere between a moan and a sigh—is loud enough that the hipster at the next table glances over with judgment.
You swat at her arm. "Jesus, Sof. Control yourself."
"Wha—" she says around a mouthful of crumbs and blueberries, completely unashamed. "If you tried it you'd understand! This is like... bakery heaven dissolved into carb form."
"You're embarrassing."
"I'm appreciating fine cuisine." More crumbs fall onto the yellow table as she gestures wildly with the remaining half of her muffin. "Here, you have to try—"
She's giggling, that infectious laugh that makes her sound younger than she is, when her expression suddenly freezes mid-chew.
"Oh shit."
The way she says it—breathless, reverent—makes you turn slightly in your chair, following her gaze to a table three rows back.
And there he is.
Black baseball cap pulled low, oversized sunglasses, face mask covering everything from his nose down.
The kind of disguise that screams 'celebrity trying not to be recognized' while somehow making him more conspicuous.
But it's the white strands tucked under the cap that give him away—white hair that catches the aggressive yellow lighting like spun silver.
Nomad. Actually fucking here.
Your stomach does something complicated, the lemonade suddenly tasting prickly on your tongue.
All those years of streaming his music, watching interviews, following his career from trainee to global superstar, and now he's sitting twenty feet away ordering what looks like an iced americano.
You whip back to Sofia, eyes wide, heart doing something irregular against your ribs.
"It's him," you whisper, gripping your mason jar so tight your knuckles go white.
"Yes girl oh my god it's him—" Sofia's practically vibrating in her seat, muffin forgotten as she tries to look casual while obviously staring. "He's even hotter in person. How is that possible?"
"Stop looking directly at him, you're being obvious!"
"I can't help it! Do you think he noticed us noticing him?"
You take another sip of lemonade, using the movement to steal another glance.
He's alone, scrolling through his phone with the kind of relaxed posture that suggests he's not expecting to be bothered. Just a guy getting coffee in a foreign city, probably jet-lagged and trying to adjust to European time zones.
The citrus burns down your throat while your brain tries to process the surreal reality of your favorite artist existing in the same physical space, breathing the same aggressively yellow air.
"We should leave," you say, even though every instinct is screaming at you to stay. "This is his private time."
"Are you insane? This is fate. The universe literally delivered him to us."
"The universe delivered him to Madrid. We're just coincidentally caffeinated bystanders."
But Sofia's not listening anymore. Her attention's shifted to something behind you, expression morphing from starstruck to absolutely feral.
"Hobs! Hoooobs!"
The voice cuts through the coffee shop ambiance like a knife through butter—playful, affectionate, with just enough volume to make several customers look up from their laptops.
You know that voice.
Have heard it in countless interviews, variety shows, behind-the-scenes footage.
Jackson Wang, calling out to his older brother with the kind of casual familiarity that only comes from sharing DNA and probably too many hotel rooms.
"You're fucking joking," Sofia says around her mouthful of muffin, crumbs spraying across the table.
"Sofia—"
"I think I just came."
"Sof!"
But you understand the reaction because your own brain's currently malfunctioning.
Jackson Wang—rapper, producer, fashion icon, Sofia's not-so-secret celebrity crush since approximately forever—is walking into Café Luna like it's the most normal thing in the world.
He's got that effortless style that makes expensive clothes look casual. Designer sneakers, jeans that fit like they were tailored specifically for his body, a hoodie that manages to be both oversized and perfectly fitted.
The lemonade in your mouth turns to liquid sunshine as you watch him navigate between tables, heading straight for where Nomad—Hoseok—sits in his makeshift disguise.
"This is not real life," Sofia whispers, and you can hear the genuine amazement in her voice. "This is some kind of fever dream brought on by too much caffeine and academic stress."
"It's real."
"How do you know?"
"Because my heart's beating so fast I'm pretty sure I'm having a medical emergency."
Jackson reaches his brother's table, sliding into the opposite chair flourishly.
Even from this distance, you can see the way Hoseok's shoulders relax, the subtle shift in posture that comes from being around someone who loves you unconditionally.
It's intimate in a way that makes you feel like you're intruding just by existing in the same space.
"We need to be cool," you say, more to yourself than to Sofia. "We're just two normal university students having normal coffee."
"Normal students don't hyperventilate when they see their favorite artists."
"Then breathe normally."
"You breathe normally! You're gripping that jar like it's a life preserver."
She's not wrong. The mason jar's slick with condensation and your own nervous sweat, the lemon slices floating like tiny life rafts in an ocean of citrus and chaos.
Jackson's laugh carries across the café—that distinctive sound you've heard in countless videos, warm and genuine and completely unguarded. He's gesturing as he talks, probably telling some story that has Hoseok shaking his head in fond exasperation.
They look like brothers. Not just in the obvious physical similarities, but in the way they occupy space together. That sense of closeness between people who've known each other since before fame complicated everything.
"Do you think they're here for work?" Sofia asks, trying to look casual while obviously eavesdropping.
"Does it matter?"
"Does it—of course it does! We need to, like, manage to get into one of Jackson's parties."
You choke on your lemonade so hard citrus burns up your sinuses and you're coughing, actually coughing, eyes watering while Sofia pats your back with zero sympathy.
"Are you insane?" you manage between gasps, voice scratchy. "We can't just—you can't just—"
"C'mon!" Sofia's practically bouncing in her seat now, keeping her voice to an aggressive whisper. "He's known for throwing the best parties ever. Like, the best. He's literally everywhere, his parties are so legendary that he even gets fanfics written about them."
You stare at her. "Fanfics."
"Yes! I even read him as a party host in a Game of Thrones AU once. That's legacy, baby."
The lemonade's still burning in your throat, matching the panic clawing up your chest because Hoseok—Nomad, your favorite artist since you were sixteen—is sitting twenty feet away having a conversation with his brother.
"Stop calling me Hobs, we're in public," you hear Hoseok say, his voice a low, smooth murmur that's even better live than it is through studio-quality headphones.
He's taken off his mask, nursing his iced americano, and his face is... well. It's his face. The one that's launched a thousand fancams. Pretty jawline, high cheekbones, eyes that could probably solve international conflicts.
"What?" Jackson's louder, more theatrical. "It's not like I said 'hello Nomad, global rapper sensation—'" He drops his voice to an exaggerated whisper on the last part.
"You're being so loud you might as well be broadcasting you're Jackson Wang. I don't want a mob right now. Tone it down."
"Right, because that white hair isn't telling enough."
"That's why I'm wearing a fucking cap, genius."
Sofia grabs your wrist, squeezing so hard you're pretty sure she's cutting off circulation. "Oh my god, they're bickering. That's so cute. I'm dying. I'm actually dying."
"You're not dying, you're eavesdropping."
"It's not eavesdropping if they're talking at normal volume in a public space."
You take another sip of lemonade, trying to ground yourself in the tartness, the way it makes your jaw tighten and your thoughts sharpen.
But it's not working because you can hear Jackson laugh—that bright, unfiltered sound—and then there's movement as he reaches over and flicks Hoseok's cap, knocking it slightly askew.
"Bro—" Hoseok adjusts it quickly, glancing around to make sure nobody noticed the flash of white. "You're a menace."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
There's some rustle of fabric, and you catch fragments of their conversation through the ambient café noise. Something about jet lag, about Madrid, about—
"—throwing a party, obviously," Jackson's saying. "You know how crazy people go for those. It's the perfect way to welcome the city."
"Bro." Hoseok sounds exhausted just thinking about it. "We just got here. I'm still jet lagged as fuck."
"Exactly. What better way to welcome the city than a fucking party? You know how crazy people go for those. It's good for the brand."
"It's bad for my sleep schedule." Hoseok sighs, running a hand over his face; so casual, so human, it almost makes you forget he's a global superstar. "And you know how the sponsors get about your parties."
"The sponsors love my parties! It's free press. Everyone talks about them for weeks."
"They talk about the property damage and the noise complaints."
"That's just the cost of creating legendary memories, Hobs."
"See?" Sofia turns to you, eyes bright with excitement. "They're already planning it. And Jackson's parties aren't like... exclusive celebrity bullshit. They're macro parties. Everyone's invited. You know you've made it in life if you get into one of his events. It's literally life-changing."
"Sof, we can't just crash a celebrity party."
"We're not crashing if we get invited. And Jackson invites everyone. He doesn't discriminate. I've read like fifty articles about his party philosophy—it's very democratic."
"You've read articles about his party philosophy."
"Don't judge me." But she's grinning, that massive crush on Jackson making her practically glow. "He's fascinating. And hot. Mostly hot. But also fascinating."
You risk another glance at their table. Hoseok is rubbing his temples like he's trying to physically push Jackson's party ideas out of his brain. Jackson, meanwhile, is scrolling through his phone, probably already scouting potential venues.
He looks up, catches his brother's weary expression, and grins. "C'mon, Hobi. Just one. A little get-together to announce our arrival. We'll keep it small."
"Your definition of 'small' is three hundred people and a DJ who thinks fire regulations are a suggestion."
"Okay, medium-sized then. Five hundred, tops."
At this point, you're pretty sure Sofia is going to launch herself across the café if she gets any more excited.
"See? Legendary. We have to go if he throws one here."
"We don't even know if—"
"He's Jackson Wang. Of course he's throwing a party. It's like... his thing. His brand. His entire personality."
You can't really argue with that because... Well, she's not wrong.
Every interview you've ever seen, every behind-the-scenes video, every social media post—Jackson's always either at a party, planning a party, or recovering from a party.
A long, suffering sigh. "Aight, but I'm gonna need some molly if we're doing this."
Jackson laughs, loud and bright. "Now we're talking. See? This is the Hobs I know. The fun one."
"I'm always fun. I'm just tired and jet lagged and questioning why I'm enabling you."
"Because you love me," Jackson continues, "And because Madrid's fun. The clubs here are insane. And I know like three promoters who owe me favors."
"Of course you do."
"I'm a man of connections, Hobs. It's called networking."
"It's called being a chaos agent with too much money and not enough supervision."
Sofia gasps beside you, a sharp intake of breath that's pure, unadulterated joy. "It's happening. It's actually happening."
It's happening, alright.
And you have a terrible, sinking feeling that you're about to get swept up in it whether you want to or not.
Your head tilts, and in that moment, you see Jackson's eyes light up with that particular brand of chaos that Sofia's fanfiction research probably warned about.
He leans forward, catching his brother's attention with a subtle hand gesture—just a quick tap on the table, but Hoseok's entire body language shifts to high alert.
"No," Hoseok mouths, shaking his head slowly. "Don't even think about it."
Jackson grins wider, that wickedly innocent expression that probably cost sponsors millions in damage control over the years. He points toward the café's center, then makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the entire space.
"Right now?" Hoseok's lips form the words without sound, eyes widening in genuine panic. "Are you fucking crazy?"
"Always," Jackson mouths back, and now you're curious.
Sofia's grip on your arm tightens to the point of circulation loss. "Oh my god, he's going to announce it. He's actually going to announce a party."
"Maybe he's just—"
But Jackson's already shifting in his seat, that telltale bounce that means he's committed to whatever terrible idea just bloomed in his brain.
You watch Hoseok reach across the table, trying to grab his wrist.
"Jackson, I swear to god—"
"What?" Jackson says, loudly enough that the table next to them glances over. "I was just thinking—"
"Don't think. Thinking is dangerous for you."
"—about how nice this café is. How welcoming Madrid's been."
Hoseok's expression shifts from panic to confusion to dawning horror as he recognizes that particular tone.
"Jackson. No. I don't want another mob."
"How we should really give back to the community that's been so—"
"I will personally murder you and hide your body in the Retiro."
Jackson laughs, the sound carrying across the yellow-soaked space. "Relax, Hobs. I'm just playing."
But then he abruptly stands up.
Hoseok lunges for him, missing by inches. "Sit the fuck down."
"Actually," Jackson says, voice projecting with the training of someone who's performed for stadiums, "I have an announcement."
The café goes quiet.
Not completely—the espresso machine still hisses, someone's laptop still plays music through tiny speakers—but there's that particular hush that comes when people sense something's about to happen.
"Jackson," Hoseok hisses, half-standing himself. "I will end you."
"Ladies and gentlemen," Jackson continues, spreading his arms wide like he's addressing the United Nations instead of twenty confused university students and caffeine addicts. "And distinguished patrons of this absolutely gorgeous establishment—"
A girl near the window whispers, "¿Es él de verdad?" (Is that really him?)
"Oh, it's him alright," Sofia breathes beside you.
"—I'm Jackson Wang."
The name hangs in the air like a dropped bomb.
Several phones immediately appear, camera apps loading with the efficiency of trained paparazzi.
"And I'm having a party."
"JACKSON." Hoseok's voice cracks with pure desperation.
"Tomorrow night. Villa Cereza. 1AM until whenever we get kicked out or the sun comes up, whichever happens first." His grin is pure manic energy, feeding off the growing murmur of excitement. "Everyone's invited. And I mean everyone."
The café erupts.
"¡Joder, es Jackson Wang!" (Fuck, it's Jackson Wang!)
"¿En serio está invitando a todo el mundo?" (Is he seriously inviting everyone?)
"¡Tengo que llamar a mi hermana!" (I have to call my sister!)
Chairs scrape. Phones emerge from pockets like weapons being drawn. The entire café erupts into motion as people start moving toward their table, voices overlapping in Spanish and English and several other languages you can't identify.
Hoseok's already on his feet, bag slung over his shoulder, shooting Jackson a look that could melt steel. "You absolute fucking—"
"Gotta go!" Jackson's practically cackling as he starts backing toward the exit, hands up in a playful surrender. "Villa Cereza, 1AM! Bring friends!"
And then he's running.
Actually running, weaving between tables like his life depends on it, laughter trailing behind him as he bolts for the door.
People abandon their coffees, chairs topple as customers rush to follow him.
"¡Espera! ¡Jackson!" (Wait! Jackson!)
"¡Una foto, por favor!" (A picture, please!)
Hoseok curses in what sounds like three different languages, yanking his cap down lower as he chases after his brother.
"Jackson, I swear to god—"
But he's drowned out by the surge of people now flooding toward the exit, everyone trying to catch them before they disappear. The careful disguises are useless now—once Jackson opened that door, there was no closing it.
You sit frozen, watching the chaos unfold like you're viewing it through glass. Sofia's grabbed your arm so tight you're pretty sure she's cutting off circulation, her other hand pressed to her mouth in shock.
"Did that just happen?" she whispers, voice barely audible over the commotion.
Through the window, you can see Jackson sprinting down the street, Hoseok close behind him, both of them moving with the kind of urgency that comes from years of escaping overzealous fans.
A growing crowd pours out of the café in pursuit, phones held high, shouting.
The barista—Alberto—stands behind the counter looking like he's just witnessed either the best or worst day of his career.
Sofia turns to you slowly, eyes wide as dinner plates.
"We're going to that party."
"We absolutely are not going to that party."
"Babes." Her voice is deadly serious. "We just witnessed history. Jackson Wang just personally invited us to a party. In person. With eye contact."
"He invited everyone. Including that guy over there who's been picking his nose for five minutes."
"Exactly my point, we have an in. A legitimate, witnessed-by-twenty-people invitation to what's going to be the party of the century."
You take a long sip of your lemonade, still hearing wild shouting in the street.
Your phone buzzes. A notification from Instagram.
Jackson Wang has posted a story.
The preview shows a blurry video of him running down the street, laughing breathlessly into the camera.
"Madrid," he pants, "Villa Cereza—tonight! Bring aspirin—" he's looking behind him now while laughing, and your ears obviously pick up on Hoseok's cursing—"and some booze!"
You sigh into your lemonade; Sofia beams like she's just won the lottery.
"This is going to be amazing."
The tiny curved barbell slips between his fingers for the third fucking time.
Taehyung stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, jaw clenched as he tries to thread the smiley piercing through the frenulum. The silver fangs always look incredible in photos, drive his mentions absolutely insane—but the damn thing won't click into place.
And the thing is—the bathroom's pretty fucking massive—bigger than most people's bedrooms, with a jacuzzi that could fit six people and enough mirror space to see himself from every conceivable angle.
All that space and he's hunched over the sink like some amateur trying to pierce himself with a safety pin.
He really can't make this shit up.
His phone buzzes against the marble counter.
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧: 𝙱𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙾𝙾𝙾 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚁 𝚄
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧: 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃𝚈 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝚂 𝚂𝙾𝙾𝙽
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬: 𝙿𝙿𝙻 𝙰𝙻𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝚈 𝙰𝚂𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝚄
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬: 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚄𝚁 𝙰 𝙶𝙰𝙼𝙴
He ignores it, focusing on the delicate work of not stabbing himself in the mouth while threading jewelry through tissue.
The tragus piercing went in fairly easy, sitting pretty in his left ear like it was meant to be there. The nipple bar also slid through without protest, hidden under his shirt but noticeable if the light catches right.
But this fucking smiley piercing is being a bitch.
He adjusts the angle, tries again. The curved metal catches on something, sends a sharp spike of pain through his gums that makes his eyes water.
"Fuck."
His reflection stares back, perfectly disheveled hair falling across his forehead in that expensive way that takes forty minutes to achieve. Skin clear, jaw sharp in that way that makes photographers weep with gratitude.
Everything about him screams expensive—from the Creed cologne to the chain that catches light like liquid gold against his throat.
Everything except this stupid fucking piercing that refuses to cooperate.
Jesus fucking Christ, he's going to kill somebody today.
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬: 𝚂𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙾𝚄𝚂𝙻𝚈 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚃𝙵 𝚁 𝚄
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬: 𝙷𝙾𝙱𝙸 𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝙳𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬: 𝙶𝙴𝚃 𝚄𝚁 𝙰𝚂𝚂 𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴
Taehyung rolls his eyes, typing back with one hand while he drops the smiley piercing on the sink.
Fuck it. He doesn't need the fangs to look incredible. The tragus and nipple are enough edge, and his face does most of the work anyway.
𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙
𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝟸𝟶
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬: 𝚃𝙾𝚄𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚄𝙿???
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬: 𝙱𝚁𝙾 𝚄 𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙺 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙴
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬: 𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝙽 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙴
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬: 𝚄 𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙺 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙰 𝚆𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙴 𝙰𝚂𝚂 𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙻
𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬: 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝙶𝙴𝚃 𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴
𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬: 𝚂𝚃𝙾𝙿 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚃𝚃𝚈 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴
The confidence isn't fake. He does look good. Better than good.
He is, objectively, incredibly fucking hot.
And he knows exactly how to weaponize it.
He grabs his phone, opens the camera, and angles it perfectly. The lighting in here is decent—warm but not yellow, bright but not harsh. His face makes everything look like a magazine shoot anyways.
He positions his hand over his left eye, index and middle finger forming the V that's become his signature.
Victory.
Because he always wins.
Because he's Madrid's number two who keeps them number one.
Because he's @firstn2 and everyone knows what that means.
First. Always fucking first.
The pose is his trademark, really. Fans copy it constantly—he's seen it all over Instagram, TikTok, Twitter. Everyone trying to recreate that casual confidence, that 'I'm better than you and we both know it' energy that he perfects without effort.
He winks at the camera, catches his tongue between his teeth in that way that makes comment sections lose their minds.
The tongue piercing would complete the look, but that hole's been giving him a bit of trouble considering the UEFA guidelines of not being able to wear piercings.
Too much hassle for not enough game time, and reopening it means days of lisping through interviews.
Not worth it. Not when his face already breaks hearts without accessories.
Click.
The photo's perfect immediately. Of course it is.
The V positioned exactly right, that half-smile that promises trouble. His hair's still damp from the shower, dark strands falling perfectly imperfect across his forehead.
He doesn't even need to edit it.
Instagram story. Upload. Caption: 🏆
Three seconds and it's live to a hundred thirty-six million followers.
His phone immediately starts buzzing with notifications. Likes, comments, DMs from people whose names he'll never remember asking where he's going tonight, what he's wearing, can they come, can they get a photo, can they breathe the same air.
He snorts, then tosses the phone aside and reaches for the hair towel, running expensive cotton through still-damp strands.
The shower was necessary—he'd been sleeping for twelve hours straight again, that heavy drowsiness that's been following him around like a shadow. His body wants to shut down, wants to sink back into unconsciousness, but his brain needs stimulation.
Needs something to cut through the fog.
Tonight's party is perfect timing.
Jackson's chaos, good drugs, beautiful people who'll remind him why he's worth paying attention to. The kind of night where he'll fuck someone whose name he won't remember and wake up feeling human again instead of this weird half-alive thing he's been lately.
His Instagram story's already at fifty thousand views. Comments flooding in from accounts he recognizes—models he's fucked, influencers who want to be fucked, random fans who'll never get close enough to try.
None of them matter.
Well. Except for the ones who'll be at Jackson's party tonight. The ones who'll see these piercings in person, who'll get close enough to appreciate the details.
Who'll remember exactly how good he looked when they're lying in bed later, scrolling through his photos and wishing they were brave enough to slide into his DMs.
He loves being wanted. Loves the attention, the validation, the way people's eyes follow him when he walks into a room.
It's a drug better than anything Jackson's ever offered him at these parties.
But he would still kill for one right now. He feels drowsy.
His phone buzzes with the telltale sound of an audio message.
Three of them, actually.
"Brooo—" Jackson's voice is breathless, elated, probably already three drinks in. "—you need to hear this beat drop. Hobi found this fucking sick remix and I swear to god it's gonna make people lose their minds tonight—"
The music swells, some bass-heavy track that'll probably rupture eardrums and inspire terrible decisions.
Jackson's laugh cuts through it, pure manic joy.
Taehyung rolls his eyes, snorting as he settles onto his bed with the towel.
The Egyptian cotton sheets cost way too much, but right now they're just somewhere to sit while Jackson has his pre-party breakdown via voice note.
Second audio note auto-plays.
"—seriously though, the setup is insane. We got the outdoor speakers, the pool lights, and Hobi's being all responsible about permits but fuck permits, right? Like, when has anyone ever been arrested for having too much fun—"
There's a crash in the background, followed by what sounds like Hoseok cursing in Korean.
"—okay maybe permits are important—"
Audio cuts.
Third note.
"But DUDE. The people showing up tonight? Like, I'm talking about the kind of party that gets written about. The kind that makes people's Instagram highlights for the next year. And you're sitting there doing your hair like we have all fucking night—"
Taehyung drops the towel, clicking his tongue at the petulant tone, because he doesn't like being told what to do.
Then his eyes flick to his burner account.
The one he uses for scrolling without the pressure of a hundred thirty-six million followers tracking his every digital move.
The account that lets him hunt without announcing his presence.
@kth.02 with its carefully curated follower count of exactly zero famous people.
He opens Instagram, switches accounts, and immediately goes to the discovery page.
The algorithm knows him well—feeds him exactly what he's looking for.
Tight dresses, perfect faces, bodies that photograph like art. The kind of women who'll be at Jackson's party tonight, looking incredible and hoping to catch his attention.
He scrolls, half-focused, still thinking about what he'll drink tonight, when blue hair catches his eye.
The color's striking—not the cheap box-dye blue that screams attention, but something professional. Vibrant. The kind of shade that costs real money and actually suits her face.
@sofiachenx.
Pretty name. Pretty girl.
He clicks through to her profile without thinking.
University student, based on the photos. Madrid, based on the location tags. The kind of effortless beauty that doesn't try too hard but still photographs perfectly.
Then he sees it.
One of her recent posts—the girl throwing up his V sign. His signature pose. The one that belongs to hum, that he made famous, that everyone copies but nobody owns except him.
She's doing it over her left eye, same as him. Winking. Tongue barely peeking between her teeth.
A smirk tugs at his mouth.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
She's got the pose down—not just mimicking it, but understanding the attitude behind it. The confidence. The implication that she's winning whatever game she's playing.
He likes that. Likes when people understand what his brand represents.
Plus, she's exactly his type. Pretty face, good body, the kind of features that look incredible in low light. Young enough to be impressed by him, old enough to know what she's doing when she ends up in his bed.
Definitely a 'Cute'.
He's about to scroll through more of her photos when he notices she has a story up.
Current. Posted twenty minutes ago.
He taps it.
The first slide shows her getting ready—mirror selfie in what looks like an expensive bathroom, makeup half done, blue hair pinned up in some complicated style. The caption reads 'tonight's gonna be legendary 💙' with a location tag for Villa Cereza.
She's coming to Jackson's party.
Perfect.
The second story is a video, camera flipping to show her room.
Clothes scattered across a bed that looks like it belongs in a luxury hotel. Designer dresses in black and silver, shoes that that match.
Then her voice, excited and breathy: "Okay, I think I'm going with the black one? It's giving mysterious but approachable, right?"
Another voice responds from off-camera.
Familiar.
"Just do mysterious. I don't want any man near me."
He knows that voice.
The camera swings around, and for a split second, he catches a glimpse of movement. A hand reaching for something on the dresser—slim fingers, perfectly manicured nails painted the color of seashells.
Pale pink with an iridescent sheen that catches the light.
Pretty hands. The kind he likes to watch when they're wrapped around—
"Should I go with the silver instead?" Sofia's voice continues, but he's not listening anymore.
That voice earlier.
Sharp, unimpressed, completely immune to everything he represents.
Interesting.
He leans back against his headboard, a slow smirk spreading across his face.
So you're going to Jackson's party. Going to show up in whatever expensive little number you've picked out, probably planning to spend the entire night pretending he doesn't exist.
Right.
Like you can just waltz into his territory—because Jackson's parties are absolutely his territory—and continue this whole unimpressed act. Like he's background noise you can tune out.
Well.
He slides off the bed, moving back to the bathroom.
The smiley piercing sits on the sink where he left it, silver fangs catching the light.
Yeah. Those are definitely going in now.
He picks up the jewelry, turning it over in his fingers.
Such a small thing, really. Barely visible unless he's smiling directly at someone.
But you'll notice. You notice everything—every detail you can file away to use against him later. Every little thing you can add to your mental list of why he's notworth your stupid time.
The metal slides through his frenulum easier this time. Focused hands, steady fingers. He's done playing games with stubborn jewelry.
The ball clicks into place with a satisfying sound, fangs settling perfectly above his lateral incisors.
He runs his tongue over the new piercing, testing the fit. Perfect. The kind of detail that makes people look twice.
The kind that might finally crack that boring boredom of yours.
You want to keep pretending you don't see him? Fine.
But tonight, when you're standing in that crowd of people who actually appreciate what they're looking at, he's going to make sure those sharp eyes with their practiced boredom can't help but track him across whatever room he's in.
Going to remind you that immunity to his charm isn't actually a thing—it's just denial wearing pretty clothes.
He grins at his reflection. The fangs are visible enough to be interesting without looking like he's trying too hard. Combined with the tragus and the chain, the overall effect is exactly what he was going for.
Irresistible. Inevitable.
His phone buzzes with another all-caps threat from Jackson, but Taehyung's already moving. Grabbing his jacket, checking his hair one last time, making sure everything's exactly where it should be.
You think you're so immune to him, so above whatever it is that makes every other woman in Madrid lose her mind when he walks into a room. You think that sharp tongue and those dismissive looks make you special.
Maybe they do. Maybe that's exactly why he's going to enjoy watching you try so hard not to look.
Because Kim Taehyung always gets what he wants.
And what he wants right now is to see you frown at him again.
Preferably while you're trying very hard not to notice his mouth.
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