W H E R E S H A D O W S M E E T
pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15 - pt.16
Summary: The quiet moments you share with Seongje are overshadowed by the impending war between Eunjang and the Union. As a desperate plan is set in motion, you find yourself at a crossroads where loyalty is tested and motives are questioned.
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
-> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (about to be) -> Warnings: swearing/strong language, emotional distress, intense interpersonal conflict and tension, manipulation, betrayal, mentions of violence and blood, physical fights/brawling, smoking (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> all characters are portrayed as being of legal age -> Wordcount: about 8.000 -> thank you for your patience ♡
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Some time has passed. The world outside seems muffled, filtered through the apartment’s heavy silence. Only the slow, steady rhythm of Seongje’s breathing fills the room—a soft, grounding sound in the aftermath of his storm. His head still rests in your lap, a dead weight of trust that feels both monumental and terrifyingly fragile, as if he’s found a rare peace amidst all the chaos.
You fish out your phone, the movement careful, almost surgical, not wanting to disturb him. The text to your father is short and practical, designed to deflect, not invite.
Hey dad!
Will come home late today, sorry!
If I don’t come back I stayed at a friend’s place.
No need to worry…
No questions, no new arguments, nothing that might spark another round of family drama. You send the message and set the phone aside, the screen going dark.
Your gaze drifts back to Seongje. You watch the gentle curve of his dark curls, how they fall across his temple and nestle against the small birthmark under his eye—a detail normally hidden behind glass. His lashes tremble slightly, and you notice the occasional tic beneath his closed lids, like he’s not fully at rest even now. He looks different without glasses. Less like the monster from the alley fight —who’s only chasing blood and pain — and more like someone who’s just… tired.
As one of his strands of hair falls over his eye, the sudden urge to brush it away rises within you. Just once. A small, insignificant gesture. He probably won’t even notice. You reach out, your own hand trembling slightly, fingers pausing in the air as if afraid to break the spell. But finally, you let your hand move, fingertips barely grazing a curl. Before you can tuck it behind his ear, his hand flies up—swift but not violent—closing firmly around your wrist.
You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat, every muscle in your body locking up in shock.
For an instant, your eyes lock. In the hush, there’s uncertainty, questions neither of you dares to voice. The silence is deafening. No comment. Just closeness. Heat flares across your cheeks, unbidden and unwelcome. Damn it.
He sits up swiftly, not letting go of your wrist. His grip almost stings—heat prickling beneath his fingers, as if your skin had brushed against nettles. You can’t read his eyes, they’re not entirely cold, but not warm enough to offer any comfort, either. His eyes escape yours, flicking down to your hands that are still locked together. Abruptly, he lets go and reaches for his glasses—grabbing them almost as if they were a shield he desperately needed to put back on. He builds up a slight distance, his shoulders stiffening.
Without glancing back, his voice quietly finds their way to your ears, “You need to learn how to take responsibility for your actions.”
You squint, confusion etched across your brow. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He just stands up without a word and heads to the balcony, lighting a cigarette. The sharp click of his lighter cuts through the returned silence. You follow, irritation bubbling up inside you like a bitter poison. What is wrong with him? His quiet, distant act is more unsettling than his usual taunts—normally he’d toss out some sarcastic remark just to break the tension, to lighten the mood.
Now, all you get is silence and smoke, his face half-hidden as he stares out into the night.
“Hey, I asked you something.” You narrow your eyes, arms crossing over your chest. “You wanted me to stay, so what’s with… all this?” You gesture vaguely at the cold space between you. It feels pathetic, trying to demand his attention like this, but honestly, who cares anymore?
He takes a slow drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dusk. His gaze finally meets yours, less sharp now, almost hesitant. “Why’d you actually listen? You could’ve just left. I didn’t force you to stay”.
You scoff, a humorless sound. “Yeah, I could’ve.” You shrug like it’s no big deal, but your voice tightens. “But you looked like a rat that had been hit by a truck. How could I just leave? Sorry, I cared”.
You start to turn, ready to go. You’re not in the mood to keep up with this circus. What did you even hope for?
“Just don’t care,” he snaps, flicking ashes over the railing.
That hits a nerve. You whip back around. “Just don’t care? You think I don’t know that’d be easier? Yeah, right, Seongje—the fierce Union fighter beats himself senseless in a brawl. Why should I care? But damn, my stupid mind always drifts back to you, and I worry. I want to check that you’re not fucking dead, because if— I— Fuck it. Stupid me”.
He stares at you, speechless—no sarcastic comeback, no jab, just stunned silence. You actually shut him up. Awesome. Just a muscle in his jaw twitches, like he’s holding something back, trying not to let it slip.
You step closer, voice lowering. “I know you won’t tell me what happened. You Union idiots always say it’s better if I don’t know. Fine. But don’t shove me away like that—it sucks”.
His eyes flicker with something raw, something real. He runs a hand through his hair, his voice rough and low. “But if I don’t, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep control”.
You raise an eyebrow, voice steady. “Control over what?”
He looks away for a moment, tongue moving inside of his mouth, visible under his lower lip, meeting your gaze again. “Control the part of me that keeps trying not to want you more than I should.”
The word echoes in the quiet space of my mind, sharp and familiar. Of course it’s about control. It’s always been about control for him—every calculated move in a fight, every lazy smirk, every silent challenge across a crowded bar. He built his entire world on it. And you? You never really had it. Never.
But now? He stands there, the master of self-possession, admitting that he’s losing his grip… because of you. For a second, it feels unreal, like a victory. You should feel powerful, triumphant. The girl who finally cracked Geum Seongje.
But you just feel… exhausted.
Tired of this constant push and pull, this relentless power play where every touch is a test and every word is a move on a chessboard. A game with no rules and no endgame. A game where, with the two of you as players, there can be no winner.
His eyes avoid yours, staring at the lights that break the darkness. What does he think about? For you to run, or to throw another sarcastic barb his way? Doesn’t matter, but what does is that for once, you don't want to play his game anymore. Time for you to spice things up. Maybe a taste of his own medicine?
"Fuck that control." Your voice is sharp, slipping past the tension like a blade.
You close the gap in one step, your fingers tangling in the back of his neck, pulling him closer—no hesitation. His breath hitches, eyes darkening in surprise as your lips close the distance to his.
The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s hungry, fierce—a release pent up for far too long. His mouth moves with a raw urgency that’s both consuming and claiming, demanding a response you're not sure you're ready to give. His hands slam down on your hips, fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt, anchoring you. It’s not just a kiss; it’s a power play, his desperate need for control shifting from his mind to his body, and you're caught in the epicenter.
You answer, not just by letting him take the lead, but by pushing back, a silent challenge. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you, just the searing heat burning through your clothes. Between the heated moments, you catch the sharp, bitter taste of nicotine—a flavor you know you should hate. And yet, somehow, it pulls you closer. It tastes like every bad decision you've ever wanted to make, a part of him you can’t help but crave, no matter how little sense it makes to resist.
The world around you blurs, tugging you in a fog of confusion and a racing heart. Stop—don't? The thought is a splinter in your mind, a faint echo of every warning you've ever ignored.
The voice cuts through the haze, sharp and unfamiliar. It doesn’t belong here. It’s too loud, too real. For a moment, you almost think Seongje said it, but the sound is wrong. You blink, and the image of the balcony shatters like glass. The warmth vanishes, replaced by a sudden, biting shiver that seeps through your clothes.
Gotak’s face swims into view, his expression a mixture of concern and impatience. You’re not on a balcony, instead the scent of asphalt and the evening air replaces the smell of nicotine.
“You’re here, right? You’re listening?” he asks again.
You force a shaky smile, your own heart still pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs from a kiss that never left your mind since yesterday. “Sorry,” you manage, the word feeling thin and distant. “I was just… thinking.”
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, a sharp, insistent vibration that cuts through the tension. A welcome interruption. Thank God. You pull it out, your thumb swiping across the screen with muscle memory.
It’s Seongje: “I have one of your friends here. Saved him from getting even more beat up by Baekjin’s guys. Come to the garage from last time.”
The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Ice floods your veins, sharp and immediate, a reality check you didn’t need. Your breath hitches. You don’t hesitate.
“Gotak, Sieun—we need to move. Now.”
They exchange gazes, looking confused but barely ask questions. As you get on your feet, the air feels thick as the three of you slip through the shadows, each step pounding with urgency. As you hurry through the dim streets, the city blurs into streaks of neon and darkness. Gotak casts a sideways glance your way, brow furrowed. “Hey, seriously, you are like a headless chicken. What’s going on?”
You run a hand through your hair, not slowing down, forcing your words to sound calmer than you feel. “Look, I didn’t mean to freak you guys out.” The lie tastes like ash in your mouth. You did mean to freak them out; you needed them to move. “I just... It’s Juntae. Seems like he is in a bad shape. I panicked. We can’t afford to waste a second.”
Sieun snorts quietly, but nods. “Right. Fair enough.”
You swallow, the dry lump of fear still lodged in your throat, and meet his eyes for a split second. You know he hates to run, hates chaos without a plan. But you also know that when one of you is in trouble, his caution is always outweighed by a fierce, quiet loyalty. And tonight, you're counting on it.
The garage looms ahead, dark and the hint of a metallic tang of blood mingling with the damp chill of concrete. Inside, Juntae’s pale face greets you, blood seeping through messy hair, his body slumped and vulnerable.
Without thinking, your hand goes to his head, fingers brushing against the stickiness of dried blood. He’s okay. He has to be. Gotak and Sieun stop behind you, their collective breath catching before their eyes shift to the lone figure standing some steps away. You signal them to get closer, helping them steady Juntae, their strength a fragile anchor in the chaos.
Sieun is casting sharp glances at Seongje, who steps out of the shadows, closing the distance—calm, distant, but unshaken. It's not just a glance, it's Sieun’s signature analytical stare, the one that dissects a situation piece by piece. The tension between them crackles, an unspoken history hanging heavy around them.
You nod sharply, signaling your friends. “Get him out of here.”
You linger a moment, taking in the scene—bodies thrown down like discarded dolls, the scent of sweat and fear lingering like usual. Looks like someone hosted a very enthusiastic furniture-tossing competition, you think, a familiar dark humor bubbling up to keep the panic at bay.
Then your gaze fixes on Seongje, steeling yourself. “You alright?”
His crooked smile flickers on his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m Geum Seongje. Forgot that?” he says, his voice dripping with that lazy arrogance you know so well. “These guys? They never really had a chance.”
You chuckle softly, mimicking his boastfulness, “Big talk for someone who couldn’t walk straight just yesterday, because he was beaten up”.
His smile falters for a split second, a flicker of something raw in his eyes before he masks it. Then your gaze catches his hand—the knuckles raw and bloody. Without hesitation, you reach out and grasp it gently, the roughness of his skin grounding you. “Thanks… for helping Juntae.”
He shrugs, but his eyes stay locked on yours, intense and unblinking. The usual mockery is gone, replaced by something more direct. “He’s loyal, I value that. That’s worth something. You Eunjang guys have guts”.
You grin, a real smile this time, reluctantly letting go of his hand. Turning to leave, you toss a casual, “I’ll text you later,” over your shoulder. But before you can take more than a step, he grabs your hand, pulling you in. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw, and he presses a quick, fleeting kiss to your lips. It’s over before you can process it—just a brief, shocking warmth flooding your body.
You roll your eyes, forcing a mock-scolding tone to cover the sudden lurch in your stomach. “You’re lucky that was quick”. But inside, your heart does a stupid, frantic flip, and the spot where his lips touched tingles. Asshole.
You shake your head, lips tightening into a strained smile you barely recognize. The cold night air brushes past you as you step closer to the trio, the sound of your footsteps pounding a frantic rhythm against the pavement, almost in sync with your still-hammering heart. Your hand darts out, landing on Gotak’s shoulder. He flinches almost imperceptibly, eyes flickering from yours to the alley’s shadows and back again. The weight behind their combined stares pins you in place.
“What did you want from that scumbag?” Gotak’s voice rises and falls, threaded with equal parts curiosity and suspicion.
You hesitate, fingers twitching. Your nail digs into the soft skin of your thumb—a small, secretive act to ground yourself, to dull the sting of the lie already forming on your tongue. You can almost still taste the nicotine from Seongje's kiss, a bitter secret you have to swallow down.
You force a happy expression, tighter than you'd like. A classic.
"I wanted to ask if he did it under some condition. But I guess not, just liked your loyalty." Right, you think, just checking the terms and conditions of our friendly neighborhood rescue service. Maybe I should have asked if he offers a subscription model.
Gotak’s hand lightly slaps Juntae’s shoulder, a silent pat of approval. Juntae’s body stiffens for a second, a sharp wince flickering across his face like a shadow before he can hide it. Then, slowly, his lips curve into a smile—an uneasy mixture of pride and pain barely kept at bay. His eyes flick away, resting briefly on the cracks in the pavement, before finding their way up again.
Sieun cuts through the moment, sharp and blunt as ever. "Where did he even get your number?".
You shift your weight, tugging nervously at your jacket. Your mind races, scrambling for a plausible story.
"Uh... not sure exactly, he also had it on your last ‘trip’ here, but considering his stalking traits I am not surprised." You almost believe the lie yourself. It sounds just plausible enough. Then you add a final, desperate flourish of fake confidence. "And hey, I mean look at me, I totally understand”.
A ripple of laughter breaks out, but Sieun doesn’t join in. His eyes bore into you, cold and silent. He is definitely not buying it, and you know it. The lie trails behind you, a quiet shadow stalking its prey.
You move forward, your shadows melting into the engulfing darkness that the weak streetlamps fail to touch. The further you drift from the garage, the more life seems to return to Juntae — his steps gain steadiness, a quiet resilience settling in his gait.
He and Gotak exchange a brief nod and say their goodbyes, their figures folding back into the shadows like smoke vanishing in the night.
You and Sieun linger behind, and the silence that falls isn't comfortable. It wraps around you like a dense cloak, broken only by the irregular hum and distant whistle of cars on the nearby street. You know this silence. It’s not the easy quiet of friendship, it’s the loaded stillness before a storm. His thoughts hang heavy in the air as if he's just waiting for the right moment to let them drop.
Sieun’s voice finally cuts through it, sharp and devoid of warmth.
Your brows knit tightly. Your chest tightens as your mind scrambles around an excuse, but the words tangle in your throat. You should’ve known you wouldn’t get away with it. Not with him. Baku might be loud and Gotak might be impulsive, but Sieun… Sieun sees everything. He's the quiet mastermind, always five steps ahead.
His eyes don’t waver, unblinking, emotionless but relentless, demanding an answer as if the stakes were life or death.
"What’s between you and Seongje?"
You glance up, meeting his cold gaze. You catch the slight, almost imperceptible twitch of his left eyelash—the only crack in his otherwise perfect mask. It’s the single tell that reveals the quiet battle of concern and fury locked behind that unwavering stare. He’s not just asking because he’s curious. He's asking because he already suspects the answer.
"Nothing." The word barely escapes your lips and tastes hollow, like ash. It’s not quite what you want to say, but it’s all you can spit out.
He scoffs, a low growl in his voice that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.
"I’m not stupid, y/n. Don’t lie to me."
To him you are an open book. Still, you force a grin, a desperate, brittle thing meant to push down the fluttering fear in your stomach.
"Okay, maybe not nothing. But it’s nothing you need to worry about."
Sieun narrows his eyes, his voice sharper than before, cutting through your flimsy defenses.
"Yeah, sure. Just so you know, he isn’t as nice as he wants you to think".
Your facade cracks just a little. Panic flares, hot and quick. You do the only thing you know how to do when you're cornered: you lash out with sarcasm, your last line of defense.
"What do you mean? Is there something between you two? Is he your type? Is that why you don’t want me to get too close?"
Sieun’s gaze sharpens, cutting through you like a laser.
His death stare is terrifying—red-hot and unrelenting. He leans in a little, lowering his voice, and the words he speaks land like stones, shattering the fragile peace you’d tried to build.
"Did you know he was the one who forced Gotak to quit taekwondo? He chased Gotak and Juntae to the rooftop where he... until I–".
The world around you seems to tilt on its axis. The distant hum of traffic, the whistle of cars, the weak glow of the streetlamps—it all fades into a dull, meaningless buzz. The only thing that feels real is Sieun’s stare, and the echo of his words in your head. Gotak, Sieun... and Seongje. The images refuse to connect, like pieces from two different puzzles forced together. A bitter taste rises in your throat. It feels like betrayal, even though you’re not sure who betrayed whom.
Your head tilts, confusion blooming across your face.
"Wait, seriously? I had no idea… but wh–".
He cuts you off without a second thought, his final words a chilling warning.
"Just don’t let him mess with you".
And just like that, the moment shatters. Sieun’s gone, his figure melting back into the shadows, leaving you standing alone. You’re left speechless, dumbfounded yet again, the weight of his words crashing down on you.
Thanks for nothing, idiots
It’s been some days, the air between your group is thick and the smell of fried chicken at Ttosikki Chicken doesn’t invite to eat. At least not for you, sitting at a table, once again discussing how to act. You went back to war council mode, even more, after Baku officially challenged Baekjin to fight. Eunjang ver. Union. A fight that seems already decided, at least for most people involved. Baku works out more these days, he wants to battle Baekjin alone, you others just need to take care about Baekjin’s lackeys.
Sieun, still keeps an eye on you, knowing there is still something fishy, but creating a plan takes higher priority. “A direct fight is suicide,” he says, his voice a low, steady anchor in the rising tide of tension. “The Union isn’t held together by loyalty. It’s held together by money. If we disrupt Baekjin’s cash flow, the whole system collapses.”
Gotak cracks his knuckles, a restless energy buzzing under his skin. “Sounds great, but how do we get that kind of info? We can’t just walk in and ask for their accounting records.”
All eyes land on Sieun as if he knows everything. And well, he probably does. Of course. He just looks at you, testing if you could read his mind. Suddenly your phone feels hot in your pocket, heavy with the secret, late-night texts from Seongje that no one should know about.
You point your finer at yourself “Me?” you flare up, trying to keep your cool. Great, this is nothing but of course you have to act like there is definitely something up.
“Ehm, right. I have Seongje’s number, that’s what you mean. I could ask him,” you offer, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. You try to sound casual, but it’s too obvious it’s not. “Maybe I can convince him.”
Baku’s head snaps up, his expression darkening at the mention of the name. “No way. You’re not contacting him if not really necessary. We can’t trust that bastard.” His gaze is a mixture of warning and a fierce, protective concern you’re still not used to.
You force a shrug, careful to keep your expression neutral so you don't give anything away. “It was just a suggestion.”
“He’s the right one tho,” Sieun cuts in, his voice sharp and decisive. “Seongje is the key. But Baku’s right—you’re not going.” His direct gaze meets yours, and you avoid it instantly. Trying to figure out a way to protest, scratching your temple. You are the least one, who needs protection from Seongje. But before you can say anything Sieun adds, “I’ll talk to him. He’s loyal only to himself, not to Baekjin. I’ll make him talk.”
Fine. You want to insist that this, or rather he, is your mess to handle, but you see the logic in his plan—and the unspoken concern in his eyes.
If only they knew, you think, the thought bitter and deeply ironic. They see the cold, unpredictable vice-boss of the Union, the “smoking Union asshole,” as Baku calls him. They don’t see the guy who you had surprisingly gentle moments with you, or the kisses so intense they steal your breath. But fine, let Sieun talk to him, seems like he knows what he does.
You lean back, crossing your arms, the faint sting of his rejection still lingering. “So, if I’m benched for the Seongje mission, what’s my role in this grand plan? Moral support?” The question is laced with a sarcasm you can’t quite hide.
Sieun’s gaze remains steady, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—something almost like dry amusement. “Hyoman,” he says, the name dropping into the conversation with quiet finality. “He’s our next target. Just like last time, we’ll use him.”
He pauses, letting his words sink in before adding, “He’ll talk to you. You seem to have a… persuasive effect on him”.
You blink, caught off guard. Sarcasm from Sieun is a rare, almost endangered species, and this close to a genuine compliment, it throws you completely off balance. A slow smirk spreads across your face, one you don’t even try to fight. It’s a small victory in a losing game, a tiny crack in his unreadable facade. “Persuasive, huh? Is that your tactical analysis, or are you trying to be charming?”
He just gives a slight, almost imperceptible shrug, but the corner of his mouth twitches. The closest you’ll probably get to a smile from him.
So the plan is set. The roles are assigned, each of you prepare as best as possible according to plan. Sieun himself will handle the direct contact with Seongje, a move that still makes your stomach twist with a mixture of relief and a strange, unwelcome jealousy. Your job is Hyoman—you’re the designated diplomat, tasked with turning their weakest link into your sharpest weapon. You have to coax the information out of him, making him spread the news that will part the Union.
The days that follow blur into a tense, adrenaline-fueled montage, in which you train and sweat and bruises are more present than chicken and fries. Time feels both too fast and agonizingly slow.
It’s the night before the great battle between Eunjang and the Union. One day before and you have nothing better to do than meeting the right hand of your enemy’s side. Your phone light up a while ago. A message, a few words, you totally drawn to the designated place. Seongje with just a: Let’s meet at the bowling alley, princess. We have it all to ourselves, made your heart do a stupid, frantic flip before getting dressed nicely.
Finally, everything is – maybe not totally, but almost- clear between you two. In the past days after your “confession,” you secretly met almost every night exchanging close moments that felt like a normal, not toxic relationship. God, if that only would be true you could call yourself a happy non-single anymore. If…
As soon as you arrive, the place is actually empty. The usual crowd of Union thugs nowhere in sight. He’s alone, leaning against a pool table, a cue held loosely in one hand.
“Big Union meeting and the vice-boss is skipping out?” you ask, voice laced with a teasing edge.
He looks up, and that familiar, lazy smirk curls his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Told them I had something more important to do,” he says, his gaze lingering on you. “Turns out I was right.”
The air crackles with the old tension, but it’s lighter now, laced with something new and fragile. You play a round of pool, the conversation a comfortable volley of sharp banter and loaded pauses. Every brush of his hand against you sends a jolt through you, a dangerous warmth spreading through your veins.
He leans over the table to line up a shot, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his shoulders.
“Still think you can beat me?” you murmur with a surprisingly low voice.
He straightens up slowly, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by something hotter, more intense. He rounds the table in two long strides, and before you can react, he lifts you effortlessly, setting you down on the edge of the felt table. You’re trapped, his body caging you in, the scent of smoke and him overwhelming your senses.
“Maybe you should stop talking and show me what you’ve got, princess,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your chest. His hands rest on the table right next to your hips until one of them finds your thigh. His thumbs draw slow, deliberate circles that make your breath catch. The world narrows to the space between you, to the undeniable pull that exists where shadows meet.
His mouth finds yours, and it’s not a battle this time. It’s slow and deep, a silent confession. It’s the kind of kiss that makes you believe, just for a second, that maybe everything could be okay.
He pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, his breathing as unsteady as your own. “I’ll walk you home,” he says, and for the first time, the silence that follows isn’t a weapon. It’s a temporary truce in a war you both know is far from over.
The all too familiar scent of stale beer and old cigarette smoke hits you the moment you push open the door to the bowling alley, but the usual chaotic energy is gone. It’s eerily quiet. Seongje is there, leaning against a pool table, looking exactly as he did the night before—calm, unreadable, and dangerously captivating. Just yesterday you were here, with him, but not as enemies, as lovers. The desire turned to mistrust. About Sieun’s whereabouts and Seongje’s unclear intentions.
“Where is he?” you ask, your voice sharp, cutting through the silence. “Where is Sieun?”
Seongje doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze meets yours, and for a split second, you see something flicker in his eyes—regret? No, it's gone too fast. Before he can speak, a side door creaks open.
Sieun emerges, his knuckles are raw and there’s a fresh cut above his eyebrow. He’s breathing heavily but stands tall, he stares at Seongje with his eyes telling more than words ever could. Behind him, you see a Union member slumped on the floor, unconscious. So it was a trap. And the one who set it up? Seongje. Fuck.
A bitter taste rises in your throat. It feels like betrayal. After last night, after his vulnerability and the quiet intimacy you shared, this feels like a deliberate, personal blow. You look at Seongje, the disappointment so heavy it feels like a physical weight in your chest. You trusted him, just a little, and he shattered it.
“I’m fine,” Sieun says, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth as he walks past you, his eyes never leaving Seongje. “We need to go. The others are waiting.”
You nod, turning to follow him, wanting nothing more than to get away from Seongje and the crushing weight of his deception. But before you can take a step, his hand shoots out, closing firmly around your wrist. His grip is strong, almost bruising, a familiar sensation that has shifted from possessive desire to a cold, restraining hold.
“Let go,” you snarl, trying to wrench your arm free, but he doesn't budge.
Sieun turns back instantly, his posture shifting into a protective stance. “Let her go, Seongje.”
But you shake your head, your eyes locked on Sieun. “Go,” you tell him, your voice steadier than you feel. “Baku needs his backup. You need to be there for the fight. They need you more than I do.” You know this is part of their plan B – if Baku falls, Sieun has to step in to buy him time. He hesitates, torn, but the logic in your words wins. With a final, warning glance at Seongje, he turns and runs, leaving you alone with him.
The second Sieun is gone, you renew your struggle. “What the hell, Seongje? Let me go!” you demand, but his grip is like steel.
“Stop fighting,” he says, his voice low and rough.
“Why should I? You cannot stop either? Trapping Sieun, really? And this?” you press, your voice rising with fury and hurt, echoing the same question you've asked before.
“Luring Sieun here, setting him up… was that your idea of fun? Another game to get off on?". You throw his own manipulative tactics back at him, your voice dripping with the same sarcasm you've used before when feeling cornered. "Congratulations, you won. Can you let me go now? I'm tired."
He finally meets your eyes, and the mask of indifference cracks. The words that come out are quiet, devastating. “I stopped playing some time ago, y/n.” No nickname, suddenly serious. “But… Aish!” he turns, sliding his hand through his hair.
You watch him turn away, the frustration radiating off him in waves. His admission hangs in the air, heavy and incomplete. "But…?" you echo, your voice sharp, cutting through his turmoil. "Tell, Seongje! What about today? Huh?"
You take a step closer, not letting him off the hook. "You can't just drop a line like that and expect me to fill in the blanks. Tell me. What the hell is going on?"
He finally turns back to face you, a chillingly familiar coldness in his eyes. "You want to know what's going on?" he says, his voice flat. "This is what's going on."
He gestures vaguely around the empty bowling alley, the site of his trap. "This is who I am, Y/N. Have you forgotten? I profit from the Union, not from you and your fucking friends. I do what needs to be done. The way I want it to be done. You keep looking for something in me that isn't there. Did you expect me to change?"
The coldness of his words sinks in, a stark reminder of Sieun's warnings. "So what," you press, your voice trembling slightly. "Baekjin tells you to jump, and you ask how high? Is that it? Was trapping Sieun his idea?"
Seongje lets out a humorless laugh. "Baekjin doesn't have to tell me every little detail. He gives an objective. How I get there is my business." He pauses, and his gaze becomes sharp, almost cruel. "And his objective was Eunjang. He wanted a way in, a weakness to exploit. Information."
His eyes lock onto yours, and the final, devastating piece falls into place. "And then you showed up. You were perfect. The unpredictable variable, who got close to Baku and the others. The perfect opportunity for me to stay even closer."
His words land like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. He sees the look on your face—the shock, the betrayal—and his grip on your wrist softens slightly, though he doesn't let go. For a moment, he just watches the devastation he's caused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
You finally find your voice, a ragged whisper. “Fine. I get it. Now let go. My friends, I know a word you don’t really understand, need me right now.”
He looks away then, jaw tight, the muscle twitching furiously. When he looks back, the cruelty is gone, replaced by a raw, simmering frustration.
“You were supposed to be,” he spits out, the words laced with self-directed anger. “It was supposed to be simple. Get close, report back, keep control. But you…” He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “You don’t make anything simple.” He laughs out loud with a straining laugh. “I tried to keep my distance. I tried to focus. But everywhere I looked, there you were. Messing with my head, making it impossible to think straight.”
You just stare at him, the buzzing in your ears drowning out all other sounds. Your mind runs wild. He didn’t just deceive you. He studied you, used your trust to get closer to your friends, and weaponized that knowledge to go against you. The hurt coils in your stomach, hot and bitter, before it erupts into a surge of white-hot rage. It’s the agony of betrayal, the humiliation of being so utterly played.
Your hand moves before your mind can catch up. The sound of your palm connecting with his cheek cracks through the silence, sharp and final.
Seongje’s head snaps to the side from the force of the blow. For a moment, he is utterly still, shock freezing his features. The usual mask of lazy arrogance or cold indifference is gone, replaced by a raw, stunned expression you’ve never seen before. He slowly turns his head back to face you, a faint red mark already blooming on his skin. There’s no anger in his eyes, just a quiet, heavy disbelief. He just fixes his glasses. Eyes stay on you. Mouth shut.
A single, traitorous tear escapes, hot and sharp, and you hastily wipe it away with the back of your hand, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break down completely. Your voice, when it finally comes, is a ragged whisper, laced with a pain so deep it feels like it’s tearing you apart.
"Fuck you, Seongje," you breathe, the words tasting like nicotine, this time definitely not addicting. Distgust. Nothing more.
Without another word, you turn and run. You don't look back. You flee the bowling alley, the sound of your own frantic footsteps pounding on the pavement, each stride carrying you further away from him, from the lies, and from the painful truth that you had started to fall for a ghost. You leave him standing there, alone in the aftermath of his own carefully constructed chaos, the sting of your handprint on his cheek a testament to the one variable he never managed to control.
The sound of the wet pavement is a desperate beat in the gray stillness of the day. A light, persistent drizzle has started to fall, plastering strands of your hair to your cheeks and blurring the city into a watercolor wash of muted colors. And then, abruptly, you stop. You gasp for air, your lungs burning. A sharp, hysterical laugh escapes your lips, raw and humorless, startling a pigeon pecking at the damp ground. You place your palms on your thighs, to rest for a second. You are almost there just going up and you’ll join the fight of the year. But before you can go up there you need a second. A second to regain energy or maybe to get rid of the frustration beforehand.
"Congratulations, Y/N," you mutter to your blurry reflection in the puddle in front of you. Your voice dripping with biting sarcasm. You're officially the most easily deceived person in Eunjang, and this title comes with a faint smell of betrayal and stale ramen.
You laugh again, louder this time, shaking your head in disbelief as the rain patters softly on the awning above. You should have known. Everyone warned you. But no, you had to walk right into the fire, just to see if you’d get burned.
"Spoiler alert: you did," you snort, wiping at your cheek where rainwater and a single, traitorous tear mingle. And guess what? It hurts just as much as they said it would. Who could have possibly predicted this outcome? Oh, right. Everyone.
But you just couldn’t help yourself. Seongje was just there at the right time to make you fall. You liked the thrill, the way it made you feel. A way to break out, a way to do something you shouldn’t. Break the rules like he did. Sure, let’s involve him to. Your brother. You remember how he started missing practice, showing up with bruises he wouldn’t explain, his easy laughter replaced by a restless, guarded energy. He, too, was a brilliant fighter, someone you admired. But he also had that hidden side, secrets that wedged themselves between you until you barely recognized him. Baekjin’s name was a ghost in his stories back then, a name you never understood the weight of until now.
Seongje is just like him. A brilliant fighter who uses his skills not for sport, but for control. Someone who can show a flicker of genuine kindness one moment—like carrying you home or tending to your wounds—only to turn around and remind you that he profits from the chaos. Two sides of the same damn coin.
"Emotionally unavailable, morally ambiguous fighters with a penchant for secrets and a talent for breaking my heart. Fantastic.” At least you stay loyal to the type of guys you let in your life.
You shake your head, a final, weary smile on your face. You should have known better then, and you should have known better now. But you never learn. Maybe that’s your superpower. You start jogging again, the burn in your muscles a welcome distraction. The fight is waiting, and the rain is falling, just like the punches will soon. And right now, hitting something—anything—sounds a lot better than thinking.
You arrive at the battleground—a desolate, rain-slicked lot under the gray, unforgiving sky. The air is thick with the sounds of the fight: the sickening thud of fists against flesh, grunts of pain, and the rhythmic splatter of rain on concrete. It’s chaos. Eunjang is outnumbered, but they’re holding their ground, fighting with a desperate tenacity.
Your eyes scan the brawl, just to see Juntae needing help more than anyone. You don’t hesitate. The rain has turned the edges of the lot into patches of thick, slick mud—a liability for most, but an opportunity for you. With a surge of adrenaline, you plunge into the fight, but your target isn't a person. Not yet.
You stomp hard into a deep puddle, kicking a spray of muddy water directly into the face of the Union member closing in on Juntae. He recoils with a sputtered curse, momentarily blinded, hands flying up to wipe the grit from his eyes. It’s the opening you need. Your first attack is a surprise, brutal and efficient. You swing your leg, shattering a kneecap or cracking an elbow against someone’s temple. Gotak sees you, a flicker of relief and surprise in his eyes.
"About time you showed up!" he yells over the noise, wiping blood from his lip. "Just saving you the embarrassment of losing without me," you shout back, your voice sharp with sarcasm and adrenaline as you scoop up a handful of wet, heavy mud.
Another attacker lunges at you. You don't try to block his punch. Instead, you duck under his swing and smear the handful of mud viciously across his face, grinding it into his eyes and mouth. He staggers back, disoriented and sputtering, trying to clear his vision. You don't give him the chance. A swift, brutal kick to the back of his knee sends him crashing face-first into the soggy ground.
You and Gotak fall into a rhythm, using the terrain to your advantage. Your styles complement each other perfectly: Gotak’s powerful kicks create space, while you attack them after he got their attention. You fight not just with raw power, but with the cold, calculated fury that Seongje’s betrayal ignited in you.
The fighting around you falters as Baku hits the ground, knocked out cold by Baekjin. A triumphant roar goes up from the remaining Union members. Baekjin stands over Baku, arrogant sure to be today’s winner. "Is that all Eunjang has to offer?" he taunts.
Gotak wants to go at him, but you hold him back, eyes finding Sieun, who only now appears to the scene. The bruises he got from the bowling hall still visible, but not of his concern. He seems more than determined as he steps in front of Baekjin.
"So," Baekjin scoffs, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "You want to fight against me? You of all people? Don't you know your place?"
Sieun doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. His purpose isn't to trade insults, it's to execute a plan. He knows he can't win this fight in a conventional sense. Baekjin is a monster of strength and skill. But victory isn't the objective. Survival is. Buying time is.
Baekjin lunges first, his movements a blur of controlled violence. He expects Sieun to dodge, to try and find an opening. Instead, Sieun takes the first punch head-on. It sends him stumbling back, a grunt of pain escaping his lips, but he doesn't fall. He just resets his stance, his eyes never leaving Baekjin. Sieun ducks under a wide swing, not to counterattack the head or torso, but to drive his foot hard into Baekjin's thigh. It’s a move devoid of flair, purely functional. Baekjin barely registers it, retaliating with a brutal kick that sends Sieun crashing to the wet concrete. The Union members jeer, but Baekjin's smirk falters slightly.
Baekjin has the power to end it at any moment, but Sieun has a tolerance for pain that is almost inhuman, fueled by a fierce, quiet loyalty to his friends.
The rain falls harder now, mixing with the sweat and blood on Sieun's face. Baekjin is clearly winning, his hands and legs battering Sieun relentlessly, but the cost is becoming apparent. A slight limp begins to disrupt his confident stance. His powerful kicks lose their speed. The damage is accumulating, exactly as Sieun planned. Just as Baekjin raises his fist for what looks like the final, finishing blow on the nearly unconscious Sieun, a shadow falls over him. Baku is back on his feet, aiming directly at Baekjin.
He’s recovered, thanks to the precious minutes Sieun bought him with his own body. The final fight is short and decisive. Baekjin, now slowed and weakened by the relentless attacks on his leg, is no match for a recovered Baku, who finishes the fight and secures Eunjang's victory.
A moment of stunned silence hangs over the rain-slicked, ravaged lot. The fight is over. Baekjin lies defeated on the ground, unable to get up. A raw, exhausted cheer erupts from the Eunjang students, but it fades quickly, replaced by a deep, collective weariness. The remaining Union members, their loyalty held together only by money, dissolve into the night, their leader now broken.
The fury at Seongje that drove you here has cooled to a hard, cold knot in your stomach, temporarily pushed aside by the immediate concern for your friends. You move between them, a part of the chaotic mess of bruises, scrapes, and bloody knuckles.
You help Juntae to his feet, a small, patterned plaster still somehow clinging to his cheek. You steady Gotak, who winces as he puts weight on his leg. Your gaze meets Sieun's. He’s leaning against a wall, barely able to stand after the brutal beating he endured to buy time, but his eyes hold the quiet glint of a successful mission.
Then you look at Baku. He stands over the defeated Baekjin, not triumphant, but pensive, the rain mixing with the blood on his face. He decrees the end of the Union, his voice lacking any celebratory tone, filled instead with the heavy weight of responsibility. The victory doesn't feel glorious. It just feels... over.
The group moves slowly, a battered but unbroken unit. You support each other, the worst of the injuries needing attention. The walk away from the battlefield is filled with a pained silence, broken by occasional, quiet reassurances.
Baku walks beside you, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a still exhaustion. He seems distant, but this time it's not from anger—it's from sheer depletion.
"You did it, Baku," you say quietly, the words almost lost to the sounds of the city.
He just nods, his gaze distant. "We did it," he corrects, his voice rough. "But... it doesn't feel like a win. Just the end of something."
You eventually reach a main road, the bright, sterile lights of a bus stop cutting through the gloom. You’ll take the bus together, then you’ll part ways—some to the hospital, others straight home. Sieun, despite his condition, insists he's fine, his thoughts likely already on visiting the hospital not for himself, rather for his friend, telling him he didn’t lose. Gotak and Juntae lean on each other, promising to get checked out. Baku gives you a final, tired nod, a silent acknowledgment of everything you've all been through.
One by one, they board the arriving bus, their weary figures disappearing inside. You’re about to follow them, your foot on the first step, when a familiar scent cuts through the night air—smoke.
You pause, glancing to the side. And there he is.
Seongje is standing a short distance away, under the weak glow of a streetlight, which already turned on, welcoming the slowly arriving evening. He is leaning against a wall, bringing a cigarette to his lips. The ember flaring brightly, illuminating the sharp lines of his face. He looks calm, unreadable, as if he's just an observer to a world he set in motion.
His eyes find yours. For a long, silent moment, he just watches you, smoke curling from his lips. Then, as if making a decision, he drops the cigarette to the pavement and deliberately grinds it out with the heel of his boot.
The bus doors hiss, ready to close. Your friends are waiting. Your new, hard-won peace is waiting. But he is still standing there, his gaze locked on yours, an unspoken question hanging in the space between you.
pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15 - pt.16
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