PAIRING: Werewolf! f. Reader x Werewolf!Seungcheol x Werewolf!Jeonghan x Werewolf!Soonyoung x Werewolf!Seokmin x Werewolf!Vernon x Werewolf!Chan
SUMMARY: When the Divine’s cult conquers your home, they don’t expect you to survive, let alone fight back. Captured but not broken, you and the unlikeliest of allies are ready to burn it all down.
WARNINGS: Fighting pits, physical violence, description of injury and murder (during a fight), angst and frustration between Chan and reader, references to trauma (for Chan), forced suicide by being compelled through magical power, descriptions of blood and mild gore/wounds, explicit language, explicit sexual content including hand job, fingering, sex in a hot bath, oral (f. receiving), biting, intense make out sessions, multiple orgasms.
MEMBERS IN THIS CHAPTER: Chan and Jeonghan.
A/N: Happy Bite Day! I'm so glad to be back to posting this fic. Thank you all for waiting patiently (most of you) while I took a brief hiatus in November. We are back to regularly scheduled moon cycle updates. Also please note that on Bite days, fics are posted after I get off of work in CST timezone. So while it might be late evening for you on an upload day depending on timezone, it could be 9 am for me. Please keep that in mind before freaking out that I'm not posting :) I hope everyone enjoyed - this is the chapter Chan deserves!!
A/N 2: This chapter is not beta read, I apologize in advanced.
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The goddess does not ask for faith. She takes it.
- Carved into the altar steps of the First Sanctum
THE TENSION BETWEEN YOU AND CHAN TURNS FROM ELECTRIC TO FRIGID. He doesn’t glare or storm around like Seungcheol does, though. It’s worse - he’s perfectly polite and stiff, your morning and afternoon training sessions turning rote and rehearsed.
It leaves you walking on eggshells, unsure what to do or say. Jeonghan watches with amusement-laced frustration, rolling his eyes when you miss your opportunity to say something to Chan, or dropping his head in his hands when Chan dismisses himself early from your sparring.
Neither one of you breaches the silence. Like you, Chan is the lost heir to a small kingdom, a prince in his own title and name. A king, perhaps, if he’s the only one left. His pride is a mirror of your own, each one of you too stubborn to cross the line and ask the simple question: what’s wrong?
Because something is wrong. You feel it in the way dinner is only filled with stilted conversation between you and Jeonghan or Jeonghan and Chan. You feel it in the way Chan pulls his punches, the way he’s less intense in his sparring. You feel it in the way you grind your teeth and refuse to call him out on it, refusing to tell him to fight you in earnest.
There’s worry knotted behind your ribs too. Worry because as each morning starts and each day ends, the others don’t come back. Jeonghan and Chan don’t seem concerned. Jeonghan would never let you know if he was anyway, but Chan is much easier to read. So long as the tension knotting his shoulder and the flat expression on his face is because of you and not the others being away, you don’t let the fear eat at you.
After lunch each day, you practice the Call with Jeonghan. Not every day is a good day. Some days you can get Jeonghan to go as far as walk a few yards away from you. The further he is though, the harder it is to use the Call. Other days, you can’t even get Jeonghan to lift a hand, your frustration making it harder as the day goes on.
Though Jeonghan can hum at a resonance similar to yours, he’s not yet able to get you to do anything. You feel it though, the harmony he provides to lace through your melody. It’s the perfect pitch and tune, and yet he’s unable to hold sway over you.
It doesn’t frustrate him. As always, he remains infuriatingly patient and aloof. You wish you could have an ounce of that sort of countenance. Maybe it would help you figure out how to talk to Chan and swallow past the pride-sized rock in your throat to make the first concession.
But you’re not Jeonghan, and Chan isn’t either. So the stiff interactions continue.
It’s only been a few days since their departure, but the scent of sage and lavender is starting to fade from your sheets. It makes you restless, a constant thread of anxiety unspooling in your stomach. Jeonghan slips into your bed sometimes, just to breathe you in and doze off, the only balm in the other's absence. It’s nice, his omega-sweet sense calming enough that you can usually fall asleep.
Tonight, the soured scent of him rouses you from sleep. You lift your head just before he opens the door, shrouded in faint golden light from the dying hearth. He smells wrong - anxious and scattered and frazzled, scent sharpened with sweat.
“What is it?” Your heart immediately begins to slam in your chest with fear, every unimaginable thing flitting through your mind: someone has died. Someone is injured. The Divine has discovered you’re practicing the Call. Ina is back to identify your scent. You’re being tested. “What’s happened?”
“Can you come with me?” Jeonghan asks, voice calm despite the obvious spike in anxiety. “We need to go get Chan.”
“Where is Chan?”
“I can explain on the way. I think you should come with me, though.”
“Of course.”
Jeonghan waits on your bed. You get dressed under his flickering gaze, uncaring as you change in front of him. He’s already seen it all anyway, that night in the bathing room flashing in your mind briefly as you pull on pants and secure the weapons belt he gave you around your hips.
He’s armed to the teeth, so you arm yourself too, tying off the dagger Vernon had gifted you. You’d prefer the additional weight of a sword, but the practice room weapons are all blunted edges and you haven’t managed to get your hands on a sword.
Yet.
Chill air greets you when you step out of the pack’s living quarters. You assume Jeonghan is going to lead you upward to the top levels of the mountain, but he surprises you by taking a pathway you’ve never seen before, moving deeper down into the core of the mountain.
It’s busy. You don’t know why you’re surprised. You don’t leave the living quarters often, but the path to the Sanctum is usually void of people save for the Red Priestesses drifting in the halls like scarlet ghosts.
There is life in the Bloodkeep, you realize. It had never occurred to you before that it could be anything like Valen. It’s an entire city inside of the mountain, people passing by hurriedly with things to do and people to meet.
It sets a chill in your spine. You don’t like to think of the Bloodkeep as anything but a rotting jail cell full of people who are here unwillingly, but as you pass through a market, an infirmary and even caverns filled with strange herbs and fungi growing for use, you realize that the Divine has an entire functioning kingdom here, and she has control of other kingdoms like Valen to keep it going.
It is nearly impossible to fathom.
The Old Cities are far enough away from the Bloodkeep that any real threat the Divine poses won’t be until after winter. You can see the way the mountain seems to be shoring up, though, that they have what they need to expand, most of the New Cities already fallen to her power.
Doing something to stop her seems insurmountable. Even with your progress with Jeonghan, it feels like you’re moving too slow, like you’re losing time that you need to be learning the call.
Deeper into the mountain, you feel the pressure of the air change. Your ears pop as you follow Jeonghan down spiralling corridors hewn from dark stone, torches flickering low along the walls. His pace is brisk but silent, his shadow flickering along the dark walls. You don’t say anything at first, your shoulders pinched with tension, nervously glancing at Jeonghan who stares ahead with a stoney expression.
“We’re going to the fighting pits,” Jeonghan says eventually. It catches you off guard and you stumble. His hand shoots out to steady you, lingering for a moment longer than is necessary. “They’re in the belly of the mountain. Old caverns that were once a temple until she moved her Sanctum up higher.”
“Why?”
“To let the wolves blow off steam, to use it for punishment - there’s a lot of reasons. People go there for coin, some for pride. Some get sent there to die or to win their way back into their graces. Mostly it's just alphas who are scrapping for dominance, but there are plenty of betas and omegas too.”
“And Chan? Why is he there?”
Jeonghan’s lips twitch in the ghost of a frown. “When he was first brought here, he was there all the time. He was full of rage and hate and didn’t know what else to do with himself. I think he was hoping to die but you’ve seen him fight. He’s good, even when he was young. It helped dull that edge, I guess. Once in a while, still does.”
An ache settles in your chest, understanding immediately. Had you come here fresh from Valen without Seungcheol taking you in, you’d want to fight too. To tear someone bloody. To rip and shred and kill until you lose yourself to it. Sometime, you still feel that way.
It scares you more than you’d like to admit how appealing the violence is.
You pass under a carved archway, the air growing thicker, stained with the copper-scented tang of old and new blood. A tremor of sound runs through the air, the dull sound of distant roars and cheers, the thud of bodies hitting dirt.
Your throat tightens. “Why is he here tonight?”
“He’s frustrated.”
“With me.”
“Not just with you. With a lot of things. You might be a splinter, but there is an entire wound he’s still nursing.” Jeonghan glances at you and softens when he sees the tight-knight anxiety on your face. “I think he sees himself in you,” he adds gently. “A lost heir.”
The knowledge eats at you.
Sweat slicks your palms as you descend the final steps in a staircase. The air reeks of sweat, blood and pheromones so thick you almost feel the shift in your body chemistry. Jeonghan shifts closer to you, just as affected, his scent spiking. The two of you draw immediate attention of the alphas near you, their pupils dilating. Your hand drifts toward your dagger, but none approach.
The cavern is massive, ancient stalactites hanging like teeth across the ceiling. There are multiple fighting pits at the heart of the cavern, each denoted with colored ropes and rings of tightly packed bodies. The crowd is feral, spittal flying from mouths as they scream at fighters.
In each circle there are fighters. Usually two, but sometimes more. There seem to be roughly seven circles with one in the center. The center circle has attracted a massive crowd, and you assume from the noise and the eyes that the bigger fights take place in the center-most ring.
Jeonghan drifts toward one of the smaller circles - it’s got one of the larger crowds, bodies pushing and pulling as they shove in to see the fights in the center. Some fighters and patrons are half shifted, talons glinting in the fire burning in hot braziers, eyes glowing. Some are full shifted, wolves prowling with flickering eyes and sharp teeth.
As the crowd grows dense, Jeonghan pulls you to him. His arm is tight around your waist, the both of you jostled as he shoves his way through the reek of people. It’s loud, a cacophony of sound that makes you wince, a growl working its way up your throat when someone steps on your foot.
“Keep your cool,” Jeonghan purrs in your ear, voice like velvet. “Picking a fight here would be very dangerous.”
Honeysuckle and jasmine blooms. You unclench a little, nodding as you wiggle through the crowd with Jeonghan to see two fighters circling one another in a ring.
One of them is Chan.
Your heart lurches at the sight. He’s shirtless, his back slicked with sweat that glimmers under the torchlight. Scars crisscross his shoulders, every single one of them familiar to you. He’s stalking a massive alpha that’s older than him and bigger than him, the man snarling through broken teeth. There’s a ring of fresh blood on Chan’s knuckles, but he’s calm in a way that terrifies you.
This is not the Chan you spar with. This is something else, something cold and efficient and hardened by rage.
With Jeonghan’s arm firmly wrapped around you, you watch from the shadows as the alpha lunges at him. A shout of warning works its way up your throat but Chan is already sidestepping, his movements fluid. He’s like smoke as the other alpha strikes again, slipping through clawed fingers time and time again.
The alpha swings again and Chan ducks, popping back up to drive his elbow into his opponent's face. There’s a wet crunch and the alpha staggers backward. He swings again, but Chan dodges and pivots, fists pounding the other man’s ribs until something gives with a loud pop. The alpha collapses in the dirt, heaving, hands shielding his ribs.
Around you, the spectators go wild. The scent of potential rut and ruin and iron clash, making your stomach twist uncomfortably. Chan backs away from the alpha as he’s declared the winner by a beta who seems to be running the fights.
Chan turns to stalk toward the edge of the ring and wait for the next round. You don’t even want to know how long he’s been down here or how long it took for Jeonghan to realize where he had gone. There’s not too much damage on his body, but it doesn’t mean much when you know how lethal of a fighter Chan is.
Jeonghan nudges you. “Go get him before his next opponent shows up.”
You don’t hesitate, picking your way through the bodies converging as they wait for another matchup or drift to other fights. Chan is walking away from you, shoulders heaving, knuckles dripping blood into the sand. He lingers near the edge of the ring, waiting for his next fighter.
“Chan.”
Your voice cleaves through the noise. His head snaps up, turning to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes are dark and flat but when they land on you, they flicker with something like grief or shame. He freezes, unmoving near the edge of the circle.
Swallowing thickly, you close the distance. When you reach him, you hesitate. You want to reach out and touch him, but you’re unsure if that’s what he needs. Instead, you tell him, “Come home. Talk to me instead.”
Chan looks at you for a long moment. Then his shoulders sag, the fight bleeding out of him. He nods. “Okay.”
Relief blooms inside of your chest. Tentatively, you reach for him. His mouth twitches, the weakest flicker of a smile, and he takes your hand. His hands are dirty and bloody, but you don’t care. You lace your fingers with his and give him a squeeze, feeling an electric jolt when you touch him. He smiles at you - genuine - and it feels like home.
Tugging him along, you make it halfway back toward Jeonghan when the crowd ripples and a low growl echoes toward you. Chan’s grip on you tightens and he tugs you toward him as an alpha stalks toward the two of you. Jeonghan is already moving, a shadow lurking as he circles the ring to come up beside you, steel glinting in his hand.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, pretty prince?” The alpha asks, lips curling. He’s not as big as the last, but he’s angry and scarred, his hair like blood under the firelight. It’s tied at the nape of his neck with a leather cord, and there are bones strung upon a string around his neck “I waited my turn for you.”
“Another time,” Jeonghan drawls, appearing behind you. “He’s done for the night.”
“Fucking coward-”
“There are plenty of others to take his place,” Jeonghan interrupts, gesturing to the crowd that’s gathered. The beta running the match drifts closer, eyes darting nervously between the two alphas as jeonghan continues, “Is there a problem with an opponent dismissing themselves before a match has been set?”
“No. No wagers have been placed and the next fighter has not been assigned, therefore he’s under no obligation to fight.”
“Then we’re savvy.” Jeonghan turns to the alpha. “You’re not at liberty to start a fight without the express consent of the Collector running the match and your challenger, so long as your challenger is without debt and in good standing.”
The alpha hesitates. You don’t know what anything Jeonghan is saying means, but it seems even a lawless place like the fighting pits has rules. Again, the thought unsettles you that such a cohesive system and rules are in place for something as animalistic as fighting pits.
Your grip on Chan is like iron, your other hand wrapped around the handle of your dagger. Tension brims in the space between you and the alpha, the threat of violence balanced on the edge of a blade. You can feel Jeonghan at your back, just as poised to strike as you.
“Would you like to be in bad standing with the Divine?” Chan growls.
A ripple of laughter rides through the pit. The alpha’s gaze flicks between Chan’s intense stare and the rest of the crowd that watches. You can tell he wants to attack, but Chan’s warning is real. The alpha looks at you and Jeonghan, drinking in the black garb, the red accent at your hip. He spits on the ground and backs off, glaring.
“Let’s go.” Chan’s voice is rough. He tugs you along, turning his back on the angry alpha and the clamouring of the pit. Jeonghan flanks your other side, the three of you walking as an imposing wall into the crowd.
Together, you weave back out of the pits, the stench clinging to your skin and your hair. Chan’s hand has yours in a vice grip, Jeonghan’s palm pressed flat on the small of your back. Your free hand is still on your dagger, adrenaline singing in your veins as the roar of the pits fades to a dull down.
It’s silent between the three of you as you thread through the tunnels back to the living quarters. Chan tells Jeonghan to go the back way, lest the alphas decide to follow you. He smells like blood and dust and sweat, but the soft scent of black tea and clover simmer under the rest, soothing.
The back way is long. You move through winding tunnels and press through crevices that remind you of the underground tunnels, which in turn, makes you think of Ina. A shiver ripples down your spin and you stick close to Jeonghan and Chan, only breathing out a sigh of relief when you step into a passage you recognize that is the final stretch back to safety.
Just as you approach the fork in the hall, Chan pulls up short. You smell them too, the same musky scent laced with anger and the sweat from running ahead. In the left tunnel is the same alpha from the pit, his red hair a smear in the gloom. There are four more with him, steel gleaming in their hands. The hall to the right - where you need to go to take three more turns before you’re back to the living quarters, is empty.
Chan drops your hand, claws glinting in the light. You unsheath your dagger, feeling the heavy weight of it like a comfort in your hand. Your thumb brushes across the vines on pommel and you think of Vernon and all the practice you’ve had.
“No pit here,” the alpha acknowledges, eyes flickering. “No debt collector. No rules.”
“You rushed all the way here just to die?” Jeonghan scoffs. “And for free!”
His insult lands. They all come at once, a flurry of teeth and fists and knives. Chan barrels forward, ramming his shoulder into the leader’s ribs so hard you feel the crunch in your teeth. They slam into a wall but you look away as you surge forward to meet the nearest attacker.
Steel sparks as your dagger meets his. His dagger is longer than yours, bad for fighting in a narrow hallway, but giving him a far more extensive reach than you. You move fast, flicking your knife up to scrape off of his swing. He howls when you slice him across the meat of his forearm and slip under him, jamming your elbow into his kidney so hard he buckles. You pivot and stab him between the neck and shoulder before he can recover, scarlet flooding the wound as you rip your knife back out and he falls forward with a heavy thud.
A roar splits the hall. You spin in time to see Chan slam the red-haired alpha to the ground, claws tearing across the thick chest of the alpha, spraying carmine and tainting the air with the tang of irony and salt. One of the other alphas sees the opportunity of Chan’s exposed back, lunging for him, knife glinting.
“Stop!”
The world halts. Every motion is locked in the shackles of your command. The attacker’s snarl freezes on his lips, his eyes wide with fear he can’t voice. The glow of the torches wavers.
When you speak, it’s with the power of hundreds of voices. You feel them all twine, the command of many coming out of your single mouth as you growl, “Turn it on yourself.”
Without hesitating, the alpha straightens and turns the knife toward his own stomach. He looks at you, a terrified, soundless scream on his face as he does what you tell him to, driving the knife inward. A wet groan bubbles to his lips but you’re turning, looking at the red-haired alpha that Chan has pinned.
Hate and anger boil in your blood. Your lip curls, as you hiss, “Claw out your throat.”
Chan leans away, scrambling off of the alpha. Without hesitation, the alpha lifts his hand, claws out, and rakes them across his neck. You watch as the skin splits, scarlet pooling as he does. Then he digs deeper, gasping when he tears out muscle and cords this time, scarlet running down his chest.
You pivot, the Call thrumming in your throat as your eyes descend on the last two that had engaged Jeonghan. “Turn your knives on yourselves.”
The two remaining alphas twitch when they hear you. You watch them fight it, their eyes bulging, teeth gritted, the veins in their necks straining as instinct wars with compulsion.
But the Call is stronger than flesh and will.
The first drives his blade under his own ribs, a shocked gurgle caught in his throat as steel scrapes bones. The second fumbles, his own hand betraying him. He tries to throw the dagger away but his fight tightens, knuckles blanching as he drags the edge across his own belly.
They drop. You stand in the flickering shadows of the tunnel, panting. Your throat feels raw, a vibration humming through you that makes you feel like an exposed nerve. Chan is staring at you, a glimmer of something in his eyes - pride or fear, you can’t tell.
Jeonghan wipes his blade on the hem of one corpse’s cloak, flicking blood from his wrist. He watches you too, his expression sharp, a gleam in his eyes. His scent flares and you can sense the pride coming off him as he stalks toward you, a swirl of shadows.
The metallic scent of fresh blood stains the air. You can’t move, trembling in your spot as the power of the Call fades. There’s a subtle ache in your throat that’s unfamiliar to you, never having felt it during your practicing with Jeonghan. Your pulse is hammering, adrenaline pumping, your mind a little hazy and dizzy.
You did it. It wasn’t perfect and it was brutal, but you used it, and it had worked. For a moment, the realization floods you with vicious pride. If you can manage to command a handful of alphas, you can surely hone your gift into a weapon strong enough to take on the Divine.
But there’s also fear. Dread. Something feels wrong about what you did, though you can’t quite but your thumb on it. You’d done what was needed, a last minute instinct to protect your own - and it had worked. But there’s an ache in your throat and something sharp under your ribs that feels out of place.
Chan gets up and comes toward you. He’s streaked in blood that isn’t his. He presses in close, lifting both of his hands to cup your face in his. His hazel eyes are burning, a spark in them that’s familiar and warm. His thumb sweeps across your cheek, smearing blood.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Fucking Gods. That was something.”
You swallow, your voice still thrumming with the ghost of your command. “I didn’t mean-”
Jeonghan appears at your side, pressing his nose into the side of your head. “Yes you did. It’s fine.”
Chan lifts your chin. He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. It’s the closest you’ve been in days and your eyes flutter shut, breathing him in. His nose nudges yours, soft and comforting. Your eyes flutter shut, feeling his breath across your lips.
“You did good. You kept me safe. You kept Jeonghan safe.”
You nod. “I panicked.”
“Well your panicking is Hells a lot better than most” Jeonghan huffs, warm breath hitting your cheek. He kisses your head briefly and steps back. “Come on. Let me take you home. Chan-”
“I’ve got it. I’ll get rid of them.”
Chan steps away but you catch his arms. He looks surprised but you lean in and press your lips against his. It’s so brief that he can barely blink before you’re stepping away, breathless and nervous. “Come talk to me after, okay?”
His smile is like the sun. “Alright.”
Reluctantly, Chan lets you go and steps away from you. Jeonghan’s hand ghosts to the small of your back to escort you down the hall, pausing only to lean over and press a gentle, brief kiss to Chan’s mouth. “Be safe, pup.”
Chan nods as Jeonghan draws you away.
The narrow tunnel yawns wide then narrows again, flickering torchlight pooling in pockets. You lean into Jeonghan, seeking his comforting weight and smell. He lets you, humming contentedly.
It feels like the Call is vibrating in your chest, an itch you can't scratch. You’d never used it like that - hadn’t expected what it would feel like. Your voice had totally warped, vibrating in the air with a power you’re not used to. Now, it feels like that vibration is caught in the base of your throat, buzzing.
When you’re finally through the door and in the comfort of the common room, you turn to Jeonghan. “Did I do the wrong thing?”
He shuts the door firmly and turns to you, brows pinched. He faces you in the half-light, barely a flicker of flame left in the hearth. His face is all lines and shadows, but his eyes shine in the dark as he steps toward you, reaching to cup your jaw.
“Why would it be wrong?” His fingers brush your cheek and he tilts your chin to hold your gaze. “You protected what’s yours.”
“I know but it puts us in danger, right? Chan has to dispose of the bodies.”
“We’re always in danger. They were of no consequence. We got lucky.”
You nod. “My throat hurts like I used it wrong.”
“Hmm.” He drops his forehead to yours. His scent blooms around you, tender. “You’ve always said it wasn’t used for control and for command. Perhaps you’re right.”
“You said power is power, it’s neither good nor bad.”
His smile brushes your forehead as he presses a kiss to your brow. “I’ve been wrong before.”
A small shudder crawls down your spine. The power has left you shaky, half-sick with adrenaline. But beneath the fear coils something hotter, darker, a thrill that worries you even as it hums in your bones.
“It made me feel powerful.” His mouth drops to yours, not kissing, but hovering. “Wrong maybe, but powerful.”
“You’re powerful without it.”
“Not in this place, I’m not.”
“You’re powerful to me,” he amends, growling the last bit before he presses his mouth to yours.
Jeonghan tastes of something sweet, his mouth consuming but soft. His hand cups the back of your neck, bringing you in closer to him, brushing his tongue against the seam of your lips. Kissing him is different than Vernon or Seokmin - there’s a soft threat in Jeonghan’s mouth, a soft edge to his tongue and teeth that sets your blood singing.
The kiss deepens. Jeonghan’s lips are warm and insistent, coaxing yours apart. You yield to him, letting his tongue slip past, tasting the sweetness of his mouth. His hand tightens on the back of your neck, anchoring him to you as your world narrows to the heat of his mouth and the steady rhythm of his breath.
Your hands find his chest, pressed against the fabric of his shirt. It’s damp with sweat from the fight still clinging to his skin. You feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat against your palms, mirroring your thundering pulse.
His kiss is intoxicating. You’ve danced around this for so long, his scent wrapping around you, jasmine and honeysuckle blooming thick, pulling you deeper into a haze. Kissing Jeonghan feels like relief, like hunger, like desperation, like -
Everything. Everything.
Jeonghan tilts his head, changing the angle of the kiss. A soft sound escapes your throat and he swallows it down, responding with a low hum that borders on a growl. His free hand slides to your waist, fingers digging into the curve of your hip, pulling you flush against him. The contact makes you arch into him, the dagger that Vernon gifted you pressing into his thigh awkwardly where it’s tied at your belt.
He breaks the kiss for a moment, laughing deeply. “Careful, Wildheart. You’re still armed.”
You give him a shaky laugh, fingers curling into his shirt. “I’d go for the throat first.”
“Good,” he murmurs and surges forward again.
It’s hungrier this time, like he’s been starving for you. And maybe he has since that evening in the bathing room, when he’d pressed himself close and dragged his mouth across your scent gland. You kiss him back with equal fervor, bring your hands up to card your fingers through his hair, pulling.
Jeonghan moans into your mouth, the sound so sweet it makes you light-headed. His teeth graze your bottom lip, giving you a gentle nip that makes you gasp. He smiles against your mouth, equal parts wicked and warm.
Eventually he steps back, lips swollen and slicked spit. You stare at him, panting heavily, hands resting on his forearms as his hands cup either side of your neck. His eyes are dark, swallowed by his pupils as he stares at you, inky strands of hair clinging to his forehead.
“Bathe,” he murmurs, leaning forward to kiss your nose. “I’ll tell Chan to come find you.”
For a moment longer, you linger. His touch is warm on your neck, a grounding tether that steadies you from the aftershock of using the Call. He senses your hesitation and smiles, kissing you briefly once more, his thumb sweeping over your pulse point.
Jeonghan releases you with a reluctant sigh. “Go on,” he urges. “You smell like fear and blood. I don’t like it. I prefer your scent.”
Nodding, you slip past him, shoulder brushing his chest. You feel the way he leans into it, almost as if he might pull you back in for another taste. Jeonghan has restraint, though. Instead, he watches you retreat, eyes half-lidded and smile wicked.
It’s warm in the washroom, the smell of lavender making you miss Seokmin. Carefully, you strip yourself down, hands still shaking. You’re unsure if it’s from Jeonghan or the fight in the halls - possibly both.
The water is near-scalding when you sink in. You hiss but it feels good, letting the heat chase away the ache in your muscles. You wash slowly, pressing the lavender soap into raw skin streaked with dirt and dry blood. Cupping the water, you splash your face, feeling the heat of it behind your eyelids.
The Call hums faintly in your chest still. It’s strange, like the cadence of your breathing has taken up the natural resonance of the power. It should terrify you - it does, a little. But beneath the terror is the lash of vengeance, a violent urge to undo everything the Divine has ever done, to unmake her.
Your father used to tell you that vengeance got you nowhere. You were always a fiery child, eager to hit back or to make someone feel the same pain they had dealt you. Sometimes, you still feel like that little wolf, eager to hit back and make your enemies suffer tenfold.
A hesitant knock draws you from your thoughts. You know it’s Chan. His scent is barely detectable over the lavender haze of the water, but you can sense him, too. You drift toward the center of the pool where it’s deep, the water lapping your collarbones.
“Come in.”
The door creaks open and Chan slips in. He hesitates, standing near the threshold, unsure of how far he’s allowed in the room. His hair is damp at the ends from sweating and he’s still covered in grime and blood. He smells like iron and clover - him with blood.
“Hi,” he says softly. His eyes are gentle, something hesitant and unsure to the curve of them. He shuts the door when you don’t dismiss him, the sound of running water the only thing between you. “Are you okay?”
You nod. “Come clean up. I don’t like seeing you covered in blood.”
Chan ducks his head to hide the curve of his smile and the flush of his neck, hair shielding his eyes. He listens, though. Even without you using the call. He drifts further into the room before he sheds the pants, kicking them off.
Without a word, he steps to the edge of the pool, his eyes never leaving yours. He slips into the water with barely a ripple. The water envelops him and he sinks down until it’s kidding the slope of his collarbones.
Quietly, he begins to scrub away at the dirt and gore. You watch him, eyes steady in the hush. Your heartbeat stutters, then quickens, caught on the sight of his hands. There are scrapes and bruises on his knuckles, a purpling bloom on his cheekbone. The sight makes something tight and sorrowful pull at your ribs.
Drifting forward, you reach for him. He freezes, eyes darting to yours. You press lavender soap into his hands, close enough to hear him inhale shakily, far enough that you maintain some sort of restraint. He takes the soap with a thankful tilt of his head scrubbing it across the hard planes of his chest.
“You did well,” he says eventually. “Your practicing has paid off.”
“It was nothing like in practice. That felt… different from what Jeonghan and I have been doing.”
“I’m sorry you had to use it for me.”
“I chose to.” He nods and says nothing, the soapy line of water washing away like the tension between you. “Chan, I wasn’t trying to push you away before. Or reject you.”
His brow furrows, gentle lines creasing the space between his eyes. He doesn’t interrupt but nods, willing to listen to you.
“I was afraid. Not of you, but afraid of how I feel.” You press your palm to your chest. “In here. What it means that I like you all - that I want you all. That I feel you and relate to you on a level that is very new and very scary.”
You drop your hand to the water with a gentle slap. He remains silent, listening. “I kept thinking that maybe I was betraying the vengeance I wanted. What does it mean that I’ve found comfort here? When so many died? What does it mean that I’ve been stripped of my home but found people that I like anyway?”
Silence falls between you. Chan says nothing, watching you with steady eyes. Finally, he says, “I know. I knew. I was angry, but not at you - never at you. I was angry at myself because I think I’m what you fear to become.”
Chan drifts closer. You let him, watching as his eyes catch in the firelight. “You remind me of what I lost. My own kingdom, my people. The things I let rot under someone else’s boot because I was too young, too soft, too afraid to fight back when I should have torn the walls down with my teeth.”
You reach up, cupping his jaw. He leans into it, lashes fluttering shut for half a heartbeat. He’s impossible warm, scent unfurling at your touch. You drift close enough that your knees touch, the air between you thick with steam and heat.
“I can’t get my kingdom back. It’s been too long.” He swallows. “But I could help you get yours back. I can fight for you like I wasn’t able to fight for myself and my people. I- you’re not forgetting them or anything. I understand, though. You feel… delusional.”
That makes you laugh. It’s loud, echoing off the stone walls and he smiles, nuzzling your palm. His lips scrape over your wrist, a butterfly-delicate kiss. “You should laugh more.”
“You should make me laugh more, then.”
Chan’s smile is crooked but soft. He leans in and rests his brow against yours. “Alright.”
His lips brush your nose in the barest of grazes. He pulls back just enough to watch you with heavy-lidded eyes. His gaze is searching, waiting. You answer, tilting forward first to brush your mouth against his. He shivers and you feel it, a ripple down his spine as he sighs into your kiss.
When he kisses you back, it’s careful at first. His lips part, depending the kiss. It’s nose bumps yours clumsily but it makes you smile into the kiss, your hand drifting to cup him around the back of the neck. His skin is warm beneath your touch, the steady race of his pulse beating near your thumb.
He makes a quiet noise when you press closer, your hips brushing his under the water. You can feel his hardening cock against your thigh, feel the way he’s holding himself back, letting you lead wherever this is going.
You deepen the kiss, brushing his tongue with yours. He sighs into you again, melting as he presses your chest together. The friction against your nipples makes you moan softly in the back of your throat and he groans, breaking the kiss to curse.
“Don’t make sounds like that,” he growls, grip tightening on your hips.
“Why not?”
“I am barely keeping it together.”
Biting your bottom lip to hide your grin, you drag your hand from his neck down his chest. You feel the way his breath stutters when your fingers trail lower, slipping beneath the waterline to wrap around his cock. His mouth parts on a quiet, broken moan and you grin in full.
Chan’s hips twitch forward into your touch on instinct. His fingers tighten, blunt nails biting into your skin. His head falls backward, eyes fluttering shut as you stroke him, slow and careful under the water. Your thumb brushes over the crown of his cock where the tip is already sticky. The his that tears from him is wild and unrestrained, jaw slack, lips wet and parted as he breathes in hard.
Your name slips from his mouth and you surge forward, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses across his chest. He’s shaking beneath your touch, letting you pump him and squeeze your hand around his shaft as you draft your teeth across his skin.
While you work him in slow, teasing strokes, Chan’s fingers drift from your waist and he drops his head back to look at you, eyes blown. His fingers dance across your thigh, tracing the curve of your leg until he’s pulling at the back of your thigh to hook it around his so you’re spread.
“Let me,” he mumbles against your mouth, pressing a messy kiss to your lip. “Please.”
You nod and that’s all he needs. His fingers slip between your legs, tracing your slick folds. He groans against your mouth when he feels how wet you are, a breath sound leaving your lips as he traces your clit gently.
He teases you at first, the pads of his fingers circling achling slow around your clit, precise enough to stoke a fire in you, but too gentle to ramp it higher. The touch makes you whimper, your breath catching against his tongue. He swallows it eagerly, kissing you deeper as he coaxes your hips to roll toward him.
When your hand squeezes his cock in response, he gasps, hips stuttering. “You’re going to fucking ruin me.”
His fingers slip lower, pressing at your entrance, testing. One pushes inside you, slow, careful, curling as he finds the spot that makes your lashes flutter and your hips jerk forward. He watches your face, eyes wide with wonder and hunger all tangled together.
Your hand works him harder now, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. Another joins the first, stretching you open, his thumb brushing your clit in lazy circles that make your head tip back. You moan his name and he swears, his other hand cupping the back of your neck, guiding your mouth to his again. The kiss is slick and messy now, teeth clashing, breathless gasps lost in the steam.
Your hips rock into his hand, your pulse hammering. You feel him, hard and heavy in your grip, leaking against your palm under the water. His fingers curl inside you just right and you can’t help the whine that slips from your throat.
Chan pulls back just enough to see you, his lips flushed and kiss-bruised. He rests his forehead to yours again, eyes dark and reverent as he works you open with gentle, patient thrusts of his fingers.
“Can you come for me?” He asks, soft and rough. “Please?”
You nod, breath stuttering. The water laps at your shoulders as you grind into the cradle of Chan’s hand, the heat of him anchored to your thigh. Your palm squeezes tighter around his cock, stroking him in time with the slow drag of his fingers inside you. He curses, hips twitching helplessly into your grip even as he tries to keep the rhythm steady for you.
He kisses you again, open-mouthed and deep, his tongue tasting the sharp gasp you pour into him when his thumb rolls over your clit just right. The tension spirals through your belly, a coil wound tight, and you feel your walls flutter around his fingers.
Chan feels it too, nodding as he murmurs, “That’s it. Come for me. Wanna feel you squeeze my fingers.”
He fucks his fingers deeper, curling them to drag that pleasure higher. Your hips rock helplessly, chasing the crest as you drop his cock to wrap your arm around his neck, fucking yourself against his fingers in earnest. He lets out a raw sound, teeth gritted as he watches you.
When you come, it’s with your forehead pressed to his, your moan lost in the hungry tangle of his mouth. Your pussy clenches around his fingers hard, fluttering and squeezing as he works you through it. When you start to come down, his kiss turns lazy and soft.
Your breath is still unsteady when he pulls his fingers from you. You whimper but he hushes you with a peck, palms skimming you hips down to your ass. He shifts, pulling back from you just enough to meet your eyes, his pupils wide and hungry.
“Come here.”
His grip slips to your thighs and lifts you in the water. You lock your arms around his shoulders, hooking your legs around his waist as he carries you to the edge of the water. He’s careful when he sets you down on the lip of the pool, the stone warm from the passing hot spring.
Letting go of you, Chan parts your knees with steady hands. He sinks lower, pressing kisses to the inside of your calf, tongue darting out to catch droplets of water cascading down your leg. You lean up on your elbow, head spinning, watching with parted lips as he mouths up your calf to your knee, nipping lightly.
When Chan’s eyes lift to meet yours, you think the look in them could burn you alive.
“Stay just like this,” he murmurs, lips bruising the softness of your inner thighs. “Let me taste you.”
You can only nod, your breath caught in your chest. Your thighs shiver under his palms and he hums his approval, sensing your anticipation. He trails wet kisses toward your heat, moving closer and closer to your aching cunt.
Reaching a hand down, you slide your fingers in his wet hair, tugging. He groans, nodding to signal that he likes it as he bites the crease of your thigh.
Chan’s tongue finally reaches where you want him most. He presses a warm, wet lick against your entrance, tearing a sharp gasp from your throat. It feels good, your pussy clenching as his tongue lazily traces your hole, dipping in only briefly before he licks slow and soft up to your clit.
“Fuck,” he mutters, hands locking around your thighs. He drags his tongue up and down your folds, the rough drag of it making your thoughts hazy. He loops up at you, eyes wild. “Keep your eyes on me.”
You nod and he grins before dipping back in. His mouth seals over your clit, tongue flicking in slow, devastating circles. Your hips jerk against his mouth but his grip is iron, pinned to the stone floor beneath you. You’re trembling and wet as he devours you, his mouth messy and loud as he sucks at the slick dripping from you.
Chan hums against you when you moan his name, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. Your head starts to tip back, lips parted around a ragged breath but he growls and yanks your hips, starling you and forcing you to look down at him.
“Eyes on me,” he repeats. “I wanna watch you fall apart for me.”
Your gaze locks with his as he lowers his mouth to you again. His tongue slides through your pussy, teasing at your entrance before he plunges in deeper, groaning at the taste of you.
When he pulls back, his lips find your clit again, sucking it between his lips, tongue flicking quick and sharp. One hand slips from your thigh to press two fingers inside you, stretching you open while his mouth works you higher. His fingers thrust slow and steady inside you, crooking to find that sweet, devastating spot that makes your back arch off the stone.
“Chan-” you gasp, your voice breaking, hips rolling helplessly against his mouth.
He pulls back just a breath, panting against your skin, lips wet and pink and swollen. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, eyes blazing when they meet yours again.
“Come for me,” he begs. “Let me see it.”
And when he seals his mouth over you again, sucking hard, you do. The coil inside you snaps, a cry tearing from your throat as you clutch his hair, thighs trembling around his shoulders. He groans into you as you come, drinking down every shiver, every moan. He keeps licking you through it, slow, worshipful drags of his tongue until you’re whimpering.
Only then does he ease back, lips brushing soft over the inside of your thigh. He presses one last reverent kiss there before lifting his head, eyes dark, lips shining with your slick.
Wrapping his hands around your hips, he pulls you back into the water. Your arms wrap around his neck and you lean forward to kiss him, soft and reverent. He smiles into the kiss, his hands tracing your spine as he lets you wrap your legs around his hips, buoyant in the water.
“I want you,” you whisper, between kisses, nose bumping his. “Please.”
“Anything,” he growls. “Anything you ever want.”
One of his hands drifts down, guiding the blunt tip of his cock your entrance. The other cups your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip, entrance by you. You like the way he looks at you, like you’re everything that he wants.
Both of you gasp as he pushes in. it’s a slow stretch, despite him working you open with fingers. Your cunt spasms around the thick press of his cock, pulse hammering as he eases in deeper. He swallows the sounds you make with a soft, open-mouthed kiss.
Chan bottoms out in a single, careful thrust, his hips pressing flush to yours. You feel full of him at this angle, the press and stretch of him making your lashes flutter. He doesn’t move, letting you adjust to every inch of him pressed into you.
“Gods,” he rasps, voice hoarse. “You feel so fucking good.”
You give him a breathless laugh. Your hands slip up to cradle his face, carefully holding him like he’s fragile. You know he’s not, but your fingers are soft as you trace the curve of his jaw. “Move for me,” you whisper. “Want it.”
He nods, pulling out just enough to drag the head of his cock against your walls before pressing back in, deep and slow. The water rocks around you, the waves lapping at the edge of the pool with each one of his thrusts.
Chan sets and unhurried but deliberate pace. His mouth finds your throat, tongue swiping across your scent gland. You see stars, melting in his arms as he holds you close to him. He mouths at your neck, scenting you and mouthing at you until you’re trembling in his hold.
You cling to him, legs tightening around his waist, your hands tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. Each thrust drives you closer to insanity, blotting out every worry and concern you’ve had all day. His kisses are slow and sweet, keeping you tethered.
When he hits that spot inside you just right, your gasp breaks the hush, a soft, breathy moan that makes his hips stutter, his teeth scraping your neck in a gentle bite. He groans your name against your skin, the syllables half-swallowed by the steam.
Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling just enough to draw his eyes back to yours. His gaze catches the lantern glow, hazel swallowed by blown pupils, dark and glassy with need and something softer threaded through, something raw and unguarded.
You rock your hips to meet each slow thrust, the water sloshing around your bodies as he presses deeper, his pelvis grinding deliciously against your clit. The friction makes your breath catch, makes your nails bite into his shoulders as heat coils again, tighter than before.
“Gods,” you whimper, dropping your face to his neck. You nose his neck and he growls, nails biting your skin. “Don’t stop.”
“As if I fucking could.”
He adjusts his angle, bracing you tighter against the pool wall, his thrusts deepening, the slow drag of him inside you brushing that sweet spot again and again until your moans echo soft and helpless between the stone walls.
Black tea and clove unfold as you nose him, driving him wild. His thrusts become deliberate, chasing the orgasm that is slowly building. You feel the side of the pool at your back, a stark contrast to the heat and weight of Chan. You preen under his touch, tongue dragging across his neck as he hits that spot on a particularly hard thrust.
You go tight around him, coming without warning. You feel your cunt flood around him and he growls, fucking you through it, teeth gritted and grip like iron. Just as you start to tiptop into sensitivity, he comes, growling your name as he does.
He holds you through it, rocking you gently, mouth pressed to your temple as the water stills around you both, quiet now. When your eyes flutter open, he’s smiling at you softly, warm and shy. He kisses you once more, slow and tender.
“Stay with me,” he murmurs. “Sleep in my bed tonight. Jeonghan will come lay with us.”
You grin. “Yeah?”
“Mhmm.” He kisses your temple. “Just want to lay with you a little while.”
When you and Chan emerge from the bathing room, it’s silent in the living quarters. It reminds you with a deep ache that the others are still gone, doing whatever it is the Divine has sent them to do. You hate it, but for now you’re tired and worn from the day, letting Chan tug you by the hand toward his room.
The door to his room is slightly ajar. He nudges it with the toe of his foot, guiding you inside with a gentle tug. Jeonghan is already there, of course, lounging in Chan’s bed with a book while a candle burns dangerously low on the nightstand.
He looks up, his eyes gliding over the two of you. He clicks his tongue dramatically, snapping the books hut and tossing it to the floor with a loud thud. He props himself up onto an elbow, dark hair spilling across his hand like silk.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, voice dripping with sweetness. “No one ever invites me. Do you know how sad that is? I sit here like a lonely ghost while I listen to you fornicate.”
“Shut up,” you growl at the same time Chan says, “What’s that?”
“You could’ve knocked,” Chan offers dryly, nose brushing your temple. “Or joined us.”
“He has a point,” you agree.
Jeonghan gasps, dramatic, hand pressed to his chest like you’ve mortally offended him. “Joined you? No poetic invitation? No sweet words begging to taste me, just a flat invitation to join too? How unromantic.”
Chan rolls his eyes but doesn’t let you go. His voice dips low, teasing as his mouth brushes your ear. “I’d share. If you want.”
You feel Jeonghan’s eyes narrow, heat flaring sharp and dangerous. He shifts on the bed like a lazy cat preparing to strike, chin propped in his palm, lips curled wickedly as he levels Chan with a look that could cut.
“Oh, you’d share, would you?” Jeonghan huffs, tongue clicking against his teeth. “You think you get to offer me a taste? I’ll have her when she’s ready for me. And she has to work for it, hmm?”
The way he says it - you’ll work for it - sinks into your gut like a thorn, sweet and sharp, stirring a heat that makes you squirm. You think of the press of Jeonghan’s mouth earlier, the soft drag of his teeth against your bottom lip, the way he goes from soft to sharp in seconds.
Chan’s laugh rumbles warm in his chest, the corner of his mouth twitching. He tugs you closer, steering you toward the bed with a rough nudge of his nose against your temple.
“Out,” he says to Jeonghan.
Jeonghan just sprawls deeper across the blankets, refusing to budge, his grin all teeth. “Make me.”
Chan narrows his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s torn between wrestling Jeonghan off the mattress and dragging him under the covers just to keep him quiet. “Fine we can go sleep in Wild-”
“I don’t want to sleep alone, idiot pup. I’ve been alone all night while you two fondeled one another.”
You bite back a laugh, warmth blooming through your chest despite the heat still pulsing low in your belly. Chan’s hand strokes over your back, soothing, while his gaze flicks to Jeonghan with a resigned fondness that only deepens the hush between you all.
“Fine, scoot over,” Chan grumbles.
Jeonghan brightens, pushing himself up on his elbows. He scoots backward on the bed, making an exaggerated show of fluffing the pillows, clearing space as if he owns the place - which, when you lay down and smell how heavy the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine is, you think he might.
Chan follows behind you, pressing up against your back like a wall of warm, strong arms circling around your waist as you settle against the pillow. Jeonghan curls into your front, his arm draping over your waist, fingers tangling with Chan’s where it rests on your hip.
“See,” Jeonghan mutters, sleepy already. “Was that so hard?”
“Shut up or you’re sleeping on the floor.”
“You have no power here, pup. I outrank you.”
Chan grumbles and says nothing. You laugh and shift your arm, looping your arm over Jeonghan’s waist to keep him close to you. “I like you close like this,” you whisper. He smiles and presses in closer, feet tangling with yours.
“I like it too.”
Between them, you drift, their warmth a barricade against the cold stone walls, their breath a hush that folds over you. The world narrows to the press of Chan’s chest against your spine, Jeonghan’s arm a weight over your hip, hand clasped with Chan’s.
When you fall asleep, you taste black tea and jasmine.
SERIES M. LIST | M. LIST | PLAYLIST | ASK | PREVIOUS |
PAIRING: Werewolf! f. Reader x Werewolf!Seungcheol x Werewolf!Jeonghan x Werewolf!Soonyoung x Werewolf!Seokmin x Werewolf!Vernon x Werewolf!Chan
SUMMARY: When the Divine’s cult conquers your home, they don’t expect you to survive, let alone fight back. Captured but not broken, you and the unlikeliest of allies are ready to burn it all down.
WARNINGS: Mild angst, sexual tension, references to past coercion through use of the Call/Bloodsong, heavy scenting/neck kissing/biting while naked but no explicit sexual content, mild scenes of panic/anxiety, references to sexual encounters/being turned on, some general fluff, some tension/misunderstanding with Chan and reader that is unresolved... I think this is mostly it.
MEMBERS IN THIS CHAPTER: Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Soonyoung, Seokmin, Vernon, Chan. Chan and Jeonghan focuses.
A/N: This chapter is being posted via the scheduled feature because I will be on a plane flying home by the time it posts, but I hope you enjoy! Jeonghan in this chapter...... count your days, Yoon Jeonghan.
A/N 2: Thank you to @daechwitatamic for beta reading this chapter!!
SERIES M. LIST | M. LIST | PLAYLIST | ASK| PREVIOUS | NEXT
Every wound is a door She opens
- Inscribed on a Red Priestess' copper bracelet
“IT ALL STARTS WITH THE BREATH,” YOU SAY, INHALING DEEPLY. Jeonghan nods, rolling his shoulders back to imitate your breathing. You’re both cross-legged, pressed knee-to-knee in the steamy, lavender washroom. “The Call isn’t about the words or even the intent. It is purely about resonance and getting the right pitch.”
That’s what you’ve learned, anyway. You’ve never actually used the Call. Well, not on purpose. You vaguely remember yelling at Seungcheol to shut up and he had, but you weren’t trying to use it then. You can’t ever remember using it prior, but that had been an emotionally charged moment.
Knowledge of the Call was always passed down in your family through omega heirs, but only theoretical knowledge. The Call was not to be learned as a weapon, and it was considered too dangerous to practice unless there was a reason to.
Looking back on it, you wished you had learned it.
Nerves skitter up your spine. Jeonghan stares at you, his liquid eyes calm and steady. There’s no judgement or expectation there, just warm patience as you both try to relax. The softness of your heat still lingers, making the humid air of the bathing room prickle along the base of your spine.
Jeonghan is flushed, his inky hair pulled low in a knot at the nape of his neck, a few obsidian pieces slipping out and sticky to the balmy skin of his forehead. He looks different to the sharp wolf you’d met the first day upon entering Bloodhaven, softened by his heat and with familiarity.
“My mother said that humming to start helps. Hum to find the right pitch, a frequency that resonates the air.”
“Perhaps you should try,” he suggests. “I’ll listen to see if I feel it. I know…” His face darkens for a split second. “I know exactly what it feels like when I hear it.”
Nodding, you swallow thickly. You settle your palms on your knees, taking another shaky breath as you close your eyes. You think of things that remind you of your mother: the smell of lavender oil, the softness of her braid, the crinkled edges of her book.
The hum starts low in your chest. You feel it vibrate, so soft it’s barely there until you pick up in volume. It resonates low and slow until you feel the hum in the base of your throat. Already you can tell it’s not the right pitch so you adjust, bring it a little bit higher.
Jeonghan’s breath catches. It’s so slight that you might miss it if you weren’t listening for him. You open your eyes just a crack. He’s watching your throat, eyes half-lidded as though he can see the Call, make out the shape of it as you try to use it.
Your pulse quickens under his gaze but you close your eyes again, keeping the same pitch, lifting it just a hair higher. It shivers through the steam, curling in the lavender-scented air. It’s not words, but it’s vibration, the ancient blood-knowledge stirring in your blood. You can feel it wanting to take shape, feel it wanting to slip under your ribs and shape itself to your heartbeat.
Jeonghan shifts closed. His hand, damp from the steam, settles on your knee. He doesn’t squeeze, he just anchors himself, his touch like a livewire.
“Closer,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. His voice is rough around the edges, his wolf simmering below the surface. “Almost.”
You take another breath, feeling your ribs expand. You hum again, higher and more deliberate. You let it swell until the pitch quivers at the back of your teeth.
This time, you feel it. The resonance. It’s like plucking a single silver string and hearing the entire forest answer back. The air in the room shifts, trembling. Jeonghan tightens his grip on your knee and you know you’ve got it, letting it swell in the room until you run out of breath and it dies out.
Jeonghan lets out a shaky breath. “That was it. I felt it call to me. Different from the Divine, though.”
“Really?”
He nods. “When she does it, it feels like pressure. Like the air is thinning and my ears are going to pop. What you did was… it was like calling to me and I felt myself answer, the world fading away and all of me answering.”
Outside of the bathroom, the world is silent. Inside, the air hums with the potential. You nod and take another deep breath. “Again?”
He nods, his hand still on your knee. “Again.”
This time when you hum, you’re confident. The sound flows like liquid, warming you from the inside. You’re not your mother’s timid heir now, but something else entirely, a queen of the old blood, coaxing a sleeping power forward.
The hum lifts, richer than before. It threads through the steam like a silver needle, stitching you and Jeonghan together. You can feel him there, vibrating against you, like calling to like. When you open your eyes, you see him with his eyes closed, leaning forward, lips parted, looking as though he’s in a dream.
A word shapes in your mouth. “Look at me.”
Jeonghan does. His eyes snap open to look at you, pupils dilated and wide. His wolf answers to your command, a flicker of gold threading through dark brown. He leans in toward you, pressing his forehead to yours. His hair clings to his temple, sweat and steam pressed between your skin. You feel him - truly feel him.
And then he hums back.
It’s a low note, hesitant at first, but when he finds your pitch, you feel it. His resonance folds around yours like velvet, two golden threads twisting together. You feel it in your teeth, in your belly, in your chest.
The Call is supposed to set you free, but this feels like something else entirely. It’s like a bridge, a shared breath, something that knits the two of you together. It doesn’t feel like the enslavement of the Bloodsong, but it doesn’t feel like the hammer of the Call.
When you both break the notes, it fades into the simmering air. You stay pressed against him, panting and shaking with the leftover feeling of a connection lost.
“I’d follow that sound anywhere,” Jeonghan murmurs, voice deep. His breath fans across your lips. “Even if you weren’t using the Call, I think.”
“I don’t think that was the Call,” you admit.
You could be wrong, but you think of the First Voice again, the passage sitting in that book of fables. You want Jeonghan to see it, to see if he can piece together the loose threads of a theory that is starting to form.
He pulls away, studying you. “What do you mean?”
“Can we go to Vernon’s study? I have something I want to show you.”
Vernon doesn’t mind when you wake him up. He clings to your hand at first, nuzzling into your wrist where he can smell you. It makes you flush and look away, trying to hide the smile that Jeonghan can clearly see. Thankfully, he doesn’t tease you. He simply leans over Vernon’s head and asks him sweetly to get up, lips brushing the shell of the beta’s ear.
“Where are you taking me?” Vernon asks, voice deep and scratchy with sleep. “I was hoping you were crawling in here for other reasons.”
Jeonghan tuts. “You had her for three entire days. Greedy beta.”
“You taste her,” Vernon grumps, pulling on his boots. “See if you’re not eager to have her again.”
Jeonghan’s eyes find you where you’re all but withering away under the heat and flicker of want in your belly. “I’d love to.” You flush deeper, grinding your teeth together. Jeonghan grins, seeing how flustered you are. “But for now, Wildheart would like to show me something in your study.”
Vernon pauses, looking up. His hazel eyes are shining in the candle light of his room. “Dangerous to go there this late.” He looks at you. “Is it important?”
“Yes. It’s what I found the other day.”
“Alright. Arm yourselves, though.”
You raise your brows. “I’m allowed to do that?”
“We’re long past withholding weapons from you.”
Vernon straightens and goes to the wardrobe shoved in the corner of the room. He opens it and you realize it’s not a wardrobe at all - it’s a weapons cache, filled with a wide variety of knives. You’ve never seen such an advanced personal collection, drifting over to peer around his shoulder at them.
He pulls out a sheathed dagger. Its handle is made of worn leather, but there are intricate vines wrought along the crossguard, a tree embossed on the circular pommel. He hands it to you, eyes even. Tentatively, you take it from him and unsheath it partly. It’s razor sharp steel, reflecting the firelight in the recently sharpened surface.
“It’s for you.”
You look up at him, surprised. “Really?”
“Mhmm. I couldn’t put the crest of Valen, but the vines-”
You nod. “Represent green.” Your breath catches and you touch him lightly on the wrist, heart pounding. “It’s thoughtful.”
He looks away, mouth curving. He busies himself with more blades, but his ears flush pink under the candlelight. You step back, feeling the weight of the knife in your hand, smiling. Jeonghan slides closer to you, a grin on his face as he peers at the dagger.
“Nonnie gave me a knife too,” he preens. “It means he really likes you.”
“Shut up, Jeonghan.”
The common room is empty when you rush back to your bedroom to change briefly. You slip into an all black tunic and leather pants, swinging a cloak around your shoulders. When you come out, Jeonghan is holding one of his old weapons belts toward you.
You take it with a smile, fastening it around your waist before tying the dagger to it. It’s familiar and heavy at your hip, making you feel more secure than you have in weeks. You rest your hand on it lightly, feeling the soft grip of the leather and the cool metal of the pommel.
Vernon is waiting in the common room, checking his own inventory. He’s dressed in all black like you and Jeonghan. As you step near him, you realize you can’t smell him anymore. You tilt your head, puzzle as you inhale.
He notices. “Ah, yeah. Safer if they can’t see me coming. They’ll smell you two from a mile away, unfortunately.”
“How do you do that?”
“Ancient cultist thing,” he and Jeonghan say at the same time. Vernon adds, “Betas can do it. I’ve tried to teach Seokmin but I fear he will permanently smell of lavender for the rest of his life.”
“Good,” Jeonghan mutters, cutting a look at Vernon that makes the beta’s ears pink again. “I hate when I can’t smell you.”
That makes Vernon blush. You’re glad it’s not just you that Jeonghan has that effect on, watching the omega turn Vernon into a muttering mess.
The bathing room is quiet when you return. The lavender stream drifts ghostlike along the carved stone walls. The hot spring ripples gently, its surface only disturbed by the shallow movement of water as the three of you skirt the pool's edge.
Jeonghan’s hand brushes yours as he reaches for the wall, pressing against it. The stone shifts, grinding with a low groan as it swings backward. A breath of cold air sighs out and you shiver, stepping into the darkness quickly.
Vernon and Jeonghan join you, shutting the door until you can’t see. Vernon brushes past you, his fingers tugging lightly on your cloak. You can’t see here, but he’s walked these halls a million times. Usually he just lets you stumble behind him, but now he keeps a firm grip on your cloak, Jeonghan close behind you.
Your steps barely make a sound in the dark. You keep your breathing even, too afraid to dispel the silence in the air. When Vernon stops short, you suck in a breath, feeling more than seeing that he’s held his hand up to make you stop walking.
At first, you don’t know why he’s stopped you. Your ears ring in the silence, heart thudding in your chest. Jeonghan is so close behind you that you can feel his breath on your neck, his fingers twisting in the fabric of your cloak to stay close.
Then you hear it. There’s a low vibration, a hum that drifts through the tunnel that presses up against you. You feel the air leave your lungs, the sound pressing in, ears popping. This time, the alluring song isn’t coming from you, but somewhere deep in the tunnel.
Vernon’s grip on your cloak tightens. “I am struggling not to follow the sound,” he admits, spitting the word between grit teeth.
Without thinking, you lean forward. “Ignore it.”
Your voice vibrates with the voice of others, all blending in with a single command. Vernon goes rigid for a second, a shiver rippling down his spine before he’s moving again, pulling you along quickly.
The hum fades behind you like a dream cut short. You vibrate with the realization that your command worked, letting Vernon ignore the haunting melody of the Bloodsong to keep him going. You’d celebrate if you weren’t so unsettled.
Jeonghan stays at your back, his hand resting lightly at the bottom of your spin now. His warmth shields you against the chill of the halls as you move deeper. Vernon tugs you left down a sloping passage that smells like damp air and minerals.
You recognize it, feeling the hall narrow as Vernon slows to vanish through the thin crevice you passed once before. The stone scrapes against the fabric of your cloak, catching and pulling. The scent of iron blooms as you squeeze through, relieved when you step into open space on the other side.
“Keep moving,” Vernon murmurs. “The guards do more routes late at night near the prison.”
Swallowing, you follow him quickly. The air here is all wrong, still and heavy. It’s as sour as you remember it, clinging to the back of your tongue as the three of you skirt along the walls in the dark. It smells faintly of rust and old blood, making your stomach flip uncomfortably as you go.
Fear buzzes along your skin as Vernon leads you past the prisons. You swear you hear the faint drag of chains and the soft whimper of someone crying, but you shake your head, trying to dispel the sounds as you turn down another hall.
A few more paces and Vernon is pausing at the same heavy door you remember. Vernon opens it quickly, the door groaning too loud for your comfort. He grabs you and ushers you in first, Jeonghan quickly behind him as he slips through and shuts it firmly behind you.
Jeonghan fumbles around before he sparks a piece of flint, orange flickers bursting in the room until they catch on a candle and orange lights up. You shield your eyes for a moment before they adjust, the flame throwing long shadows across the tiny room.
The stack of books is exactly where you left it. Pulling Jeonghan’s wrist, you lead him over to it, reaching for the first book on the top stack. You pause, cocking your head to the side. The book of religions you’d read on Jeonghan’s suggestion is on the top of the stack, but not the book of fables.
Frowning, you go through the stack. None of them are the book on the First Voices that you had saved when you were here last. Your pulse jumps in your neck as you go back through them. Vernon notices your anxiety, drifting closer to you.
“What?” He asks, brows pinched. “What’s wrong?”
“The book isn’t here.”
“That makes no sense. I haven’t been here since we came last.”
“It’s not here, Vernon. I left it right here.”
Jeonghan steps closer. “No one has been in here, it doesn’t smell like anyone but Wildheart.”
You and Vernon look up at the same time, eyes meeting. “Ina.”
Vernon douses the candle and has you and Jeonghan by the arm before you can say anything else. Your pulse rattles in your neck, heart slamming as the beta pushes the both of you out of the door and into the hall. He shuts the door firmly behind you, his footsteps fast.
“Knives out,” he murmurs, leading you back the way you came.
You nearly run the length back to the living quarters. You stay deadly quiet, Vernon leading you as quickly as he’s willing. The tunnels behind you seem to breathe, every shadow a foe. You keep waiting to see Ina’s white hair peel from the wall as she materializes in front of you, your hand sweaty on the dagger.
Vernon’s hand never leaves your arm, his grip iron tight at your elbow, urging you faster and quieter. Jeonghan keeps his pace behind you, knife drawn as he keeps close to you, his free hand never more than a breath away from you.
The hum is gone when you come back down the hall, swallowed by the hush of stone and your hammering pulse. All you can hear is your own ragged breathing as you squeeze back through the narrow crevice and down the winding halls.
You don’t dare to breathe. Not until the crack of light bleeds through the seem in the bathroom, not until you’re stumbling in, gasping and shivering. Not until Vernon firmly closes the door behind you and drags the bench back in front of it.
He looks up sharply. You spin, hearing it too. There are voices coming from down the hall in the common room, both familiar and unfamiliar. You hear Seungcheol arguing gruffly, a distinctly gruff voice answering him back. The agitation of Soonyoung’s voice brackets Seungcheol’s.
“Change,” Jeonghan growls, immediately stripping down. You face him with wide eyes. “Shove your clothes into that hamper. Get in the water and scrub. Vernon, fuck off back through the tunnels and come back through the front door.”
Before you can protest, Vernon is pressing a kiss to your brow and vanishing the way you’d just come. Hands shaking, you do as Jeonghan says, both of you stripping down. There’s no intimacy or heat here, just sheer panic as you stumble into the hot water of the pool.
Jeonghan presses a lavender bar of soap into your hand. You scrub at your skin furiously, feeling raw and like an open wound as you do. Jeonghan draws closer to you, breathing you in once. He curses and throws his bar of soap.
“I need to scent you,” he says, voice rough. “But very aggressively. They’re here to see if you’re the smell in that room. They won’t be able to smell Vernon, but Ina knows what you smell like.”
Your hands shake but you nod. “Alright.”
Jeonghan’s eyes flick over your face, searching for any hesitation. He finds none, only gritted teeth and determination as you nod. His pupils flare as he nods back, hunger and necessity flaring between you as he steps close.
The air charges as he closes the gap. Water laps at your waist and Jeonghan pulls you in close, hands on your hips. You come alive under his touch, breath coming out in shaky exhales as he brings you toward him. He presses the side of his neck against yours, nuzzling lightly.
Jeonghan’s hand slides up your back, palm flat. He presses you flush to his chest and his scent blooms. Your eyelids flutter and he lets out a breathy sound, just as affected as you. You tamp down on your own scent, instead letting Jeonghan press himself against you, nosing your hair, pressing his wrists everywhere he can touch.
His mouth finds your throat, open and hot. He doesn’t bite - just drags his tongue along your pulse, making you let out a moan. He hushes you with his palm sliding over your mouth, his tongue trailing down to your collarbone.
You’re melted in his hands, near catatonic as he pulls back, still holding you up. His eyes are blown and wild and he’s panting heavily, his omega stoked and hungry. “That will help. Gods damn at what cost, though.”
“More.”
You don’t know if you’re asking because you want him or because you’re worried. Perhaps it's both. Either way, he nods and leans forward. He noses the crook of your neck before kissing wet, messy kisses along your skin. He mouths along your shoulders, leaving spit and his own scent as he does.
Your entire body lights up with an electric edge, your thoughts spinning wildly as the water of the pool surges around you. Your fingers curl in the wet hair at the nape of his neck, holding him to you until finally, he pulls back with a shuddering breath.
You shake your head. “More, Jeonghan.”
He bares his teeth in a grin that’s all wolf and firelight. “Yes, my queen.”
This time he grabs your wrists, lifts them above your head, pins them against the slick stone edge of the pool. You arch into him as he crowds you back, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat again. You hear him growl, feel the low rumble where your chests press tight together.
There’s no softness now. He’s deliberate, claiming every inch of skin he can reach with mouth and teeth and the iron heat of his breath. He tangles his scent with yours so thoroughly that when you draw a ragged breath, you can taste him on the back of your tongue.
When he finally stops, he’s panting too, forehead pressed to yours. The lavender steam drifts around you both, carrying your tangled scent up to the carved stone ceiling like an offering.
“Good?” you whisper, voice wrecked.
“Perfect,” he rasps. “No Red Priestess will be able to smell you. Only me.”
Your chest heaves as you lower your arms, the bruising heat of his grip ghosting along your wrists. The steam clings to your lashes, beads on your lips. You want to say thank you but the words won’t form, terror and desire clashing violently.
A sharp knock jolts the fragile silence apart. The door falls open and the familiar scent of Seungcheol punches the air as he storms in. Soonyoung appears behind him, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. His eyes turn to moons, his body going rigid.
Seungcheol turns to Soonyoung and growls, “Hold it together.”
Soonyoung nods. “Quickly,” he manages, voice deep and rough. “They’re here for her.”
Seungcheol’s jaw ticks. He looks at you, then at Jeonghan, then back at you. “Get dressed. Stay close.”
You and Jeonghan pull yourselves from the pool. Both Soonyoung and Seungcheol step into the hallway, averting their eyes. Soonyoung is rippling with want, his self control flaring as his alpha fights him for control. Seungcheol barely blinks when you and Jeonghan appear at the door, dressed and out of breath and scent drunk.
Seungcheol glances at you. His hand lands on your head for a heartbeat, a promise of safety pressed to your hairline. You blink in shock - it’s the only affection he’s ever shown you. Then he turns, back braced broad as a shield between you and the waiting shadows beyond the door.
Soonyoung bares his teeth at the corridor, one hand already on the hilt of his blade. He nudges you forward, urging you to follow Seungcheol with him bringing up the rear. He’s bleeding orange rind and something sharper and heavier, the desire so palpable you almost turn around.
You don’t.
Shadows flicker in the common room. Chan and Seokmin are both standing near the mouth of the hallway where Seungcheol leads you from. Chan is rigid, face set in a snarl. Seokmin is deadpan, his typically warm eyes hard as flint.
Near the door are two armed alphas in red and a single Red Priestess. She’s dripping in red, a veil pulled across her face so you cannot see her. You go rigid all the same, eyeing the two unfamiliar alphas as Seungcheol stands. He is explicitly blocking you from the alphas’ line of sight.
“So?” Seungcheol asks, voice firm. “Here she is. She was bathing. Is that alright with you?”
The Red Priestess does not move at first. Her veil shimmers where it catches the firelight, a whisper of crimson gauze floating in the hush. She is not old. You can tell by the tilt of her shoulders, the slender line of her throat beneath the veil’s edge, but the power that clings to her hums like a wasp nest under her skin.
The two alphas at her side bristle. One of them shifts his weight, the soft rasp of a blade against its scabbard. Seungcheol’s jaw hardens. Soonyoung bares his teeth in a soundless snarl, pressing closer to your back, a wall of heat and aggression.
The Priestess lifts her gloved hand, delicate as a spider’s leg, and the alpha freezes mid-shift, eyes downcast. Even the air holds its breath. She does not look at Seungcheol - she looks at you.
“Does she speak?” The voice behind the veil is soft, sibilant, like a blade being dragged through silk.
Seungcheol does not move aside. He is stone, roots driven deep into the floor. “If she wishes to.”
The Priestess tilts her head a fraction. “Does she wish to?”
“I do,” you say, your voice surprisingly calm.
“Then speak,” says the Priestess. “A loyal member of this sect found troubling things in a secret room deep in passages where you don’t belong. She found some interesting schematics for an abandoned shipping passage. Strange thing to be hidden in a room.”
“I’m unsure what tunnels you speak of. I’m not permitted to leave the quarters without my alpha explicitly telling me.”
A ripple goes through Seungcheol as you say it. My alpha. You don’t mean it like that, leaning into the meek little pet you’re supposed to be, but it’s obvious your words have an effect, no matter how performative.
“Is that so?” The priestess drifts forward. “You won’t mind coming closer, would you? Ina was very explicit about what you smelled like, and I have a very specific skill set with scents.”
You drift forward around Seungcheol. He moves to stop you but you touch his arm. “Of course, Priestess. I willingly submit myself to your inquiry.”
You can’t see her face, but you feel it, the flicker of surprise beneath the veil, the faint hitch in her breath as she realizes you are not the trembling thing she expected. You come to stand before her, bare-throated, the ghost of Jeonghan’s scent still singing like a hidden string in your bones.
The priestess leans closer, the veil brushing your cheek like a whisper of moth wings. You force yourself to keep your chin lifted, your pulse calm, your eyes steady as she inhales a slow drag of air that tastes your skin, your hair, the raw seam of your throat.
For a moment, the room holds its breath with her. The alphas tense, Seungcheol’s presence flaring behind you like a drawn blade, Soonyoung’s hand flexing on his hilt. When the priestess exhales, it is with a hiss of frustration. Her gloved fingers twitch as if she wants to clutch your jaw and try again, but she does not touch you.
“There is nothing but muddled filth here,” she spits, voice coiled tight with barely leashed disdain. “She reeks of that one.” Her head snaps toward where Jeonghan stands, half-shrouded in Seokmin’s shadow. “It’s tangled.”
“I apologize, Priestess.” You keep your eyes wide. “I’ve only just finished my heat. Even if I were permitted to wander those tunnels, I could not have. I was sequestered for several days, tended only by my chosen pack. I could not walk a hallway, let alone a passage.”
The Priestesses' gloved hand trembles once, her scent curdling sweet and sour behind the silk.
The Priestess says nothing for a moment, her anger a low hum in the room, gnawing at the shadows. Then she clicks her tongue, a single sharp sound, and the two red-clad alphas step back into her orbit like hounds leashed too tight.
Seungcheol’s voice cuts the silence. “Satisfied?”
“For now,” she murmurs. “But I will remember the taste of this lie - if it is a lie.” Her hidden eyes flick to you, then Jeonghan. “Enjoy your indulgence while it lasts.”
She turns, a swirl of red silk and simmering threat, and her guards move with her. When they open the door, they pause. Vernon is drifting through the door, dressed completely differently than he was previously. He raises his brows, eyes flickering from the priestess to his pack beyond, as though he were none the wiser.
They breeze past him, their frustration palpable as the door slams behind them.
For a few long moments, no one moves. Vernon hovers hear the door, his hands on his knives, ready if they decide to come back through the door. They don’t.
Soonyoung exhales a low, wild laugh that dies almost immediately in his throat. Seokmin releases the breath he’d trapped so long his knuckles are white on his blade.
Seungcheol’s hand finds your shoulder and you flinch, turning around. He squeezes once, then lets go, his eyes stormy as they meet yours. “You did well.”
Jeonghan snorts. “Since when do you lie so well? Even I almost believed you. I willingly submit myself to your inquiry? Where was that when we were brought in for an audience with the Divine?”
You glare. “Easier to pretend when someone isn’t being actively punished in front of me.”
“Fair.”
“I,” Soonyoung announces, “am going to excuse myself. The smell of you two has made me painfully hard and I think I’m going to die.”
“Yeah,” Chan rasps. “Yeah.”
Soonyoung pivots and heads down the hall. Chan follows him with a half-choked laugh, cheeks flushed, jaw tight with restraint. His eyes linger on you for a second, flickering to the smear of where Jeonghan scented you across your throat.
A door clicks shut somewhere behind them. Seokmin drifts toward you, lifting a hand to brush his thumb across the edge of your jaw. “You alright?”
“Yeah.” You exhale. “Yeah.”
“I like when you two smell like each other.”
Jeonghan’s soft laugh sends a thrill through you. He drifts by you, leaning in as he whispers, “Let’s keep it that way, then.”
You shove at his chest, but the smile that curls at your lips betrays you, raw and trembling, but real. He trails down the hall, giving Seungcheol a meaningful look as he does. Seungcheol looks at you again, and for once his gaze has softened, not steel and flint but something a little gentler.
“Rest,” he says, and there’s a curve to his mouth that’s so close to an almost smile. “You earned it.”
Seungcheol drifts down the hall after Jeonghan, vanishing as he mumbles something to the omega. Vernon tugs your sleeve, heading toward your room.
“Come on,” he mumbles. “I’m tired.”
For now, it’s enough.
-
Someone’s voice pulls you from sleep. You lift your head, confused and bleary from where you lay on your stomach in your bed. Seokmin’s bulk blocks most of the door, laying on his side as he rolls to face whoever is standing in the doorway and calling his name.
It’s Jeonghan, who lips further into the room and cards his fingers gently through Seokmin’s hair, scratching his scalp. The large beta preens under Jeonghan’s touch, shivering as he leans into Jeonghan’s hand. You grin and start to lay back down until Seokmin sighs heavily and starts to extract himself from your bed.
“Hmmm?” You ask, a confusing protest with no words, too tired to form them.
He looks over his shoulder at you, smiling softly. “Sounds like some of us have been summoned by the Divine. There’s a skirmish near the northern border and she’s deploying Seungcheol and another commander.”
Vernon groans on the other side of you. You pout and Seokmin grins, leaning toward you briefly to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It makes you soften at the edges, growing sleepy again with the smell of lavender and eucalyptus.
Then Vernon gets up and you growl, feeling annoyance rattle through you. He laughs and squeezes your thigh as he shuffles past you, standing with a stretch. Jeonghan lingers near the door, his eyes cat-like in the near dark as he watches the two betas piece themself together.
“Do you have to go?” You ask the omega, watching him.
He shakes his head. “Chan and I are staying.”
“Okay.”
He smiles. “Why so pouty?”
Why indeed. Your heat is over and yet you don’t like the thought of letting anyone go. Your hand presses into the warm space Seokmin had just occupied, feeling your heart dip a little. Your eyes flick over to Vernon where he stands at the edge of the bed, half-bucking his belt, hair mused. He looks at you with that mild patience he always has but you feel the reluctance there, the tension that tightens his shoulders when you stare at him.
Jeonghan drifts closer, stepping around Seokmin to sit on the edge of your bed, grinning at you. “Softy. Where’s all that bite?”
You snap your teeth at him and he laughs. “I still bite.”
Jeonghan hums low, amused. “Mmm. No. Not soft.” His fingers skim your forehead as you lay back down, still tired. His touch is featherlight. “Just greedy, then?”
“Mhmm.”
“We’ll be back in a few days,” Seokmin assures you. He kisses the top of Jeonghan’s head, opening the door to your room fully. You squint as the light floods in, hearing the others in the common room, shoes scuffing, voices quiet. “Plus, you’ve got Jeonghan and Chan around.”
“You’ll be safe,” Vernon says, voice suddenly flinty, the edge there for a heartbeat before he softens it again for you. “Stay in this room. Bolt the door if you sleep. If the Divine calls for you-”
“I know,” you murmur. “Just come back.”
Vernon’s hand squeezes your shoulder as he passes, grounding you for half a breath. Then he’s gone, a black shadow at Seokmin’s side. The door clicks softly behind them, a hush that feels heavier than it should.
The hush stretches after their departure. Jeonghan doesn’t move immediately, remaining at the edge of your bed. You can’t see him in the dark, but you can make out his shadowy shape with what little light filters from under the door.
When you shift, reaching for him, he wordlessly obliges. He sinks down next to you, shifting so that he’s pressed against you, warm and sweet. You tuck your nose into the curve of his neck, breathing in and letting the smell of him calm your skittering nerves at everyone leaving. You wish you could go, teeth grinding together as you think of what they’ll be forced to do this time.
Jeonghan senses your train of thought. “They’ll find loopholes,” he murmurs. “Help whoever they can. It’s their way.”
You hum, too sleepy to argue with him. His skin is warm, his pulse steady beneath your touch. He wraps an arm around you, content to keep you pressed to him. You feel the ripple of a hum in his chest, a low, thrumming thing like the ghost of the Call that still coils between your ribs when you think too hard about it. That bridge of resonance that stitched you to him in the steam-heavy hush of the bath.
“Sleep,” Jeonghan sighs. “Chan will wake you up in a few hours to train.”
It feels like you’ve barely slept when Chan knocks sharply at the door. You ignore it at first, curling further into the warmth at your side, drifting through honeysuckle-scented dreams. Another three rapts against the door has the heat against you shifting, pulling you from your sleep the rest of the way.
Jeonghan.
You’d forgotten he was there, blinking into the darkness as he mutters something half-feral into your shoulder where he’s curled. He tries to dig himself deeper into you, as though he can hide from Chan’s impatience on the other side of the door, but you’re fully awake now.
“Don’t pretend you can’t hear me,” Chan says, edged with annoyance.
You groan, pushing your face into Jeonghan’s throat as if you can hide there too. He laughs, a warm huff of air against your forehead. Neither of you move and the knock comes again, punctuated now by a rhythmic thud against the door.
“Wildheart,” Chan calls, voice lilting with mock sweetness. “You have exactly three seconds to haul your ass out of bed or I’m coming in to haul it myself.”
“You’re only bossy because the others are gone,” Jeonghan croaks, voice rough with sleep.
Slowly, you start to peel yourself away from him. Jeonghan protests but you shush him. “Chan is always this bossy. You’re just usually exempt.”
A low growl echoes from behind the door, too warm to be truly threatening. As you change, Jeonghan uncurls himself from your bed like a cat, lighting a candle. He stretches, joints popping. He makes little sounds as he sighs, shooting you a wink before he opens the door to reveal Chan staring at him, hazel eyes aflame on the other side.
His eyes find Jeonghan first, flicking over him with the fond exasperation of a packmate who’s heard every excuse. Then his gaze cuts to you, sharp and bright, softening just enough to be dangerous.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” he says. “I’ll make you sorry if you’re late.”
Jeonghan bumps his shoulder against Chan’s on his way past him, muttering something under his breath that makes Chan snort, a low huff of amusement that does nothing to dull the wolf-smirk that tugs at his mouth. As Jeonghan vanishes down the hall, Chan turns back to you, and you see the gleam under his lashes, the flash of warmth under the flint of discipline.
“See you in ten.” He grins, wide and wolfish, a challenge. Then he pushes off the frame of your door and vanishes down the hall, steps fading toward the training area.
The echo of Chan’s boots fades into the hush of the hallway, leaving only the flicker of your candle and the soft rasp of your breathing. You stand there for a moment in the quiet, bare feet brushing the cold stone, the world outside your door stretching huge and sharp while your little room holds the last shreds of warmth.
You dress quickly, pulling on a tight black tunic, leather pants, and the belt that Jeonghan lent you still warm where his hands had adjusted it the night before. The dagger Vernon gave you rests where you’d left it beside your cloak, its vines catching the candlelight in dancing patterns. You reach for it, your fingers brushing the pommel. You thread the sheath through the loop, the dagger a familiar weight now.
When you open the door, the hallway feels different. The pack’s absence is an ache you wear like a bruise. Chan’s waiting presence hums at the edge of it, bright and golden and dangerous. You slip through the quiet, padding barefoot down the passage until the stone underfoot grows warmer. There, just past the carved threshold of the training room, Chan waits, arms folded across his broad chest, one boot propped against the wall.
He straightens when he sees you, his hazel eyes flicking from your throat to your hips to your face. Something sharp flickers there.
“You’re late,” he says, mouth twitching.
You lift your chin. “You’re early.”
Chan laughs, low and bright, teeth flashing. He gestures for you to join him and you do. He’s already leaning down to toe off his boots to go through your stretching routine. You follow suit, toeing off your boot and unclasping your belt. You pile them neatly on the edge of the ring rolling your shoulders as you join Chan at the center.
The air is charged between you. You feel it crackling, though neither of you says anything. His sharp eyes watch you as you stop a few feet away from him, you watching him, him watching you. Together, you sink down onto the ground, preparing to go through the first series of stretches.
As one, you both fold forward. Your fingers press against the ground, feeling the slide of dust and stone. Chan’s palms flatten, his back a clean line of rippling muscle next to you as you both lean into the post, foreheads to the ground. There’s no chatter - just the low sound of your breath, the distant echo of Jeonghan singing to himself somewhere in the kitchen.
Both of you shift, sitting up as you lift your arms above your head, arching backward. Your muscles constrict and you feel your spine pop, lashing fluttering at the release of tension. As one, you both stand before sinking into a deep lunge.
You're his mirror, muscles catching and singing as you ease into each pose. He twists and you follow, both of you flowing like water into each pose, a twin dance. Your eyes connect briefly and you feel a shiver threaten your spine.
When the final stretch is done, you’re both covered in a thin sheen of sweat, not winded but breathing harder. You begin to straighten, rolling your shoulders to prepare for your usual hand-to-hand spar when Chan catches you off guard, lunging.
He’s so fast you almost don’t catch him, but weeks of fending off him and Vernon have made your reflexes viper-quick. You dodge under his strike and pop up behind him, a sharp protest on your lips but he’s twisting on you again.
Your breath leaves in a rush as you twist aside, sliding past him. He’s a flicker of teeth, the barest hiss of breath and skin. He catches a wrist and you spark to life, bringing up a knee hard into his ribs. It knocks the wind out of him, his grip loosening enough for you to free yourself and drive him back with a sharp series of punches he’s forced to evade.
Chan’s hands close around your forearms, grip iron-tight as he tries to yank you off balance. You plant your feet and drop your weight low, twisting out of his grip. His breath ghosts your ear as you duck under his arms, your shoulder driving into his ribs to force a grunt from his chest.
He pivots on the balls of his feet, all coiled muscle and scent spiking. It makes your pulse stutter, still sensitive from your heat. It makes you unbalanced and you barely manage to dodge the hook of his elbow. You catch it last second, the warmth of his skin hot against your palms as you try to lever him down.
Chan shifts before you can get him down, knees bending, weight rolling into yours. For a heartbeat, you’er chest to chest, his heart thudding against yours. The next, you’re on the floor, air leaving your lungs as he slams you down.
You cough but react, legs snapping up to catch him around the waist before he can make you immobile. He huffs, breathless and almost feral, trying to use his weight to crush you down and make it impossible for you to slip from his grip. You feel the edge of his breath fanning across your jaw, smell the black tea and clove dripping from him, your thoughts dizzy and full of him.
Bucking, you try to twist free. He grins, teeth bared as he leans higher, trying to pin your shoulders. The shift in his weight is just enough space for you to pivot your hips and twist. You use the opportunity, driving your knee into the side of his ribs to force him off balance. Slamming your elbow into his bicep, you roll and suddenly you’re pinning him instead, knees brace on his thighs, palms pinning his chest.
Both of you pant heavily, breath coming out in sharp, syncopated hisses. He tips his head back on the ground, exposing the softness of his throat - it’s vulnerable, a display of submission that is so rare it makes you falter. His eyes are half-closed, his breath stuttering beneath you.
Your breath stills, caught halfway between your ribs and your throat as you hover over him. His pulse flickers under the thin skin of his neck. You can see it - feel it - the way his whole body seems to hold itself open for you, waiting, thrumming.
On instinct, you lean down, drawn to the smell of him, the iron tang of sweat, the sharp sweetness of the clove. You stop a hair's breadth away, breath shivering, ghosting over his warm skin. Heat radiates from him and you think it would be so easy to press your mouth against him, to taste him, to feel his pulse beneath your tongue.
But it terrifies you too, the realization of how deep you’re in this, how you’d clung to Vernon and Seokmin this morning, how Jeonghan had nosed you back to sleep. Your emotions are complicated and tangled, the desire to be free and bring the mountain to its knees clashing with seeking small comforts in this tiny corner of the mountain.
You only hesitate for a second but Chan feels it. He goes tense underneath you, the softness of him snapping shut like a door slammed in your face. His eyes flick open, sharp now, all the warmth shuttered behind something cold.
He shifts under you, not violent, just decisive. You immediately react, peeling yourself off of him to sit back on your heels. He’s already up on his feet before you can say something, though you’re not sure what to say. I want you. I’m scared. Why do I want so much? What now? Don’t go.
Chan’s shoulders are stiff, a tremor going up his arms as he clenches his fists and dismisses himself from the ring. You think he might say something for a moment, but he doesn’t, the silence oppressive. You push yourself up, your own breath caught somewhere between apology and protest. But the words don’t come. He doesn’t give you time. He nods and grabs his boots, heading for the entrance of the training room.
You stand in the training area alone, the air settling around you heavy and bitter with the taste of his frustration.
And you have no idea what to do.
Jeonghan is sipping tea in the kitchen when you enter. He has a knowing look on his face, his eyes darting down the hall to where Chan has disappeared. He toes the seat across from him from under the table, pushing the chair out in a very clear signal: sit.
Heaving a sigh, you do. You brace your elbows against the table top, dropping your chin in your palm. Jeonghan doesn’t push. He waits patiently, blinking his eyes lazily as he watches you while sipping his tea.
“I think-” Your voice breaks and you clear it, starting again. “It feels like I’m forgetting home, sometimes.”
“Valen?”
You nod. “I’m so angry sometimes. I want to break this place, I want to destroy it - and then I’m here with you all, and I let - for a minute I don’t hate it because I forget where I am. And it makes me mad at myself.”
Jeonghan watches you, the steam from his tea curling around his fingers. Then, slowly, he shifts forward, draping his arms over the table so his wrists touch yours. He doesn’t try to hold you, it’s just the soft weight of his presence pressing against your pulse.
“You’re surviving. It’s different.”
“It feels like betrayal.”
“I understand. I promise you - we’re not getting comfortable. We will not let you be complacent, just as you have reminded us we’re not comfortable here either. But don’t let that fear keep you from small moments in front of you.”
A breath catches in your lungs. It’s a tiny sound, a wounded thing. You nod, but it doesn’t feel true yet.
Jeonghan taps your knuckles once, then pushes to his feet, moving fluid as water. “Come on.”
You follow Jeonghan back to the training area. The room is quiet, the air still thick with the lingering heat from you and Chan. Jeonghan sits in the middle of the ring, patting the ground in front of him, his eyes soft but expectant. You sink down, knees brushing his, the contact a small anchor in the storm of your thoughts.
You take a breath, the air tasting of dust and iron, and try to shake off the unease still clinging to you from your moment with Chan, the way his softness had snapped shut, the coldness in his eyes when you hesitated. It’s a weight you carry, a tangle of guilt and want and fear that sits heavy in your chest. Jeonghan’s words from the kitchen echo in your mind: You’re surviving. It’s different. They loop, insistent, pulling at the threads of your thoughts.
Surviving.
The word feels like a blade, sharp and double-edged. You’ve been surviving since you were torn from Valen, since the Bloodkeep’s stone walls became your cage. Every day is a fight to keep your edges, to hold onto the anger that fuels your resolve to break this place apart.
But Jeonghan’s words make you pause, make you wonder if survival can mean more than just enduring. If it can mean letting yourself feel the warmth of Seokmin’s kiss, the weight of Vernon’s hand, the pull of Chan’s pulse under your breath. If it can mean letting Jeonghan’s scent curl around you like a shield.
You think of home - of Valen’s green hills, the smell of lavender oil in your mother’s hair, the weight of her book of fables in your hands. It feels distant, like a dream you can’t quite grasp, and that distance terrifies you.
The idea that you can be here, in this moment, knee-to-knee with him, and still be the girl from Valen, that you can want to tear down the Bloodkeep and still find comfort in the wolves who share your chain, nestles in the very core of you.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Jeonghan says, his voice a low hum that pulls you back. His eyes are steady, liquid pools of patience, but there’s a spark of amusement there too. “Ready to try again? You did good last night, with Vernon.”
A finger of fear traces down your neck at the memory of last night, at the way Vernon had been fighting the distant sound of the Bloodsong being used somewhere, drawing him in. And you had stopped it, using your voice - using the Call - to command him forward, to get him past it.
It hadn’t felt like a rush of power - not in the way you think the Divine feels it. It felt like a connection, like you had plucked a string inside of Vernon, in tune with him, coaxing him to do something. Not control, but suggestion. Guidance. Resonance.
Closing your eyes, you let your breath steady, the air cool against your lips. Jeonghan’s words linger, weaving through your thoughts as you start to hum, low and soft, the vibration stirring in your chest. Like the night before, you feel it, can almost see the way it threads through you, something ancient and powerful.
“Command me,” Jeonghan murmurs.
You open your eyes to find him watching you, his gaze intense, lips parted slightly. Jeonghan is beautiful, a cherubic face that belies the sharp mind underneath, inky hair tied half up, half down, the whisps sticking to his temples. You have the urge to sweep his bangs from his face, to trace your fingers down his temple, his cheek.
“You can do it,” he promises, nodding. “Command me.”
“Lift your hands.”
When you speak, it’s not just your voice. It’s a tapestry of sound, a hundred voices - a thousand - all twined together into a single, resonant command. It’s not sharp or forceful -it’s a suggestion, a call that reaches into Jeonghan’s essence, finding the thread of his omega and tugging gently, inviting him to follow.
Jeonghan lifts his hands without question, palms up, open and waiting. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, a flicker of gold threading through the dark brown as his omega responds, not with resistance but with eagerness, drawn to the resonance of your Call.
The air feels charged, alive with the connection between you, and you feel it too, the way your hum echoes in his chest, the way his breath syncs with yours, a shared rhythm that binds you.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with something like awe. “That’s exactly it.”
You swallow, your throat tight with the weight of what you’ve just done, the power that hums in your blood. It’s not control, not domination, but it’s strong, and it scares you as much as it thrills you.
“It doesn’t feel like power,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “It feels like… like a song, or something. I don’t know how to describe it. When I read that book of fables, there was a reference to the First Voices. I think maybe the Bloodsong wasn’t the first of this power to exist, just like the Call came after the Bloodsong.”
the only reliable, effective way of "protecting children" is education. but people don't want to hear that because they don't actually care about protecting children, they care about protecting a mythologised ideal of innocence
PAIRING: Werewolf! f. Reader x Werewolf!Seungcheol x Werewolf!Jeonghan x Werewolf!Soonyoung x Werewolf!Seokmin x Werewolf!Vernon x Werewolf!Chan
SUMMARY: When the Divine’s cult conquers your home, they don't expect you to survive, let alone fight back. Captured but not broken, you and the unlikeliest of allies are ready to burn it all down.
WARNINGS: Depictions of physical combat and mild violence including a wild animal attack, depictions of blood and injuries and the death of an animal (not abusive or detailed - wild animal attack), mentions of medical treatment of injuries and stitches, themes of being held captive, depictions of reader being bound/tied at the wrists and other objects to keep her from running, references to loss and ggrief, some power imbalances - reader is obviously a prisoner but the pack is not enjoying keeping her against her will either, scenes of fear and anxiety and mild moments of disassociation, references to a controlling religious figure and cult-like organization, mild nudity (we get to see Seungcheol's ass!!), some mentions of how much the pack hates who they answer to.
MEMBERS IN THIS CHAPTER: Seungcheol, Soonyoung, Seokmin and Chan
A/N: Fun fact - this chapter did not originally exist. I ended up re-doing the entire second chapter by inserting this entire section between chapter one and the original chapter two. It ended up fixing a few problems I had, especially my obsession with moving things too quickly. I really wanted to establish more connection between reader/the pack and in the original format, I feel like we didn't get that. We also see a bit more of rationalization here for reader! I hope you enjoy and I'll see you next new moon.
A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading this and always being willing to edit my messy, very disorganized docs.
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Her voice is the blade; her voice is the balm. To be hollowed is to be worthy.
- Sec. 7, Ver. 3 of the Blood Rites
ABOVE THE TREETOPS, THE MOON GLOWS BONE WHITE. Between the trunks of the tall pines, silver light pools on the forest floor, broken up by needles and shadow. The air is sharp with the scent of wet moss, charred wood, and dying leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls once then falls silent.
You fumble through the underbrush, one hand clenched over your ribs where your wound has soaked through your shirt. Every step sends a dull throb through your side. Your breath catches on every shallow inhale, but you don’t stop until you find the stream Soonyoung pointed you toward.
It trickles through the rocks just ahead, narrow and fast-moving. The water is glassy in the moonlight. Ferns curl along the damp banks, the smell of earth rising up from the water. It’s colder here - cleaner. For the first time all day, you breathe in something that clears your mind.
Your knees hit the mossy bank. The forest floor is damp and springy beneath you. With shaking hands, you begin to lift your tunic up, tucking the hem of it into your teeth. You suck in when you see your ruined side, caked in blood, flesh puckered where you’re sliced.
Trembling, you take a handful of moss, dipping it into the frigid water before pressing it into the wound to clean. Your vision swims and you almost pass out from the pain. Tears prick your eyes and you blink hard against them, but one slips down your cheek anyway.
Alone in the moonlight, you sit hunched and trembling, crying without a sound. It is equally for the ache in your bones and the horrible throb in your side as it is for all you’ve lost in the last two days alone.
A twig snaps behind you and your head snaps up, teeth bared.
It’s just Seokmin. He holds his hands up in surrender, stepping from the shadows. He’s bathed in silver, pausing as he stares at you, eyes dark and thoughtful. He has a cloth and a small jar in his hands. No sword, no weapon, no mouthy pack pup or stoic elder.
Just him.
“Can I help?” His eyes drift to your red, angry side. “Please.”
Eventually, you nod. It stings your pride, but you’re in so much pain that you give in. He approaches you slowly, kneeling in the moss next to you as he examines the injury. He winces, shaking his head as he bites his lip thoughtfully.
The moonlight catches in the strands of his hair, turning them almost silver. In the dark, his eyes seem more gold than brown. He moves slowly, setting the canteen down first, then upcapping his jar to reveal a salve. It smells of pine resin and some herbal mix.
“Can you lift your shirt a little more?”
You hesitate.
“I promise it’s for strictly medical purposes. If my touch makes you feel uncomfortable at any moment, please say so.”
Reluctantly, you roll up your shirt, exposing your ruined flesh to him.
Seokmin works in silence. He dips the cloth into the cold stream and wrings it out before he sets to work cleaning the wound. You suck in a sharp breath but otherwise make no sound, finding a rock to fixate on and disassociating as he works.
The scent of lavender drifts toward you. Your hands tighten in your tunic but you say nothing.
“My mother grew lavender,” he says suddenly. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Used to hang it from all our windows. Said wolves like us need peace just as much as strength. She loved gardening - I inherited that from her. Got into herbs and medical stuff.”
You say nothing, but your heart aches. His hands are careful and deliberate, never lingering more than they need to. He picks up the canteen and pours it over the wound. You let out a sharp hiss of air, realizing it’s some sort of distilled alcohol.
“I know, sorry.” He starts to gently pat it dry. “Anyway, I know my scent is kind of lavender, but I always assumed maybe that was why.”
“Why follow her?”
Seokmin pauses, eyes shooting up to you. They’re round, caught off guard by your question.
“The Divine and her red priestesses. They’re cruel and seek only power. I don’t know their doctrine, but I know what they preach is dark. You don’t seem…”
He hesitates and then nods. “I don’t follow them. I follow Seungcheol.”
“And he follows them.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Not from my point of view.”
He sighs heavily. He smears the salve carefully on your wound before he begins to re-stritch it shut. The sting of the needle is grounding, your breath catching as you feel the gut thread pull through.
“You’ll see what I mean,” he answers eventually. “We don’t have a choice. It is… I don’t know how to explain. When we get to Bloodhaven, you’ll understand. We hate her as much as you do.”
“I don’t think you do.”
He ties off the gauze and drops his hand, eyes dark. “Trust me.”
A fire crackles when you return to where Seungcheol, Chan, and Soonyoung are making camp. There are bedrolls on the ground and the horses are tied securely to a tall evergreen a few yards away, the sounds of them working on oats audible over the snap of the logs in the fire.
There are no tents and no cots here. You eye them, noting that Soonyoung has put a bed roll between him and Seungcheol, a stake hammered into the ground. There’s rope looped through it with medium slack, close enough to the bedroll that you curl your lip.
“You expect me to sleep tied?”
Seungcheol doesn’t look at you as he pulls dried meat from his saddle bag. “Perhaps if I trusted you not to run or slit our throats I wouldn’t have to.”
“I would slit your throats then run.”
“Hence the rope. You’ll sleep with your hands tied until you get it through your head that there’s no running here.”
A burst of rage goes through you. “Why’d you try to let me go, then?” That makes him look up at you, gold eyes blank. “Back near the tunnel. Why offer to let me go only to become my jailer? Is it a game to you?”
His mouth hardens. “You were given two windows of opportunity. Your pig-headedness squandered them, and now if you vanish, my pack suffers.” He rips into the hard meat, chewing. “Don’t blame me for your piss-poor decision making.”
Soonyoung sighs. He sits on his bed rolls, forearms propped on his knees. The firelight turns his silver hair tangerine, a living and breathing flicker of flame. “What he means is that we’d love to let you go but we can’t now. No offense, but letting you go and risking one of us being put to the butcher’s block for it isn’t an option.”
As much as you want to argue for the sake of arguing, you see the logic. Seungcheol has taken responsibility for you, telling Velkar that whatever misdeeds you performed would come back on them tenfold. It makes you want to cause more trouble for them, to punish them, to make them suffer as you have.
And it still wouldn’t bring Valen back.
The thought makes your throat tight. So you throw yourself down on the bed roll, staring into the flame, its heat chasing away the biting cold that descends as the night deepens.
Seokmin gives you bread and dried meat. You take it without comment, glaring but only half-heartedly. You’re tired and aching, the pain in your side enough to make you mute as the others chat around you. They pretend you’re not there for the most part, the flow of their conversations revolving around people you don’t know in places you’ve never seen.
They stick away from the topic of their recent conquest. They don’t recount the fight, they don’t talk about what comes next. They don’t touch what is happening in Valen, whether the Divine has ordered them to burn it down or make use of the city, somehow.
You don’t ask.
When they’ve eaten, Soonyoung has Chan pick up his sword. You watch curiously as they stray a few yards away, squaring off to spar. You perk up in interest, eyes intent on learning the way they fight.
They circle one another in the silver wash of the moonlight and fire glow. The forest is hushed as you watch, your focus tunneling all other senses as you chew through the final piece of your stale bread.
Soonyoung is quicksilver when he strikes at Chan, all fluidity and sharp turns. He moves with a dancer’s grace, feet whispering over the moss and pine needles. Chan is broader and heavier in the shoulders, but deceptively quick. The main source of his fighting is power, though - each snap of his sword heavy, fully committed to his swings.
They don’t speak. Soonyoung laughs a few times, a wild grin on his face as they drive one another back and forth. Soonyoung is the better swordsman of the two. You see it in the way he leads Chan, feinting and drawing him in before striking as though to show the younger alpha his mistakes.
“Come on,” Soonyoung pants after tapping Chan against the ribs. “Again.”
Chan rolls his neck, blows out a breath. He comes at Soonyoung harder this time, each blow forceful. Soonyoung meets them easily. He pivots and slides inside Chan’s guard, flicking the tip of his blade neatly to defect Chan’s next swing.
You find yourself leaning forward, breath caught in your chest as you watch. Despite the throbbing pain in your side, there’s a part of you that thrills at watching them. They’re both extremely talented swordsmen, the kind that your people would have valued and put on a pedestal.
Even with all their fine fighting, you spot mistakes. It’s a small thing, but Chan shifts his weight too far back when he parries high, making him vulnerable.
“Your left heel,” you blurt. Both men freeze, heads snapping to you. Even Seungcheol cocks his head in your direction from where he lays on his back, hands on his stomach. “You drop your heel when you guard high and it stalls your swing.”
For a few moments, it’s silent. You start to feel heat flush up the side of your neck, unsure why you’d spoken at all. You’d been so caught up in their fighting that you forgot you were caught among wolves transporting you back to their leader as a prisoner.
“Ha!” Soonyoung’s sharp laughter is so loud you flinch. Birds startle in the trees nearby, their wings fluttering. “She’s right. You’ve got a good eye. Come here - show me how you’d counter him.”
You’re startled. Immediately you want to accept, eager to have a sword in your hand. If Soonyoung is stupid enough to give you a weapon again-
“No.”
Seungcheol’s voice cuts through the clearing like an iron bell.
Soonyoung frowns. “Why not? She clearly knows how to handle a blade-”
“Exactly.” He looks at you, eyes burning gold in the firelight. “She knows how because she’s the heir to a kingdom. Need I remind you she killed multiple soldiers last night, not to mention the group she slaughtered when I found her?”
Soonyoung hesitates, glancing back at you. He opens his mouth as though to bargain on your behalf, but Seungcheol addresses you. “Tell me: if he handed you the sword just now, were you planning to kill him?”
You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Chan seems horrified while Soonyoung smirks. “You’d have to beat me first.”
“Try me.”
Seungcheol’s jaw ticks. “You’ll stay where you are. Hands tied when you sleep. No sparring, no blades.” His eyes flicker to Soonyoung. “She’s not a pup to play with. Enough.”
Soonyoung sighs, but lifts his hands in surrender. Chan, meanwhile, watches you curiously, sweat glistening at his temple. He offers you the barest ghost of a grin.
You lay back on the roll of your pack, the fire painting you in heat. You can still hear their blades clashing when they resume, but your mind is elsewhere now. You’re tired - more tired than you’ve ever been. You feel your body hover between too afraid to sleep and running out of the energy to keep you awake.
A shadow moves over you. Tension ripples down your spine and you bare your teeth. Seungcheol’s bergamot and cedarwood shadow looms over you, his eyes flat and unreadable in the dark.
“Hands.”
Your chest pulls tight. “I don’t-”
“Hands.”
You glare up at him but it does nothing. You know it’ll do nothing. He’s an immovable force, content to wait all night with you staring at him. But your ribs ache where the wound pulls tight with every breath and your bones feel like they’re close to shattering.
Weariness drags your hands up toward him. He ties them without comment, the rope course, rough fibers digging in as Seungcheol winds it around your wrists. He works efficiently, cinching the knot firm but not so tight that it’ll cause you pain. It’s humiliating how gentle he is, like he’s tying up livestock he’s fond of and not a person he’s holding prisoner.
Seungcheol gives a sharp tug once your hands are tied. He gives a satisfied hum when it doesn’t snap or come loose. He drops your hands and you roll, looking to see how far you can tug your hands. You’re loath to see he’s left you enough slack to sleep comfortably.
A thought forms. You try to measure the distance from you to Seungcheol or you to Soonyoung. It’s not far, but you’re wondering if you have enough slack to roll their direction in the middle of the night and loop the rope around their neck.
He senses where your mind has gone. “You won’t be able to strangle us,” he grunts, flopping down. “Sorry.”
Your teeth grind together. You want to spit at him, to curse him raw. But your exhaustion starts to press on you worse than before, eyes heavy, body begging for respite.
Instead of fantasizing about killing them, you curl onto your side. The rope pulls when you move, but it’s not tight. It’s just a reminder that you’re not free - not tonight. Maybe not ever again. You don’t really know. This pack of mysterious wolves seems to move outside the desires of the Divine, but you don’t think you’ve found friends here.
The flames crackle, warm against your back. The pain in your side gnaws at your edges. Chan gets up to take the first watch, flipping a dagger in his hand as everyone else settles in.
Eventually, your eyes slip shut and you dream of knives.
-
A sullen dawn breaks over the horizon. The sky is a smear of bruised pink and tarnished gold. It’s not cold enough to frost in the mornings yet, but the air is sharp, the promise of a turning season creeping closer and closer.
Rope twists and bites your skin. Your wrists ache where you’re tired to the pommel of Soonyoung’s saddle again. You’d tried to let him keep you untied, but he’d given you a cheeky smile - he’s not letting you bolt into the forest again.
The forest is full of birdsong and the sound of the horses’ hooves against gravel. The rope tugs and shifts as you ride, making the ache worse. Drowsiness pulls at you, making you uneven in the saddle. Though you’d slept through the night on pure exhaustion alone, you still feel sleep clawing at you.
“You should try to sleep.” Soonyoung’s voice is soft, startling you. He leans forward, chin brushing your shoulder. “You’re exhausted. I would be too.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
Soonyoung hums. Silence stretches between you for a while. Seungcheol rides ahead, silent as the grave. Seokmin and Chan chatter, bringing up the rear. Soonyoung is quiet today, his posture relaxed, citrus scent wrapping around you.
Eventually you ask, “Why do you travel separately?”
“Faster. The main host moves at a crawling pace. We’ll be forced to wait for them in Bloodrest, but at least this way we can travel at our own pace.”
“That’s all?”
“No,” he answers, the grin in his voice. “We don’t associate with them as much as we can.”
You growl at that. “You hate them.”
It isn’t a question, but he answers plainly. “Yes. Despise is perhaps a better word - we even pity some. We tolerate them when we must, but for the most part we try to separate ourselves.”
The words sink under your skin like stinging nettle. “If you’re so against her, why march in her army? Why attack my city?”
“Forced hand. You’ll understand when we arrive at the Bloodkeep. There are many battles we cannot win with her, so we find loopholes where we can. Like riding alone.”
“What happens to me when we get there?”
The question lands between you and Soonyoung like a thrown blade. He goes still behind you, hands tightening on the reigns. “Depends.”
“On?”
“A lot of things. Mostly what whim she’s feeling. In general, omegas specifically are brought back from cities we’ve conquered because she desires to give them a home. Her preference is that they join her priestesses.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Depends. Some are good soldiers and serve in her armies - command, even. Some end up bound to commanders or high ranking soldiers and members of the nobility who agree to fly the red banner. Others…. It depends, I guess.”
“And if I don’t want to be any of those things?”
“I don’t recommend it.”
A muscle jumps in your jaw. The rope digs into your skin as you flex against it, testing its give. There’s none. Soonyoung must feel it, the tension humming in your bones. He shifts closer, his chin brushing your temple.
“Seungcheol will most likely lobby on your behalf. Try not to blow it.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because despite your experience with us so far, we don’t desire to hurt you.” He thinks about it for a second. “And if he can protect the last heir of Valen, he will feel honorbound to do so.”
-
The next three days pass in a slow, aching pattern. Every sunrise bleeds copper and rose. The land steadily fades from flat forest to climbing pine, the trunks growing thinner and the air sharper as the altitude changes. Pines give away to spruce and cedar, the underbrush thinning out until the ground is carpeted in pale moss and rocks slick with the sweat of mountain streams.
Each day is a cycle that wears grooves in your bones. Each morning, Soonyoung ties your wrists to his saddle with a wry apology and a gentle tug. He always checks twice that you’re not pinched or caught before he swings up in the saddle behind you, washing you with orange rind scent.
For hours, you ride in silence with the sun cresting over jagged ridges in the distance. By noon, they stop to water the horses and force bread or dried meat into your hands. Seokmin always asks to check your side and sometimes you let him. Most times you don’t.
Chan tosses stones into creeks, watching the ripples rather than looking at you directly. When he thinks you’re not looking, you catch him studying you, brows pinched, mouth downturned.
When the light starts to die, Seungcheol always calls for you all to halt and make camp. It’s always near fresh water - for which you’re grateful - and always sheltered. You have no tents or true barricades, so Seungcheol finds a copse of trees or rocky alcoves.
Each night you sit by the fire, wrists free only long enough to eat. You’re bound each night before sleep, Seungcheol completing the task with pointed silence and cold efficiency.
You watch Soonyoung and Chan spar beneath the moon. Their swords flash in the pale glow, cutting silver arcs through the shadows. Sometimes Seungcheol joins them and when he does, the fight changes entirely.
He is a force to be reckoned with, fighting with a brutal precision that rivals anyone you’ve ever known in Valen. You watch every movement, cataloguing weaknesses and strengths alike. They never let you hold a blade, but they let you watch, sometimes offering you commentary when they make a mistake, as though they’re teaching you.
In the quiet moments, you start to notice things you wish you didn’t. They don’t treat you like a quarry to be broken. They never mock your defiance nor jeer at your small, sullen rebellions. Soonyoung encourages them, grinning when you fight back, a spark in his eyes matching the heat in your chest when you’re riled to anger.
Seokmin’s touch when he tends your wounds is steady, full of care. He wants you to heal, he wants to ensure that you’re not in pain, sparing you where and when he can. Even Chan is pleasant, though he watches you like he can’t decide if you’re a threat or not.
The rope around your wrists is the only thing that truly makes you a prisoner, it feels like. No cage, no blows, no threats. Just coarse fibers and salves that Seokmin rubs on you each night to keep the blisters away.
By the end of the third day, mountains loom large ahead, fangs of granite and iron veined with snow even at the near breath of autumn. The road grows steeper and the wind colder as you climb. Soonyoung’s mare picks her way along narrow switchbacks without complaint.
In the moments when the wind grows quiet, you think you can hear the pulse of the Bloodkeep in the distance, a strange power calling to you. You try to ignore it, avoiding the dread swallowing you whole the closer you get to your doom.
Because it is your doom. This group of men will deliver you to it, regardless of whether or not they’ll rejoice in it. Somehow, knowing they don’t want to give you over to the Divine makes it worse.
When night settles, the mountains turn cold. The fire is a small comfort, a pool of warmth that bleeds into you as you rub your hands together and hold them out, palms toward the flames. The stars overhead are pinpricks in a black sea, the crescent moon sharp as a sickle's edge.
After dinner, it’s the same routine as always. You hold your wrists up to Seungcheol, letting him lash you to the rope wordlessly. Tonight, Seokmin picks up a blade to clash with Soonyoung, the ring of metal a dull throb as you roll over on your side, tired from travel.
Sleep comes slow. You hover in the soft gray place just beyond wakefulness, the crackle of the fire popping behind you and the low murmur of voices fading the closer to edge toward sleep. You close your eyes, feeling yourself drift.
Something prickles at the back of your awareness. Your eyes snap open, sensing the silence of the mountain, a buzz coming over your body, your omega instinct sensing a predator.
“Seungcheol-”
His head whips toward you, eyes gleaming gold. It’s the first time you’ve ever said his name and he’s immediately alert but it’s a split second too late.
A snarl splits the hush. Two shapes peel from the dark stone. Their coats are gray and spotted, teeth gnashing and hungry - mountain lions looking for a meal. One barrels for Chan, a pale ghost that blurs the air. The other lunges straight for Seungcheol, all claws and yellow teeth.
Seungcheol is already moving, rolling away from you as his human shape shreds like parchment. A massive wolf stands in his place, hulking and shadow-black. His fur bristles in the firelight, hackles up and lips peeled back to show fangs.
You roll away from the two animals as they clash in a storm of claws and teeth. You can’t see Chan or the others as you avoid being rolled over by Seungcheol and the lion as they roll, but you hear the sickening sound of bones cracking and a cacophony of growls and screeches.
The mountain lion’s claws rake Seungcheol’s flank, scoring deep. He clamps his jaws around its shoulder, tearing fur and meat with a sound that turns your stomach. The feline screams, an awful banshee wail that drills into your skull. It thrashes and breaks free, hurtling straight for you.
Seungcheol lunges, driving the predator sideways, but it kicks, flipping him. Something gleams silver in the dirt and you realize it’s Seuncgheol’s knife that’s been knocked loose in the struggle.
You don’t even think, you just lunge. The rope burns your wrist and there’s a painful jerk in your shoulders as you run out of slack. Your palm closes around the hilt of the knife, cold and heavy. The beast rolls with Seungcheol, nearly crushing you as you tumble out of the way. It has Seungcheol pinned, rearing its head back to sink its teeth into his neck.
You drive the knife in hard, burying the hilt behind its shoulder. It sinks deep and you shudder as you feel it plunge through gristle and bone. The predator screams, bucking as its muscles spasm beneath your hand.
It gives Seungcheol the opening to surge up, jaws clamping around its throat. With one, savage wrench, he cracks the cat’s neck and it goes limp.
You’re still clutching the knife, heart thundering. Your wrists burn where you strained against the rope, mouth full of dirt from rolling away and then back toward Seungcheol and the predator. Your palms are slick with blood, shaking as Seungcheol stands, looming over the dead creature.
Lifting your head, you see that the others have disposed of their attacker. Soonyoung is in full wolf form, silver coat painted red in the firelight. Seokmin and Chan are panting hard, swords stained with blood as they turn to look at you, drinking in the chaos.
Seungcheol lifts his massive head toward you, muzzle stained. For a moment, his gold eyes meet yours, bright and unreadable. Your chest pulls tight, omega recognizing a powerful alpha instinctually. You feel something primal and deep in your bones, but you don’t know if it’s fear or excitement.
Limping toward the horses, Seungcheol shifts back with the same terrible, liquid crack as before. The fur melts into skin, his shoulders shifting back to the same, human shape you’re familiar with. He’s naked, a fresh gash ripping across his ribs as he stumbles toward the bags and saddles near a tree.
You avert your eyes. It feels wrong to watch him injured and vulnerable, so you stare at the stars instead, pulse hammering, breath coming in puffs. Footsteps crunch next to you and you whip your head to the side, seeing Seungcheol stalking toward you. He’s in pants now, his side still freely bleeding, his neck and chest slick with blood you think belongs to the dead creature.
He stops a pace away, bare feet crushing moss and pine needles. The glow of the fire flickers in his eyes, turning them molten gold. His eyes flick to your hand and you realize you’re still clutching his knife, knuckles tight.
Your fingers tighten around it for a second - not because you want to kill him, but because you feel safer with it, preferring the weight of cold steel in your palm then nothing. You flip the knife, holding it by the blade as you offer him the hilt. You strain against the ropes to give it to him, not looking at him.
“Take it back,” you rasp, staring at the sky.
Seungcheol steps forward, plucking it from your hands. His fingers brush against yours when he does. For a breath, neither of you moves. He holds the hilt, tips of his fingers barely touching yours where you hold the knife. Then he pulls the knife from your hands and flicks it.
You flinch on instinct, eyes shutting. But the sting of the knife doesn’t come. The tension in the rope vanishes and you snap your eyes open, looking at your bound hands. They’re no longer secure to the stake, rope going slack around your wrists.
“Thank you,” is all Seungcheol says before he turns, limping toward Seokmin who is barking at him to sit down and let him treat his ribs.
You sit there a moment longer, staring at the rope coiled slack around your wrists. The frayed ends are damp with blood and mountain dust. Your fingers flex, slow and numb. The skin is raw and sore, but you’re free.
Beyond the glow, the shape of wolves and men shift like restless shadows. Chan crouches by the dead lion, turning its head with the tip of his blade as if to make sure it won’t rise again. Soonyoung paces the clearing, still in wolf form, silver fur bristling. Seokmin is on his knees, examining Seungcheol’s wounds.
Seungcheol is all rippling muscle smeared with blood. Something thrums through you as you stare at him. He senses your gaze, liquid gold eyes finding yours. He says nothing, something unreadable simmering behind the stillness of his gaze.
The soft pad of paws draws your gaze away. Soonyoung has slipped toward you, his pale fur silvered by moonlight, muzzle stained where blood has dried in his fur. He stops only a breath away, circling once before he settles onto the ground near you.
He’s not touching you, but the heat from his body floods you. He doesn’t look at you, yellow eyes fixed on the dark line of the trees, ears twitching at every snap of wind.
Seokmin looks at you as he finishes binding Seungcheol’s ribs. “Are you injured?” You shake your head. He rises and looks at Soonyoung, mouth curving upward. “He’ll stay there all night. He prefers his wild shape when he’s rattled.”
You shift, careful not to touch him. Soonyoung’s ear flicks once at your movement, but he otherwise doesn’t stir.
“I see.”
“Do you ever fully shift?” Seokmin’s question draws your gaze back to him. “I know it’s not as practiced anymore.”
“I can. I don’t think I have since I was fifteen. Never really needed to.”
“Modern wolves,” Seokmin teases. “You’d be amazed at how many people haven’t even tried their secondary form.”
You don’t answer. You’re tired and finally free of your bindings, exhaustion pulling at your strings. You lay down on your back, aware just how close the bulk of Soonyoung is beside you. He shifts closer when you lay down, a rumble deep in his chest - not angry or annoyed, just content.
Slowly, you drift back to sleep, the heat of Soonyoung close to you, the murmur of Chan’s voice the last thing you hear.
-
Dawn breaks slow and colorless. There’s no sunrise, just soft gray light bleeding through the pines, pale as bone. The trees are taller now, older, moss draped like shawls from their branches. A thin fog clings to the forest floor, curling around the hooves of the horses as you ride. Pine needles soften the sound of travel, and everything feels muffled, like the world is holding its breath.
It’s cold next to you. You crane your neck to see that Soonyoung isn’t there anymore, the ground cold where he’d slept the night before. Slowly, you sit up, joints aching and sore. For once, your arms aren’t numb, able to sleep free without being bound in your sleep.
Soonyoung lifts his head where he packs his things. He’s back in his human form, giving you a quick smile and a wink as he shoves the bag closed before carrying it to his mare.
After a quick bite to eat and stretches, you trudge over to his horse. You hold your hands out automatically to be tied, but Soonyoung cocks his head to the side, puzzled. “Not today.”
“You don’t think I’ll run?”
He gestures for you to swing yourself up in the saddle. You do, the leather creaking under your weight and then his as he hauls himself up behind you. He smells like musk and orange rinds. “I guess we’ll find out, huh?”
Without another word, Soonyoung reins his horse to a tight turn, joining the others where they’re mounted and waiting. His arm is looped loosely around your waist to keep you steady as the horses pick through the rocky outcrop. He’s not touching you, exactly, but it’s close enough to make you prickle with awareness.
Somewhere to the east, a raven cries once. The sound echoes and fades, ominous.
“We’ll make it to Bloodrest by this afternoon,” Soonyoung tells you, his voice low behind you. You don’t answer, but he continues anyway. “We’ll stay there for three days and wait for the rest of the host. You won’t be able to move as freely there and we have to be careful. When the host arrives and we enter the city proper, you won’t be able to ride with me.”
“Will I be in chains?”
“Yes. You’re expected to walk tethered behind us - Seungcheol, since he’s one of the commanders.”
“Symbolic.”
“Yes. There will be a procession. The citizens will come out to see the warriors returning, to see who’s been conquered. You’ll be paraded through the city. That is what is expected.”
Bile rises in your throat. “I see.”
“Luckily there’s no royal to parade.” The way he says it makes you turn your head over your shoulder, your eyes alighting on him. Soonyoung is looking at you knowingly, yellow eyes bright. “If we were bringing home a royal prisoner, it would be much worse.”
“Good thing you’re not.”
He hums in agreement as you turn around to stare forward with unseeing eyes. “You’ll be taken to the Sanctum afterward for the Divine to assign you, like we talked about. If you can be on your best behavior, Seungcheol will try to vouch for you and get you good placement. Maybe with us.”
“Why bother?”
He shrugs. “Feels like the right thing to do, I think.”
“And if I rebel?
He winces. “You could also be gifted as a consort or…”
“Or?” You prompt.
“Or she could choose to make you an offering to Selyne.”
“A sacrifice? What kind of fucking religion is this?” Soonyoung says nothing. “Fuck the Gods, you’re all heretical lunatics.”
“Not us,” he corrects. “The Divine and her followers? Definitely.”
You’ve only heard fragments about what exactly the Order of Selyne is. You know that they worship the Goddess of the Bloodmoon, Selyne, but their religious practices and rules are vague. Selyne isn’t worshiped in Valen - you believe in the Old Gods, the masters of hunt, of the moon, of the hearth, of the spirit.
Followers of Selyne had cropped up what felt like overnight. It started with smaller packs across the continent, lone alphas, struggling territories that were too weak to protect their borders. The Divine - the Red High Priestess of the Order - swept in like a savior, promising peace and prosperity if they bent the knee to Selyne.
It seemed silly at first, a bunch of wolves worshipping a goddess dipped in the blood of the moon. But then the Divine started collecting. Packs fell under her sway. Leaders bowed. Kingdoms you’d known your entire life to be dedicated to the Old Gods bent the knee.
And it seemed like it wasn’t just power, but devotion. Somewhere, while no one took the Divine seriously, she managed to plant her rot at the heart of powerful kingdoms. And those who didn’t let her and her red priestess in, fell.
Like you.
Soonyoung senses your apprehension. “You need to do everything she asks,” he murmurs. “You do not speak unless spoken to. You bow when you’re told. You kneel when it’s expected. You don’t run. Don’t resist. I know those aren’t your finer points.”
“Does she have finer points?” Chan asks under his breath.
“Chan has a point. You don’t have finer points. So you need to obey. Don’t let her know how wild you are. If she thinks you need to be broken…”
“She’ll hand me to someone to break me.”
“Yes.”
The trees thin as the trail flattens out, light cutting through the fog in patches. You catch glimpses of stone ruins scattered through woods. Pillars carved with moons and wolves and the names of the old gods stand like skeletons. Some of them are broken, half-buried by moss and time. Others stand tall, like sentinels watching your slow march toward the mountain.
Then, between the trees, you see it.
Bloodhaven.
Or rather, the mountain that holds it.
Black stone rises in jagged peaks, splitting the sky like a cracked tooth. You can’t see any parts of the city, still too far away to make it out, but the mountain is bleak, even from a distance.
“We’ll rest for three days. When the host comes, it’ll be different. Let us handle it. Listen if you can manage.”
Your mouth tastes like ash.
By the time the sun begins to dip behind the jagged peaks of the ever-growing mountain, the road has turned to rocky, but flat terrain. The trees thin, the air sharpens, and the clouds hang heavy above, swollen with unspent rain. Somewhere behind you, the creak of saddle leather and the soft, rhythmic breath of the horses is the only sound.
No birds sing this close to Bloodhaven.
A waystation town is nestled in a bowl at the foot of the mountain. It’s little more than a fortified cluster of buildings made up of stone inns with shuttered windows, stables, a forge, and a central square with an old, moss-slicked well. No town banners hang - only the red banner of the goddess Selyne lives here.
“Welcome to Bloodrest,” Soonyoung murmurs. “Last stop before the city. They’ll be expecting us.”
He’s right. The moment you pass through the weather-worn arch into the square, the eyes begin to gather behind curtains, from doorways, from the shadows of the alleys. The town is full of wolves, all soldiers and traders, red-robed acolytes with veils pulled over their faces. You feel their eyes on you - not surprised but watching.
Seungcheol reins in at the front of the group and swings down from his mare. His face is hard as stone. He says a few clipped words to a man in black, who disappears into a building. Seungcheol gestures for everyone else to dismount.
Soonyoung follows suit and helps you off the horse. Your knees knock, but you manage not to buckle this time. Seokmin appears at your side, not watching you but clearly on edge. Chan dismounts and stands on the other side of Soonyoung. His gaze flickers briefly to Seungcheol’s side where you can all smell the tang of blood.
“Fix that,” Chan tells Seokmin. “These weirdos love blood.”
Seokmin grunts and says nothing, gesturing for you all to follow Seungcheol who makes his way toward the inn. The inn looks more like barracks than anything else. Inside, the air is thick with hearth smoke and old pine, the warmth pressing too close after days in open wind.
The main hall is stripped bare, no tavern benches, no common chatter. Just soldiers unstrapping gear, their boots thudding on stone floors. Red-robed figures drift through like ghosts, never lingering but always watching.
Soonyoung keeps you close, a hand resting near the small of your back. He’s not touching you but you feel the heat of his calm, sending it creeping up your spine. It’s both protective and a warning, ready to grab you at a moment's notice to pull you to safety or back to his arms if you bolt.
The innkeeper is a broad-shouldered man with a scar down his jaw, handing iron keys toward Soonyoung. He takes yours without asking, pressing it into your palm with fingers that linger just a heartbeat too long.
He nods toward the stairs, pressing his hand to your back to nudge you toward them. “Upstairs. Last door on the left.”
You nod and move, Soonyoung following you like a threatening shallow. It’s tense here, the energy crackling just beneath the surface.
Upstairs, the hall floor is covered by a worn runner. It’s narrow, lit by oil lamps that flicker. Each door is made up of the same scarred wood and iron latch, heavy and uninviting.
Soonyoung stops you at the last door on the left. You fit the key in and twist it, hearing the loud click as it unlocks. The door swings open to reveal a small room made up of stone walls. There’s a single narrow window, shuttered tight, and a bed of rough straw and wool blankets.
“Stay in here,” Soonyoung murmurs. He doesn’t step inside, instead blocking the doorway with his bulk. “Lock the door behind me. Do not open the door for anyone except me or the others. If someone else tries, you shout, got it? Scream. We’re across the hall.”
Your eyes flicker to the door opposite yours. “Am I not safe here?”
“No,” he says honestly. “You won’t be safe for a long time, and that depends on if Seungcheol can curry favor on your behalf.”
Soonyoung sees the tightness in your expression and sighs. Lifting the hem of his shirt, he reaches into his weapons belt and pulls out a short knife. It’s broad-bladed, worn at the hilt. You recognize it immediately as the knife he ‘accidentally’ gave you that night you were captured.
“Don’t tell Seungcheol.” You take it from him, wrapping your hands around it, firm. “You’re not supposed to have this and I’m not supposed to give it to you. If you rat me out, I’ll tell him it was Chan.”
Your mouth twitches, despite everything. “You trust me with this?”
“Absolutely not. But I’d rather risk you stabbing me if it means you can defend yourself. Don’t waste it on running. You won’t get far and you will vanish here like you never existed.”
You swallow, throat dry as bone. You nod once.
Soonyoung watches you and for a heartbeat, it’s like he’s in his wolf form again, silver and fanged, something old and loyal burning bright in his eyes. Then he steps back into the hall and gestures to the door. “Lock it.”
When the door swings shut behind him, you lock it, the bolt clicking heavily. On the other side, you hear Soonyoung shift his weight, waiting for the sound of the click. Then his footsteps retreat and you hear the sound of a door opening and closing.
Breathing out shakily, you look down at the knife in your hand, a lifeline. For a long moment, you just stand there, the knife heavy in your hand. Grey washes thin through the window, shrouding you in pale light.
Moving away from the door, you slide the knife under the thin straw mattress and wedge it deep enough that it won’t slip free while you sleep. You sit on the edge of the bed and think about Soonyoung’s warning of not trying to use the knife to escape.
You wonder how far a single blade could take you. Probably not very. Soonyoung’s warning about you vanishing here seems real - real enough that he’s given you a knife knowing that if he comes to wake you in the morning, you could plunge it into his neck.
A week has made all the difference in the world for your desire to kill them, though. Your anger at them has faded into frustrated acceptance, knowing that they don’t want to hurt you but that they’re not going to let you go anyway.
You don’t bother to undress. Instead, you slip your boots loose and push them aside with your heel. The mattress is thin but forgiving, the wool blanket scratchy against your neck. It smells of old hay and smoke, making your nose curl.
Somewhere beyond the shutters on the window, the wind whispers against the eaves. Bloodrest settles around you like a heavy cloak, thick with something menacing. You listen for footfalls outside of your door, hyper-aware of Soonyoung’s warnings. There’s no sound, though. Just the eerie hush of a town that’s too quiet.
Your eyes slip closed, lashes grazing the rough fabric of your sleeve where you curl into a ball. You try not to think about the Bloodkeep but you feel the doom of it anyway, a pulse through your chest that blooms with silent dread.
Sleep wraps around you like a fog, heavy and slow.
-
A pale moon bathes the trees in silver. Shapes move between the trunks of the pines, shadows with gold eyes - wolves. There are several of them, blending in and out of the darkness. Their fur brushes against the tips of your fingers as they pass to and fro, nuzzling you.
Your feet are bare in the moss. There is no rope around your wrist, nothing holding you back. You run your palm along the ridge of a tree and it hums with a resonance that feels familiar beneath your touch.
Somewhere in the hush of the trees, a voice calls your name. It’s something soft and old, something that feels like it resonates in your bloodline. If only you could remember the source, the heart of this resonance.
You reach for it, but it flees and then the wolves are gone. The trees close in, pressing against you and -
A knock startles you awake. For a breath, you forget where you are. The scratch of straw beneath you and the stale in the room alone reminds you that you’re at the inn in Bloodrest. Another knock draws your eyes to the door.
You peel yourself upright, joint stiff and mind half-lost in the dream and trees still. Carefully you creep toward the door, feeling your pulse rattle through your neck, senses heightened.
Then you hear Chan call, “It’s me. I can hear you.”
“Oh.”
“I brought you dinner.”
Licking your lips, you fumble the latch open. The door groans inward a little, revealing Chan through the tiny crack you’ve made. You relax when you realize it really is him. He’s got a tray in one hand, his other balancing his own plate awkwardly.
You should take the tray and close the door, but instead you find yourself asking, “Do you want to come in?”
Chan’s brows twitch upward as surprise flickers through him. His gaze darts down the hallway and then back to you. “Are you sure?”
“I’m tired of the silence.”
“Alright.”
Stepping back, you let the door swing wider. He slips inside, quiet as a ghost, shoulders brushing yours in the narrow gap. You catch his scent, soft for an alpha - black tea and clove. He sinks to the floor, pressing his back to the wall near the foot of your bed, his plate balanced on his knee, your tray placed on your bed.
You sit back down on the bed, shoulders tight as you pull the tray toward you. The stew looks thin, but seems warm. The bread is hard, but it’s better than nothing as you tear into it.
Neither of you speaks at first but you watch him from the corner of your eye. The line of his jaw flexes as he bites into his own bread, chewing thoughtfully as his sharp eyes cut your direction. They flick up and down, assessing.
Finally, you clear your throat. “How old are you?”
He pauses a heartbeat. “Twenty five. You?”
“Twenty six.”
He nods like that’s something worth agreeing with. A moment passes, only the scrape of tin spoons against bowls audible. Then you ask, softer, “How long have you been with them?”
“The Divine or Seungcheol?”
“Both, I guess.”
You hadn’t realized it was a different answer. He chews slowly, considering your question. “The Divine since I was eighteen. Razed my home to the ground.” He glances at you. “I’m from Alaehar. Heir to the throne.”
Your shock is genuine. “Oh.”
“Yeah. So.” He nudges the spoon in his bowl. “I get it.”
“How long with Seungcheol, then?”
“Since I was twenty. Negotiated to bring me under his thumb to tame me.”
You pick at the crust of your bread, tearing it to pieces rather than eating it. “Did he?”
Chan smiles. “No. Never tried.”
“Do you… believe in her? The Divine?”
“Fuck no.” His eyes flash and his hands go rigid where he grips the edge of his plate. “I hate her. I hate everything about this place. But it doesn’t matter. She has the control and the power to make us break.”
A soft silence spreads. Somewhere in the inn, you hear a voice echo down a hallway. It’s just one of the garrisoned men laughing at a crude joke. It makes the walls feel thinner.
You look at Chan again, the rigid set of his shoulders. “Are you afraid of her?”
He shifts and sets his empty plate on the ground next to his feet. His fingers drum against his knees as he thinks about the question. “Yes and no. I’m not afraid of her killing me, but I’m afraid of what she can make me do.” His hazel eyes find yours. “You’ll see what we mean, but none of us do this willingly.”
You thought as much, which makes hating them for taking you impossibly complicated and difficult. Chan can sense the direction of your thoughts, nodding. “I hated Seungcheol for a long time. Lashed out. He… dealt with me.” Chan sighs and gets to his feet. “Try to rest. You’ve got two more days in this shithole before we go to the Bloodkeep. I don’t know how much sleep you’ll get there.”
Wordlessly, you hand him your tray. The tension isn’t gone between you but it’s different, an understanding passing between the two of you that feels like a taut thread. You don’t know what would happen if you tug, but for the rarest moment, you think about it.
And then Chan is gone, closing the door behind him.
-
The next two days are stitched from the same thread, quiet and frayed at the edges by your restless mind. You’re not permitted to leave the small stone room except once to wash under a narrow spout in a dim wash house at the back of the inn. Soonyoung waits outside the door like a guard dog, eyes bright and scent sharp. He says nothing when you come out, leading you straight back to your room.
Meals come and go. Chan brings them more often than not, sometimes alone, something with Seokmin in tow. One of the nights they both settle on the floor of your room, cross-legged by your bed. The talk is stilted, shallow mentions of the condition of the roads, the gossip in town - which isn’t much. They’re small words, but it fills the cracks enough to keep the loneliness from pressing too close.
They never stay too long. When they leave, you relock the door. Lay in your bed and think of your parents. Of the way they smiled. Your mother’s lavender scent. The libraries that have turned to ash. Your hand curls around the blade Soonyoung had given you, holding it like a talisman before you drift into fitful dreams filled with the fires of Valen burning and the screams of terror.
On the morning of the third day, the hush fades. You wake to the low thunder of hooves in the distance, distant but drawing closer. You press your palm to the stone wall beside your narrow window and feel the tremor of the army descending.
Smoke from hundreds of campfires bleeds in through the cracks in the stone. The inn becomes considerably louder, the sound of boisterous voices, screaming chairs echoing to your room. Somewhere, a horn bellows.
Carefully, you crack open a shutter on your window to peer through the opaque pane of glass. From your room, you can peer into the square below. Wolves and men in red gather in clusters, dressed in red. Banners ripple crimson against the gray dawn, the sigil of Selyn stitched in black thread at its center.
When the knock finally comes, it feels like the sound of the gallow floors opening beneath your feet.
Dread fills you as you flip the latch and crack the door open. It’s Seungcheol. He looks different in the morning light, harder, his shoulders rigid. He’s dressed in his leather armor, once again the commander that had told you to run as your world collapsed around you.
“It’s time.” His voice is tense and he holds out his arm, revealing a robe that looks like spilled blood. “You’ll wear this. You will walk behind my horse, chained and tethered. We will go through the streets in a procession. No one will hurt you, but you will hate it.”
His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the narrow window where the sun burns weak through the fog. His eyes are cold as the snow capping the distant peaks.
You take the robe from him. It weighs more than cloth should. Maybe it’s just the shape of dread settling deeper into your bones.
“Do what you're told, and let us handle the rest.”
Behind Seungcheol’s shoulder, the roar of the host swells: the growl of wolves, the crack of hooves, the chorus of steel drawn like teeth.
Me when I catch myself thinking "I wonder what it's like to be chosen by somebody" but then I remember my best friend chooses to be my best friend and my mutuals choose to follow me and the minimum wage employee chooses to give me sincere kindness that I remember years later because I was going through a hard time and it meant a lot
When you say "fanfiction should be censored" you are normalizing the idea of censorship, amplifying conservative views of sex, and endangering queer media.
PAIRING: Werewolf! f. Reader x Werewolf!Seungcheol x Werewolf!Jeonghan x Werewolf!Soonyoung x Werewolf!Seokmin x Werewolf!Vernon x Werewolf!Chan
SUMMARY: When the Divine’s cult conquers your home, they don't expect you to survive, let alone fight back. Captured but not broken, you and the unlikeliest of allies are ready to burn it all down.
WARNINGS: Fantasy violence, graphic depiction of combat and bloodshed, death and loss of named side characters and assumed loss of family/friends, war and destruction, emotional depictions of grief, loss and despair, depictions of captivity/reader being held against her will, physical violence (none from the members) between reader and characters (enemies), forced compliance, threats of punishment, brief second where the reader experiences fear that an alpha is going to sexually harass/assault her (just a brief assumption she has), omegaverse dynamics including biological reactions to scents/commands and experiencing various biological reactions.
MEMBERS IN THIS CHAPTER: Seungcheol, Soonyoung, Seokmin and Chan
A/N: Happy first chapter day! I hope you love this story as much as I do. It's been a super long time since I took on a project this large, and I'm really hoping it lives up to the expectations people usually have when I write fantasy. For those unfamiliar with me - fantasy is my ThInG so to speak and this is really the first time I'm getting to lean into it on this blog. Enjoy :)
A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading this and always being willing to edit my messy, very disorganized docs.
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SMOKE CHOKES THE AMETHYST HORIZON, DRIFTING UP FROM THE TOPS OF THE PINES IN THE DISTANCE. The trees that once stood sentinel around your kingdom glow orange in the light, lit by the cookfires of your enemies. Soon, that smoke will seep into every crevice of Valen. It will fill the corridors, wrap itself around the stone foundations laid by your ancestors, turn everything to ash, every handwritten page to dust.
Every piece of this place that remembers your people will be unmade. Broken. Burned. Destroyed. Turned to nothing but a skeleton for the wretched wolves of Bloodhaven to rebuild in the hateful image of their goddess.
But for now, the only fire that burns is the one behind you.
It crackles softly in the hearth, unaware of what the dawn will bring. Its glow dances across the polished stone floor and flickers up the pillars of the room you’ve always called home. The study is silent but for that fire and the slow, even breath of your mother, who dozes lightly on the chaise nearby.
You turn away from the window, turning your back to the distant smoke to instead sweep your gaze across your father’s study.
Trying to commit it all to memory makes your throat tighten. Tomorrow, none of it will be here. So tonight, you must memorize everything.
You memorize the way your mother’s braid spills across the velvet cushions like a river, her hand curled protectively around the spine of her favorite book. The cover is cracked, the pages soft and yellowed, corners worn from her years of rereading. She holds it even in sleep, a last shared moment with her and the pages she’s lost herself to countless times.
You commit to memory the way your father stands near the hearth, framed by the flame, dressed in his fighting leathers and light armor. His hands are clasped behind his back, his gaze steady and sharp, fixed only on the fire. The flames reflect in his eyes, burning and gold. Wolf’s eyes. A king’s eyes. A father’s.
A soon-to-be-dead man’s.
The heat glints at the fine lines at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t speak. He hasn’t for nearly over an hour now. Words have run their course. There is nothing left to plan, only to wait.
You turn to look at the walls. They’re draped in rich, red tapestries. You grew up tracing them with your fingers as a child, learning the stories embroidered into them. The story of your pack, of your people, of the fierce omega who had led her people away from the bloodshed and bondage after an age of alpha tyrants. Sirya carved Valen out of wilderness and war, built it into a kingdom for those like her, for wolves who remembered the old bloodlines and the power in their own names.
As a child, you dreamed about becoming like her. You still do.
You’ve committed these tapestries to perfect memories. You know the threads, the colors, the dyes. The hands that wove them. You know where they fray, where the gold thread glints the brightest, where something has been mended.
Tomorrow, they will burn.
This room you’ve grown up learning to read in, learning math and strategy and politics in, will be filled with the acrid scent of scorched silk and oil. The history that once lived on these walls will vanish, turned to ash and rubble.
Outside of Valen’s walls, the Order of Selyne’s banners crawl like red veins through the valley, a tide that your father and his advisors thought they could reason with. The Order of Selyne, with their false priestesses and their fanatics had come under the guise of faith and order, but there is no mercy in them.
You learned it too late.
Your father had dismissed the rumors at first. The Order was distant and its power only came from the kings and queens who bent the knee to a new goddess, abandoning the Old Gods. He’d called them a cult that would burn itself out on the fringes of the continent, far enough from Valen’s gates that it didn’t matter.
Tomorrow, he will pay a heavy price for not taking the threat seriously, for sending word to allies who will not answer for fear of being next.
Tonight though, the room is heavy with the scent of lavender oil, clinging to the cushions, your mother’s hair, the hem of your sleeve. You inhale it deeply, as if that smell might anchor you. As if it might survive the night.
It won’t, but you still try. You’ve always been determined. Unbefitting of a princess in most kingdoms, but valued here, where blood is strong and the kingdom is small and tight-knit, founded on the principles that all wolves - alphas, betas, omegas - are created equal.
When the armies of Bloodhaven burn that legacy to the ground in the morning, you will still believe in those principles.
“Come here.”
The sound of your father’s voice makes you jump. It’s low, cutting through the quiet like a blade. You move before you can think, stepping away from the window. Your boots echo faintly as you cross the floor, steps quieted by the carpet.
He turns to face you as you approach. Behind you, your mother sighs and sits up, wiping the sleep from her face. Your father’s face is worn but steady, every line etched by time and battle and worry. You’ve never loved him more than this morning, standing tall despite knowing what the rising sun will bring.
“The smoke is at the southern wall?” He asks. You nod and he hums. “By morning, the gates will be gone.”
“I know.”
Your mother rises from the chaise, her joints popping and cracking as she stretches. She crosses the room to stand behind your father, a looming shadow that’s just as imposing as he is. Regal. A queen.
“The eastern passage will remain clear,” your father continues. “Take it when the fighting takes a turn. You’ll know it when you see it.”
“I can’t.”
“You will,” your mother says, voice quiet but firm. “You’ll fight until then, but no longer. You know how important this is. It is your duty to carry on our name, and your birthright. You cannot risk them capturing you.”
You clench your fists. “I will make them bleed until the end.”
“You will.”
Your father steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder. It’s warm, placating. Gentle and full of love, so much said in a single touch. He smells like pine and lemon, and the thought that it’ll vanish tomorrow nearly makes your knees buckle.
“You fight. You lead. But when the walls fall-”
“I run,” you growl.
“And you don’t look back.”
A silence settles over the room, one final breath before the storm. Your parents stand in front of you, these two wolves who have been a bulwark your entire life. They’ve molded you - shaped you - into being something they could be proud of. Something that could carry on the legacy of your family name, of that omega warrior who built your kingdom with her bare hands and teeth.
Sensing the rising grief in you, your father steps forward and presses his brow to yours. You close your eyes, feeling the tears escape no matter how hard you try. The muscles in your throat constrict and you clench your fists, willing yourself not to sob.
“Our ancestors fled to protect their bloodline once. You’re not a coward for following in their footsteps.” You swallow hard and nod, nails biting into your palms. “When the fires have passed, you will have survived. And you’ll help our people rise again and take back what is ours.”
Tomorrow, your parents have no intention of leaving their halls alive. Tomorrow, they will fight until their final breath, a king and queen who stood shoulder to shoulder with their people until their bloody end.
But tonight, they are alive. Tonight, they love you.
Tomorrow, they will still love you.
-
The sky above is thick with smoke. Violet bleeds into red, an open wound spilling across the blue. Sun rises with the smell of spilled blood and the sound of war in the distance, the screams and smash of metal echoing on the wind to the eastern gate where you stand among the soldiers of Valen.
Heavy silence hangs among you. The wind stirs your cloak around your ankles, bringing the smell of your burning city along with it. You adjust the grip on your sword, fixing your eyes ahead to the people of Valen in a mix of human and wolf forms that line the wall, archers at the ready as their squad leader commands them.
“Archers!” The unified voices ring out across the wall and you feel your heart skip. The enemy has reached the treeline outside the walls. “Hold!”
Beside you, Taran stiffens. He stands tall and broad, the green armor of Valen’s guard gleaming under the sickly dawn. His wolf hums under his skin - you can feel it simmering, ready. He turns, eyes bright and wild, grinning at you. “Are you sure you want to be here?”
You growl. “There’s nowhere else I would rather be.”
A growl ripples through the wolves and soldiers on either side of you, hearing you. You’re among them, standing in the front line, waiting for enemies to come over the wall while they batter at the gate a few hundred yards in the distance.
“Fire!”
The thrum of bows vibrates in the air. You swallow hard. You’ve fought before - killed, even, in small skirmishes with other border kingdoms. But this is battle. It is larger than anything you’ve ever seen, and you’ve already lost. But you’re here to hold the line and kill as many of your would-be-conquerors as possible, to fight until the gate comes down.
Your archers take enemy fire from the other side of the wall. You can do nothing but watch with held breath as they take arrows to the chests and shoulders, twisting as they’re ripped from the walls and fall to their deaths.
Behind you, you hear Captain Erid bark orders to the reserves. He’s old guard - older than your father’s father - his gray hair bound at the nape of his neck, his voice clear and strong enough to rally a thousand. “Wolves of Valen! Hold the line! Die with steel and claw! Make them bleed!”
Rage simmers inside of you, ancient and primal. You feel your wolf simmer under your surface, your teeth clenching, eager to tear the throats of your enemies, nails turning to claws, thirsting to draw blood. There is no desire to submit hardwired into you, especially not now, when the enemy soldiers dressed in red begin to appear over the east wall, fighting your people in earnest.
A growl ripples through your ranks. You realize that it comes from you, echoed by those at your sides. Not a single person here will die in vain today - you’ll make sure of it.
Just ahead, a figure sails cleanly off the wall, boots slamming into the hard-packed earth beneath him. He’s in red leathers, the red symbol of a blood moon over a mountain painted on his armor. This is the enemy, a wolf pledged to the Divine of Bloodhaven, a leader of a violent and powerful church turned regime.
You don’t hesitate. You lunge before the enemy has risen, a blur of green armor, all snarls and teeth. He blinks in surprise, no doubt confused at the lone soldier that charges him. Good. It makes him falter and you capitalize on it, catching him in the side with your sword. You stab, plunging the blade up under his ribs. He folds with a choked noise and you twist, yanking your sword free to pivot as another enemy lands on your side of the wall.
This one is faster, her alpha scent sharp in your noise, cutting through smoke. She slices high but you dodge and cut low, carving a crimson gash across her thigh. She screams and stumbles but you don’t wait for her to fall, slicing upward and catching her across the neck.
Blood sprays and you keep moving, the discipline of your ancestors and the rage of someone who knows this is the last stand turning you into something unrecognizable. You pull your second blade from its sheath, feeling your blood roar in your ears as you take on another assailant.
From the line behind you, soldiers scream your name. They rally behind their heir, emboldened by your desire to defend them, to cut and hack and bite your way through the red lines of your enemies. You don’t need to look to know the citizens of Valen are there, a sea of verdant crushing against the crimson banner of Bloodhaven.
The courtyard explodes into chaos. More enemies follow, wolves in red, their scents unfamiliar and sharp, touched by something foreign and wrong. The mark of the Divine hangs over them like a curse.
The world narrows to metal and movement. You’re a storm of steel and blood. Metal rings through stone. Bodies collide. You press forward, blades slicked with blood, armor slippery. You are the last child of Valen’s sacred bloodline, raised with a blade in your hand and a wolf’s heart.
Around you, the green banner of Valen floods the enemy. Where you cut down someone in red, another is slow to appear, and for a second, you have a single, euphoric thought that maybe your kingdom won’t fall today, that maybe-
A loud crack splits the air. You turn in surprise, watching with abject horror as a sea of carmine spills through the east gate like blood. The wolves of Bloodhaven burst through like a river, sweeping your green soldiers in their vicious wake, both shifted soldiers and soldiers in human form overtaking the yard.
The distraction is costly. A blade slips through your guard. You feel it immediately, cold and hot at the same time. It sinks into your side, not deep enough to kill but enough to stagger you. You drop to a knee, breath hissing between your teeth. The world tilts, the taste of copper rising on your tongue. You press your hand to your side and see it comes away slick with blood.
Thankfully, a soldier in green cuts down your enemy. It’s Liora, tall and broad-shouldered, her face streaked with soot and blood. She drops to a knee, pressing her hand to your wound. You hiss but nod when she asks if you’re okay.
“The wall is down,” she pants. “We must leave.”
Forcing yourself to your feet, you look around through the swirl of smoke and steel. There’s a tight ring of green-clad soldiers and wolves - your army - holding back the red tide just long enough for you to breathe. You recognize every face: Liora at your side, Jian just behind her, Hikari next to you, her cheek split and bleeding, Yordan slight but unyielding, his armor scorched.
“No,” you grit out. “We have to hold the line. That was the plan.”
“And you did, Your Majesty, but the gate is down.”
The words cut deeper than the blade in your side moments ago. Your Majesty. Not Your Highness. Not Princess. Not heir. But a title reserved for the king and queen, which means-
Liora’s eyes in front of you swim at the edges. “You know your duty.”
Swallowing thickly, you nod. “Eastern tunnel. With me.”
Battle rages around you. You don’t stop moving, working as your guard works together to cut down anyone in your way. Moments ago you’d had the silly hope that perhaps there was more green than red, but now you see that it is a world of red: blood, gore, flags planted in the ground, red soldiers, red shields, red swords, wolves painted red-
You break through the line of crimson and full-out sprint. Arrows whistle in the air and your soldiers close rank around you. There’s a harsh thud and Yordan behind you yelps before you hear him lose his footing and stumble. Jian replaces him immediately, covering your flank as you bolt for the gardens.
Air punches in and out of your lungs. You tear through the garden, sliding on loose gravel and tripping over curated rosebuds. You don’t stop to think that you’ll never see your mother and the gardener, Iliana, trimming hedges together again. You don’t stop to think about how during full moon festivals the gardens would be full of life and costume and party. You don’t stop to think how moments ago, Yordan took an arrow for you.
You launch over a fountain, feet crashing into the rocks, spraying them as you continue on your escape. On the other side of the gardens, it’s silent. War echoes behind you, but it grows quieter. You don’t know if it’s because you’re getting further from the battle or because your people are dying, no longer able to put up a fight.
The tunnel entrance is hidden underneath a massive mausoleum that is made of old stone and weeping ivy in monument to Sirya. It stands near the southeast side of the palace, just beyond the final hedge of the gardens.
You skid as you near the break in the hedge, jaw working. You smell them before you see them, Bloodhaven soldiers leaning against the crumbling mausoleum. Their swords are wet with blood, scarlet armor half-burned. Somehow, they’ve circled around from the southern gate. Somehow, they knew.
There’s no time to think. The first lunges. You roar, throat raw, as your sword buries in his shoulder. Another lunges low but Hikari intercepts him, small and furious, knives flashing like lightning. Liora drives her blade into a throat, but a red wolf’s axe catches her from behind, splitting bone and spine.
“Liora!” you scream, but she’s already gone, eyes wide with shock before she hits the dirt.
Jian grabs your shoulder, forces you forward even as Hikari screams behind you, her voice cuts off in a wet choke as a blade finds her ribs. Jian drags you on, teeth bared, blood splashing your boots as you stumble toward the tomb.
Then an arrow finds Jian, a clean shot between her shoulders. She shudders, sagging into you. You try to hold her up, but she pushes you hard toward the stone door. Her eyes, bright, steady, fierce even now, pin you in place for one last heartbeat.
“Go,” she rasps.
She falls.
And it’s just you.
Your shoulder is screaming and you’re breathing too fast, but you’re still standing. An arrow whizzes and you duck while snapping your dagger at it, knocking it off target. You strike forward with your sword, catching the archer through the chin.
Another Bloodhaven wolf swings her axe at you, baring her teeth. You roll out of her way, the axe sinking into the wet earth, getting stuck. She grunts, trying to pull the axe out of the ground but you’re already striking, cutting the back of her hamstrings to make her crumple to her knees before driving your dagger through the back of her head with a dull crunch.
No one is left to challenge you. Heaving, you stumble toward the mausoleum. You just need to open the door and get inside where the empty tomb is. If you push the lid -
A new scent cuts through the haze, sharp and clean and unlike the other scents of the wolves you’ve just killed. You spin toward the sound of heavy footfalls, baring your teeth at the slowed approach of a new soldier.
An alpha steps toward you, slow and sure, his gaze sweeping over the fallen bodies scattered around you before landing on your blood-soaked figure. He’s dressed in black armor, battered and worn, though a single red scarf is tied at his belt like a brand. No sigil. No crest. But you know without question he belongs to the Divine.
His skin is tan, streaked with sweat and blood. His eyes are twin embers, glowing amber and catching the light like fire behind smoke. Beneath the iron and sweat, his scent curls toward you, bergamot and cedarwood. Comforting, if he weren’t staring at you with a blade in hand.
He’s handsome. It’s an afterthought, but an observation nonetheless. Dark black hair that hangs in his eyes, pressed against his sweaty forehead. Broad shoulders with thick arms, honed from being a practiced fighter. He has a sharp jaw and his plush lips are downturned in a frown, thick brows pinched together as he tries to puzzle you out.
He doesn’t move. He just stares at you, something on his face akin to horror lurking beneath the surface. You’re not sure what he sees that leaves him stricken, but his game eventually flicks to the mausoleum entrance behind you. Then back to you.
“Alright then,” he murmurs, voice soft and deep. “Go ahead.”
Your heart begins to pound. He isn’t attacking and he hasn’t moved. He’s seemingly letting you go.
It doesn’t make sense. The wolves of Bloodhaven are brutal and loyal, borderline fanatics. They kill on command and conquer without mercy. This is the kind of alpha who should strike you down immediately, who should already have you on your knees. He’s the kind who razes cities because his Divine tells him to.
You step toward him, fury tightening your limbs.
“You’re going to die today,” you murmur, voice raw.
He takes a step back from you. “I’m offering you a chance to live. Whatever tunnel that is, I suggest you use it.” You take another step toward him and his eyes dip to the necklace at your throat, the crest of Valen. His eyes dilate. “Princess.”
You grip your sword tighter, a warning pulsing through you - do not submit. You bare your teeth. “One that bites.”
You lunge. Your blade sings through the air and he’s barely fast enough to parry. His sword slides against yours with a metal shriek, steel on steel. He’s strong, but you’re fast, even bleeding, even tired. You duck under a wild swing and slash across his arm. He grunts, jaw tightening as you draw blood.
He doesn’t take the offensive. He defends against your blows, but he doesn’t strike back, instead holding you off as he dances away from you.
“Stop,” he growls, shoving you back. You stagger but recover fast, pivoting on your heel as you launch your dagger at his chest.
He knocks it aside with a clipped snarl, frustration flashing across his face. “I’m trying to-”
You cut off whatever he’s trying to say with a roar and charge again, blade raised. His sword meets yours, but the wind shifts, the scent of other wolves hitting you. He spins you away from him, leaving you panting and bleeding.
Heavy boots thud through the garden behind him, armor clanking. Six Bloodhaven soldiers, two in wolf form, appear around the hedge, dressed in full red, scarlet tabards emblazoned with the mark of the Divine, their faces painted in ritual ash.
The alpha leading the newcomers is tall and impossibly wide - wider even, than the alpha you’d challenged. “Found an omega, Seungcheol?”
In front of you, the alpha - Seungcheol - growls. “Move along. I can handle her.”
“Orders are to bring all omegas to Bloodhaven.”
For a second, Seungcheol’s jaw works. You think he’s about to protest when he sighs and nods. He steps toward you, his expression unreadable. You lift your sword and he growls, this time knocking his weapon against yours hard. The blade breaks from your grip, knocked aside with a single, vicious sweep. You try to step back, but he grabs you and spins you, pressing you against him with a firm hand across your middle.
“Yeah. I’ll bring her.”
A snarl rips from your throat, spit flying. No no no no no this is exactly what you didn’t want to happen. “Like Hells,” you spit, tasting blood. “I’ll fucking die-”
“You will die if you don’t shut up,” he hisses in your ear, voice like smoke. “I promise I am trying to help you.”
His hands tighten around you, turning to iron. You can’t overpower him, but the blood in your veins screams, your omega thrashing violently as one of his arms drifts upward to the front of your chest. Your stomach drops, thinking he’s about to have his way with you when his hand closes over your necklace and yanks. You feel the pop of the chain, a protest bubbling to your lips as he drops it and discreetly steps on it, burying it in the ground.
“Do not tell them who you are. I beg of you.”
You crane your neck to look at him, eyes full of questions. But before you can ask him anything, you’re being taken from his grip and you’re kicking and snarling again. A hand lashes out and presses a wet cloth to your face. Your head swims, vision blurring.
You fight until you hear someone curse as you rake your claws down their face, but the world fades into nothing.
-
Pain pounds through your skull as the world swims into focus. Bark digs into your back, the sharp burn of ropes biting into your wrist almost as bad as the copper tang of blood lingering at the edge of your tongue. Your boots have been taken and your armor is gone, leaving you in shredded remains of a tunic and pants, damp with sweat and filth and ash.
And you’re tied to a fucking tree.
You lift your head, sluggish from whatever drug they’d pressed to your nose. Pain blooms in your jaw when you open your mouth, trying to work your teeth back and forth.
Around you, the forest stretches wide and dim. It’s evening, the soft glow of campfires casting orange light in pockets for as far as you can see. Shadows move around the camp, a cacophony of scents, mostly alpha and beta.
Toward the center of the camp, there’s a wooden cage with a few omegas. They’re small and frightened, dressed mostly like local farmers. They’re all bound and huddled together, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
But you’re by yourself, the lone wolf bound and tethered to a tree with ropes that are too tight, cutting off the circulation in your arms and making them tingle with an unpleasant numbness. You think of shifting to break the ropes but as you start to wiggle, you smell the spicy tang to the ropes lashing you to the tree.
Wolfsbane.
You exhale through your nose, jaw clenching. It hurts to do it and you hiss, relaxing your mouth. There’s a deep throb in your side from where you’d caught a blade earlier, but from the pinched feeling in your skin when you move, you can tell it’s been stitched. You have no idea why.
Footsteps crunch through the leaves, making you look up. A young guard - a beta - approaches with a small tin cup of water. Her hair is scraped back beneath a red headwrap, the mark of the Divine stamped on the front. Her boots are new and she looks irritated when she crouches down.
“Water, courtesy of Commander Choi.”
She lifts the cup toward your lips, leaning toward you. Her mistake. You surge forward, slamming your forehead into her face with a wet crack. She screams and blood erupts from her nose. She falls back hard, dropping the water as she clutches her face.
Pain blooms in your face tenfold and for a second, you’re blinking away stars. Then you bare your teeth at her, setting as you spit blood in her direction. “Fuck your water.”
She scrambles in the leaves to get away from you, yelling. The altercation has attracted attention but you don’t care. You lean against the tree, staring hard into the firelight, willing them to come beat you again. You may be tied to a tree, but you’re the Heir of Valen and you’re not done fighting.
Heavy footsteps signal that it hasn’t taken long for the beta to stumble to the nearest person available to show them the damage. The steps are deliberate and calm, no urgency or rush to them. You smell the bergamot and cedarwood, grounding and warm. You hate that on a biological level, his smell is supposed to comfort you. Instead of letting it lull you into a sense of safety, you strain against the rope, growling.
The commander - Commander Choi, you assume - is smart enough to stay out of striking distance as he crouches down. He’s clean from battle, dressed in a linen tunic and leather pants. Again, he’s in all black but the crimson sash knotted at his waist denotes his allegiance. His arms are crossed over his chest, eyes unreachable as he drinks you in.
On instinct, you feel yourself squirm. Your omega recognizes the dominance of an alpha, but your fear and hate for him wins out, your teeth grinding as you glare at him with as much hate and vitriol as you can muster.
“You almost drove her nose into her skull.”
“It was a bad angle,” you agree. “I won’t miss next time.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “You keep fighting like this, and they’ll stop treating you like cargo and instead treat you like a threat.”
“I am a threat.”
“If they think you’re a thing to teach a lesson, you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”
He fishes a clean flask from his belt, his movement slow and deliberate like he doesn’t want to provoke you, like he doesn’t want to corner a rabid animal.
“Do not,” he warns, “try to bite me or take my fingers off. I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Then don’t come near my mouth.”
He sighs. “Are all the people from Valen this frustrating?”
“I don’t know. Looks like you and the Divine’s whores killed them all.” Your eyes drift to the cage a few meters away and you soften. “Let them go. You don’t need them. You have plenty of prizes from your other conquests. I’m all you need.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Does it feel good? Wearing her leash? Do you preen under the command of a false priestess?”
He says nothing, uncapping the flask.
“You’re all cowards. Leashed dogs with no loyalty, no courage-”
He grabs your chin and you spit. He ignores it, shoving your head backward as he brings the flask to your mouth. “Drink,” he orders.
You glare at him, lips sealed. He sighs heavily, and without hesitation, forces the flask against your mouth. Water floods your throat, bitter and cold but relieving. You try to choke it down without giving him the satisfaction, but your body betrays you. It’s the first real drink you have in you don’t know how long, and it cools your throat as it goes down.
When he pulls it away, you cough and sputter, trying to catch your breath. He wipes your mouth with his thumb, almost absently, as he caps the flask again.
“I don’t answer to her,” the commander says at last, standing. “But I have orders I cannot disobey.”
“Sounds like you do answer to her, then.”
He turns, pausing for a second. The firelight catches the side of his face, casting the curve of his jaw in shadow.
“Get used to doing what I tell you. It’s the only way you’ll survive this.”
He turns on his heel and leaves you tied against the tree, furious and tired, aching for home and for everyone and everything you’ve lost.
No one else bothers you. The tree you’re tied to is at the edge of a clearing, half-shielded by ferns and a dark rock. Your body aches and the wound in your side hurts something awful, but your eyes are just fine.
So you watch.
Guards rotate at the fire every hour and a half. You count their shifts, watching how they move in pairs, but peel off separately near the stream. You clock which ones are lazy, which ones are tense. You memorize the distance between where the other omegas are kept and the edge of the trees. You note who brings food. Who gets water. Who carries keys.
Your thoughts are sharp and cold. They have to be, because your rage is going to get you killed if you let it bubble.
The stars blur above you, hidden in the treetops. The crackling campfires grow quiet as the camp settles in for the night. Eventually, your chin begins to dip and the firelight blurs as you give into exhaustion, body sagging against the tree.
Until a lilting voice whispers, “If you snore, you’re doing it very quietly.”
Your head jerks up. An alpha crouches in front of you. He’s dressed in all black, a single red scarf at his waist. He smells like citrus and something fresh, surprisingly sweet for an alpha. He is infuriatingly pretty, with wind-tousled silver hair and a grin painted across his face.
His eyes are soft yellow, pale as morning light, and they shine with too much amusement for your liking. You shift uncomfortably and he tilts his head as though he’s fascinated.
“Enjoying the show?” You grunt.
“I did enjoy the way you broke Serefina’s nose. That was sick. Surprised you didn’t take off Seungcheol’s fingers.”
You realize he’s talking about the commander from earlier. Seungcheol. “I’ll try harder next time.”
“I like that. I’m Soonyoung.” He rests his elbows on his knees and leans in just slightly, as though he’s daring you to break his nose. “You’ve got some kick to you, huh?”
“Untie me and find out.”
He looks you up and down. “You smell like you want to bite my head off.”
“I’d start with your throat.”
“Romantic,” he sighs dreamily.
You lunge, teeth snapping at the soft flesh of his throat. It’s quick, the ropes tugging at you. It catches him off guard and he lets out a surprised laugh as he falls back into the leaves with a graceless grunt. He lies there for a second laughing, hand on his stomach before he rolls over and blinks at you.
“Noted,” he says, shaking his head. “Throat first.”
Soonyoung gets to his feet slowly, brushing off his clothes with an exaggerated flare. His grin never fades as he regards you again. “You’ve got fire. I like it. Probably will get you killed, but it’ll be fun while it lasts.”
He turns, waving lazily over his shoulder as he walks away. You don’t say anything, but your eyes zero in on the spot he fell, something glinting in the firelight. A small blade where he had been sitting. Simple, but good for cutting. You stare at it, eyes snapping back at him to see if it’s a test. He doesn’t come back, ducking into a tent and vanishing.
You immediately kick out with a foot, stepping on it and dragging it back to you, your heart sparking with something dangerous.
-
Above you, the stars shift in the sky. You don’t have long until morning, and you’ve decided your fingers aren’t going to get any less numb than they already are. The knife sits under your thigh, just barely barely concealed in the dirt.
You count each one of your heartbeats, waiting as the patrols near. Finally, you hear footsteps, already knowing which guard is completing his circuit near you. He’s younger and alone, walking the edge of the clearing with lazy steps. His eyes slide over to you with interest, and you capitalize on it.
“I need to relieve myself,” you croke, making your lip tremble. “Please don’t make me do it right here.”
He groans. “Really?”
“Please.”
“Ugh.”
The guard approaches with slow, reluctant steps. He bends down and hesitates, waiting to see if you’re going to break his nose. When you do nothing but let out a pitiful whine, his alpha instinct to help you takes over. He unties the ropes, fingers quick.
Relief floods your arms, but you ignore it and strike like a viper. The knife is in your hand and sinks into his neck over and over before he can register what’s happening. He can’t scream, only gurgles as blood pours from his throat into your fingers. You stab him again and again until he crumples like a sack of bone and meat at your hip.
You snatch the sword from his belt and the keys to the cage from his pocket. Covered in blood, you stand on shaking legs, limbs trembling with adrenaline and terror as you slink toward the cage holding the omegas.
Your body's aching and wounded but your blood is singing with fury. You slip through the trees like a wraith, keeping low as you weave toward the cage of omegas. You crouch near a brush, waiting a few beats to map out your path there, trying to keep to the shadow.
As you slink forward, someone yells. You freeze for half a breath then bolt right toward the cage. Boots crash through the underbrush behind you, angry voices flaring up as soldiers leave tents.
The hot breath of someone right behind you alerts you. You spin and slash, cutting down a guard with a wet groan, blood pouring from his ribs. You turn to bolt for the omega’s cage again, hoping that if you can just free them -
Someone slams into you. An alpha, massive and scarred, takes you down to the dirt. Your sword flies from your hand. He snarls, fists slamming in your ribs once, twice, before he pins you face-down in the mud with a knee in your spine.
“Fucking bitch,” he snarls.
Your ears ring, your body nothing but an ebb and flow of pain. Hands tear at your arms and then you’re being dragged. You shriek, twisting as someone hauls you by the ankle. Your fingers rend through the earth, pulling at weeds and roots, anything to get them to stop dragging you.
Mud and blood coat your arms and legs as they haul you into the firelight of the central camp. A post waits in the center. It’s thick and iron-studded, stained from recent use. You can smell the death and see the blood-drenched earth of whoever was here moments before you.
You’re tied to the post with thick rope that smells like wolfsbane, high above your head. Pain sparks in your shoulders as your weight drags you down. Your breath is wet and ragged in your throat, blood running down your face from where your head struck a rock during the fight.
The camp watches, chuckles and jeers muffled below the ringing in your ears. There are dozens of soldiers and wolves, red-cloaked and laughing as you’re left at the post, bloody and tired.
A bloom of black cloaks catches your attention. Your eyes dart to the flap of a tent opening, four men stepping out of a canvas tent, all of them dressed in black with some sort of red scarf embellishment to signal who they answer to.
Seungcheol stands at the lead, staring at you. Behind him, Soonyoung watches you and shakes his head, dropping his head into his hands. But your eyes drift back to Seungcheol, locking with him. You lift your chin and spit a glob of blood from your mouth in his direction.
Fuck them and the Divine they answer to.
-
You dream of lavender.
It drifts like smoke through your mind, curling under your nose, coating your lungs. Soft. familiar. Your mother’s scent, the oil she rubbed behind her ears and on her pulse points, enhancing her lavender and chamomile scent that came to her naturally.
The smell fills a room that doesn't exist anymore.
You’re a child again, curled in the crook of her side. She hums, voice a haunting lullaby. There’s rain rapping on a window that you can’t see, a steady drumbeat to her dreamy melody. You feel safer than you have in a long time, curling into her, feeling her warmth.
“One day,” she whispers, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll protect them all.”
Protect them all.
Smoke and oil replace the smell of lavender. Crackling fire and stone breaking replaces the rain. Screams replace your mother’s singing. You open your eyes to see tapestries curling to ash, the room churning with acrid and sour smoke, thick with the smell of blood and fur.
You’re running now, stumbling through halls that twist and vanish, your bare feet slipping on slick stone. You see warriors with throats ripped open, children screaming, wolves in full form tearing through limbs and running with bloody paws.
You see the king - your father - pinned to a column by a black spear. His eyes still glow and his mouth forms your name, but you cannot hear him. Cannot reach him.
You cannot protect any of them. Not your parents, not the sea of dead soldiers in Valen green, not the caged omegas. Their bodies fall from the sky, piling until you’re drowning in charred remains and -
A savage kick to the ribs wakes you up. You wheeze, the air leaving your lungs as your eyes snap open and you cough violently. The pain that greets you once you’re awake is nothing like you’ve ever experienced before. Every part of you is raw and hurting, so many places on your body lighting up in pain that your vision pulses black at the edges.
You’re still lashed to the stone post in the middle of the camp. It’s cold now, the ground wet and cool underneath you. Your shoulders are screaming with the ache of holding your weight all night, and the only blessing is that you can barely feel your hands at all.
A savage alpha leans over you, grinning. “Stop whining in your sleep.”
“Rin, enough.” You recognize Seungcheol’s deep timbre immediately. You lift your head a fraction to look at where Seungcheol enters the central area between tents. “She’s barely alive.”
“Good, the little bitch-”
“It’s not for you to decide what’s done with her.” Seungcheol’s presence looms a few feet away. You glare at him through dry eyes. He looks perfect in the grey morning light, his inky hair damp after a fresh wash, his black leather making him look like a massive shadow. “Velkar will make that decision.”
Somewhere behind you, a presence approaches. You can’t turn around and see them, but both Seungcheol and the other alpha - Rin - bow their heads. The alpha’s scent is thick and cloying, too spicy for your preference. Your lip curls and you lean away from him on instinct, hissing when your joints remind you of why you can’t do that.
“Seungcheol is right,” the voice grunts, gravelly. “I’ll decide what to do with the wretched bitch.”
“She’s dangerous, Lord.” Rin, again.
You look up at him, glowering. Rin is wire-thin and sniveling, which is strange for an alpha. He’s within range if you were to kick him back. Perhaps right behind the knees to make him buckle so you could get your other leg around him and squeeze.
Seungcheol shifts, catching your eye. His gaze is bleak and dark as thunder, as though he can sense where your thoughts have gone. His head twitches a fraction, telling you no before he turns his attention to where Rin pleads his case to who you assume is Velkar.
“She’s too dangerous to march with the host,” Rin insists. “She’ll rile up the other omegas. She could spark a rebellion.”
“They’re hardly dry kindling that will catch fire,” Seungcheol grunts. “Their spirits were broken long before they came to his camp.” Something flickers in his eyes. “My pack will take responsibility for her.”
For a second, everything is quiet. You squint up at Seungcheol to see that the rest of his pack have approached, all of them in black. They’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder, fanning out behind him. You recognize Soonyoung, arms crossed and silver hair glowing like steel in the morning light.
“Any damage she does, any rule she breaks,” Seungcheol says, voice low, “put it onto us.”
“You’re offering yourselves to take her lashes?”
“Yes.”
“Each rule she breaks is ten lashes. Each. If she gets away, death.”
“We understand,” Soonyoung replies smoothly. He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We can take a lash. We won’t need to, though.”
Velkar grunts. “Fine. See if you can keep her in check. Otherwise…” There is a chorus of dark chuckles. “I’ll have fun lashing you, Choi.”
Soonyoung drifts toward you immediately, crouching and reaching for your hands. He hesitates, living a sharp look at you. His eyes are honey, watching you. When you don’t react or leap to bite out his throat, he makes a pleased sound and begins to undo the restraints at your wrists.
Your arms fall limp and you sag, pain roaring through your shoulders. You whimper when the rope is free and he winces in sympathy.
His voice is too soft for anyone else to hear when he says, “I left you the knife to escape and slip away. Not murder four guards and start a revolution.”
You meet his gaze, jaw clenched. “I won’t leave my people behind ever again.”
He huffs. “Good enough of an answer as any.”
Seungcheol looms behind him, staring down at you. His expression is unreadable, his pack standing silently behind him like shadows. There’s two more of them outside of him and Soonyoung, both staring at you.
He turns his head to the side to address one of them. “Seokmin, try to get her in condition to ride.”
There’s a quiet shift among the men, and one of them steps forward. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, his dark brown eyes threaded with hammered gold. He moves toward you with a confidence you don’t expect, and when he drops down beside Soonyoung, his eucalyptus and lavender scent wrap around you.
Lavender. You’re startled by the familiarity of it, lulled into a tense silence as he regards you with gentle eyes. Beta. It puts you at ease and you relax a little, showing no signs of wanting to bite him.
For now.
“Hey,” he says gently, like you’re familiar. “I’m Seokmin. I’m gonna get you out of the dirt, alright?”
You look at him, then glance at the others. No one moves, but Seungcheols’ stare reminds you that if you act out, the four of these strangers will have to take lashes for you. It doesn’t make sense, but you’re suddenly hesitant.
Nodding, you give Seokmin your consent to help you up. He doesn’t touch you at first - not until you try to get up and you fail. Your knees buckle and you let out a pained cry, body collapsing painfully on itself. He tuts at you once before he bends and lifts you in one smooth motion, careful not to jostle you too much.
There’s a sharp twinge of pain and he mutters an apology before he spins you away from Velkar and the beady eyes of Rin. His shoulders are a bulwark between you and enemy eyes as he carries you toward the tent.
The tent is tucked into the corner of the center of the encampment. It’s larger than most, secured with black and crimson ropes, its flaps pinned down and stitched with the symbols of a Bloodhaven vanguard. Inside, the air is warm and fragrant, lit dimly by a brass brazier in the corner, its belly full of glowing coals and slow-burning pine resin.
It’s a utilitarian space but there’s something homey about it at the same time. A thick rug covers most of the floor, and shelves have been hammered into a wooden support frame along one side. On it are rolled bandages, clay jars, dried herbs and folded linen.
Seokmin sets you down on one of the cots as gently as he can, apologizing when you make a pained sound. He begins his work in silence, the sound of water and the faint rustle of cloth filling the space between you. You sit on the edge of the cot, back stiff, jaw clenched, but your body still temples with exhaustion. You don’t trust him, but you don’t move away from him either, the smell of him dulling your edges.
You know he’s doing it on purpose. You let him.
He dips the cloth in a basin and wrings it out carefully before coming back over and kneeling to eye level. He hesitates before pressing it to your temple, waiting for permission. You nod and a smile flickers across his face, so warm that you almost forget where you are.
Seokmin cleans the dried blood at your temple, making you hiss.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Just breathe. I’ll go slow.”
Up close, you take in the details of his face. Pretty, almond-shaped eyes the color of chocolate and gold, framed by thick lashes. Smooth, tan skin with a light smattering of freckles beneath both eyes. His jaw is sharp but not harsh, softened by the faintest cleft in his chin. There’s a single freckle just below his right eye that stands out from the rest. You find it endearing, despite everything.
He swipes the cloth and you growl at him, bruise smarting.
“Try not to do that. It’s unsettling when you growl at me.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
That gets a soft laugh out of him, low and easy. He smiles again, warm but not put out. “I see why Soonyoung likes you.”
Carefully, he wipes under your eye, where a bruise is already blooming. His touch is steady and sure, incredibly gentle, which is entirely unexpected. He doesn’t poke or prod. Doesn’t comment on the dirt or the fact that your fingernails are broken and that blood crusts the corners of your mouth.
Seokmin doesn’t flinch when you growl again, just has that same twitching smile like he’s glad you’re still doing it, like you’re allowed to disobey here. You find yourself watching his hands. They’re large, with calluses, but they move like he’s done this before. You don't know why that unnerves you more than it should.
His scent drifts toward you again, that barest hint of lavender and eucalyptus. It makes you close your eyes, thinking of your mom. Of the smell of lavender oil in her hair, the warmth of her skin when you used to crawl into her lap.
The sting behind your eyes is instant and violent. You clench your jaw and go rigid. Seomkin notices but says nothing, wringing out the bloody cloth before dipping it in the basin again to move toward your neck and shoulder.
“You shouldn’t have been out there alone,” he notes.
“We’re alone now.”
He snorts. “Not what I meant.”
“Perhaps omegas don’t fight where you’re from.” Your voice turns to ice. “They do where I’m from.”
“I can see that.”
Instead of arguing with you, he finishes wiping the last of the blood from the visible places. “I’ll give you space to change. There’s clean water in the basin and clothes. They won’t fit you well, but they’re something.” He hesitates. “I assume you don’t want me to touch you, but… ask for help if you need it. Please.”
You say nothing. He nods and stands up, the tent rustling behind him as he vanishes through the entrance to leave you alone. You sit in silence for a moment, hands curling into fists. Your eyes start to burn and you try to swallow past the knot in your throat but you can’t.
The lavender and eucalyptus hang in the air, like something safe and warm.
And it breaks you.
You lean forward, arms wrapping around yourself. For the first time since the gates fell, you cry. You don’t sob, hand pressed to your mouth to keep your choked sounds in. You shatter in silence, shaking tears that rock through your chest, salt on your tongue, pain in every inch of your body.
You cry for your kingdom. For your parents. For failing to do what they had asked, for being stubborn to the end and not managing to escape. All they had asked of you was to get out, and you hadn’t even done that.
Slowly, the tears dry. You’re not dead - not yet - and you still want to uphold that final promise to them. So you drag yourself toward the basin, tears spilling over again at the sheer pain spreading through your body, and you begin to wash.
Your hands are shaking, barely functioning from the lack of circulation all night. You have wounds in places you didn’t know existed and cuts and bruises that look like they would kill most people. You think perhaps only rage is keeping you alive.
Rage is all you have left. You have no kingdom, no people, no parents. No allies as far as the eye can see. No plan and no way out. But you have your wits and the wrath festering inside of you, turning you into ash from the inside out.
You intend to use that flame to burn your enemies.
By the time Seokmin returns, you’ve managed to dress yourself in a plain black tunic, sleeves rolled to your elbows. The fabric is stiff, but clean. You sit quietly on the cot, legs drawn up, watching the tent flap as he ducks back inside.
He pauses when he sees you, assessing, like he knows something has shifted. Deciding it doesn’t matter, he holds out a waterskin and a loaf of bread. “I brought you water and bread and yarrow tea. The tea will help with the pain, so drink it last. The bread is awful, but it’s not nothing.”
“Thanks.”
The water does help, and the bread is awful, but you scarf it down anyway. It goes down painfully, followed by gulps of water that make your stomach hurt. The tea is warm and soothing. It’s not a miracle but you know it’ll help with the general aches and pains and you’re eager to be rid of the violent throb you have… well, everywhere.
When you're done, Seokmin offers to help you stand. You deny him at first, but after a few shaky steps toward the tent's entrance, he has to steady you by the elbow when you wobble. You bare your teeth at him but he holds you only long enough for you to gain footing. He drops his hand and gestures for you to lead the way.
The camp outside the tent is already shifting. Seungcheol’s pack is small, moving like shadows as they douse fires and toss bags toward one another. Seungcheol leads horses by the reins, all saddled and ready to go.
“You’ll ride with us. Seungcheol says it’s non-negotiable,” Seokmin says.
“Seungcheol should fuck off.”
One of the passing soldiers hears you and snickers. Your eyes drift toward him. He’s younger than the rest, with unruly brown waves that curl around his ears and a mouth that looks like it’s always just finished smiling. He carries himself with the loose, casual confidence of someone who knows they’re good looking. He’s lean and coiled, steps too light for someone his size.
He winks at you as he walks by, hazel eyes glittering. You frown and look at Seokmin. “Do I have to ride with you?”
Seokmin frowns. “Are you opposed?”
“You smell like lavender.”
“Oh. Yeah. Um. Is that alright?”
“I guess.”
That’s all. No more questions, just the quiet hum of understanding. He leads you over to his horse and helps you up onto the saddle. The horse is surprisingly patient and sturdy, waiting for him as Seokmin swings up into the saddle behind you. You shift forward, trying your best not to lean into him.
Your body tenses anyway, omega instincts curling inward, defensive and on edge. But his grip is gentle. Measured. Nothing in him is trying to dominate or command. His thighs bracket yours, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his breath, in and out, like a silent metronome trying to teach your body a slower tempo.
The others mount, and before the rest of the camp is ready, Seungcheol reins in his horse. “Let’s go.”
You frown. “You don’t wait for the others?”
His eyes flash tawny as he looks at you. “We ride ahead. The host follows. We wait for them in Bloodrest.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Before you can say anything else, Seungcheol pivots his mare and urges her into the treeline. Seokmin clicks his teeth and urges his roan stallion forward, following Seungcheol into the pine and leaving the camp behind.
The morning is gray and overcast, the sky bruised with clouds. The sounds of the camp fades behind you as your small party navigates to the main road to travel north.
Your wrists still ache. You flex them inside of the gloves Seokmin gave you, the leather worn but pliable. Your borrowed clothes fit better than expected, though the smell faintly of smoke and blood. Seokmin is silent behind you, one hand on the reins, the other resting lightly on his thigh. He doesn’t touch you unless the path dips or the trees crowd too close, and even then, it’s gentle. Careful.
Ahead, Seungcheol leads at a steady pace, his posture upright and relaxed, though you can feel the tension rippling beneath the surface. He rides like someone practiced in a saddle, and it makes you wonder where he was from before he pledged himself to the brutalism of Bloodhaven and the red reign of the Divine who lords over them.
To Seungcheol’s right is Soonyoung, who seems to be chatting with his horse. His mare is pale grey, nearly white, and she moves quickly, never quite still, dancing forward and backward. You’re somehow unsurprised that his horse seems just as spirited as her rider.
The last of your group brings up the rear. The young wolf hasn’t said anything to you since mounting, but you can sense his gaze on you occasionally. You haven’t been introduced and he hasn’t offered his name. Not that you’ve asked.
Hours pass in silence, only broken by the creak of leather and the occasional rustle of wings from the canopy above. The saddle hurts your thighs and your back aches from sitting rigid, trying not to lean against Seokmin’s chest. The pain in your side from the sword wound is getting worse as you ride, and you’re nearly sweating in your seat, body in agony.
You refuse to ask them to stop, though. Seokmin senses your pain, asking several times if you’re okay. You meet his questions with steely silence, staring ahead and getting your teeth, refusing to ask for help again.
Eventually, he makes the decision for you and asks Seungcheol to stop. Sighing, their leader calls for a brief halt at a shallow creek to water the horses. You dismount stiffly, knees immediately buckling beneath you. You catch yourself on the saddle and Seokmin reaches out to steady you, but you snap your teeth at him in a savage bark.
Soonyoung clucks his tongue as he walks by, grinning. “Careful, Min. She’ll go for the throat first.”
You hobble to the edge of the creek, nearly collapsing to splash your face with freezing water. Behind you, the four men talk amongst themselves, low and quiet and out of reach. You close your eyes, breathing in deeply for a moment, listening to the pines groan in the wind.
Opening your eyes, you glance in their direction. Their heads are bent low as they talk, not watching you. You tap your fingers to your thigh, staring at them before turning to look into the shadow of the pine trees.
It’s stupid. It’s reckless. But it’s something.
You surge upright, ignoring everywhere you hurt as you splash through the creek. The water sloshes into your boots and you’re soaked to the knees, but you ignore it. You vault the bank, stumbling once in the loose soil before taking off at a full sprint.
Every single part of you radiates pain. You ignore it, pushing yourself as you hear them splash across the creek after you. Your mind empties of all thoughts, only focusing on a single thing: running.
Your breath claws its way through your chest. You weave between the trees and vault over a rock, barely missing a low branch. The end of it catches you in the cheek anyway, stinging as it opens up a line of blood on your face. Every step tugs the bandaged wound in your side, but you grit your teeth and keep going.
The forest opens up a little, just enough to give you false hope that you can sprint all out.
Then an impact lands on your back like a wall that collapses on you. Your body slams into the ground and your vision blurs. A sharp grunt leaves your mouth as you hit the dirt, your limbs tangled with someone else’s. You thrash instinctively, elbows flying, heels kicking.
“Would you just - stop -”
You twist under the wolf that has you pinned but your side lights up in agony, making you gasp, tears at the edge of your vision. “Get off me!”
He grabs your clawed hands away from his face, pinning them above your head and you sag. It’s the youngest one, his face inches from yours, flushed and breathless. His hazel eyes are bright with adrenaline, pupils dilated from the chase, teeth bared in a half-snarl. He smells like black tea and cloves, scent soured with irritation.
“You don’t even know where you’re going,” he growls.
You gnash your teeth. “Anywhere is better than here.”
You start thrashing under him again and he shifts his weight, pinning you to the ground. You yelp in pain, feeling the stitches in your side pop open. You freeze for a fraction of a second, your omega reacting instinctively to the strength in his grip, to the pressure of his scent now so close to your own.
“Enough!” Seungcheol’s voice cuts through the trees like a blade. Your omega immediately reacts to the command of a powerful alpha and you go boneless, dizzy and blinking up at the trees. You can’t remember the last time you reacted to a command like this, immediately melting.
Embarrassment and anger licks through you, white hot.
Footsteps crash through the brush as Soonyoung and Seokmin appear, weapons half-drawn. The young alpha sits back on his haunches, but doesn’t let go of your wrists until Seokmin strides forward and grabs his shoulder.
“You reopened her wound, Chan. Get up.”
The alpha - Chan - lifts both hands, finally stepping off of you. He scowls but doesn’t argue as you curl onto your side, teeth gritted against the fire in your ribs. Blood seeps through your shirt.
Seungcheol looms over you, a thundercloud of anger. “I should have tied you down.”
“Yes, you should have.”
He stares at you for a long, unreadable moment before he pivots on his heel. “Get her up. Soonyoung, tie her to your saddle.”
Soonyoung snorts and walks over to you, crouching. “Stupid.”
“I had to try.”
“I respect that.”
He stands, offering you his hand. You don’t take it, struggling to get to your knees. You walk back toward the horses, snapping your teeth as Seokmin offers to look at the wound and stitch it shut again but you smack his hands away. Chan smirks as you walk by, brows raised when you bare your teeth.
“No more delays,” Seungcheol warns Soonyoung when you approach the horses.
Soonyoung binds your wrists together before lashing them to the horn of his saddle. He does it with bright, almost cheerful efficiency, humming under his breath like this is just another morning chore and not a public shaming. When he finishes, he swings himself up behind you in the saddle without warning.
You stiffen instantly, bristling at the proximity, at the heat of his chest against your back. You can feel the way his thighs cage you in, the press of his knee at your hip, the soft exhale against your hairline as he settles in. The bindings tug against your wrists when the horse shifts beneath you, and you flinch.
He smells bright and citrusy, like orange rind crush under your heel. It hits you in a slow wave, sliding over your senses, comforting in a way that makes your omega instincts perk up. Something in your chest loosens before your brain catches up.
“Don’t do that,” you snap, leaning away from him. “I don’t need you to do the calming pheromone thing.”
“Sorry. I was trying to make you less on edge.”
“I’m tied to a saddle with a bunch of men holding me captive after burning my kingdom down. If you think a little hint of oranges is going to make me less on edge, you’re a fucking idiot.”
“Well stated. Fine - no more running, at least,” Soonyoung admonishes, nudging his mare to a slow walk. “I’m not chasing you down for a week straight.”
“You wanted me to run yesterday.”
“That was when your behavior didn’t reflect on me - or potentially, my back.”
You don’t answer.
It’s silent as you start riding north again. Seungcheol leads, silent and severe. This time, Seokmin and Chan flank either side of you, perhaps to keep you from diving off the mare. Soonyoung goes back to humming behind you, a tuneless thing low in his throat. Every jostle of the horse makes your teeth grit, but you refuse to cry.
Your side continues to bleed. You feel the scabs crack and reopen, blood pooling again with each uneven step of the horse. You grit your teeth, trying to keep your breath even. You’re exhausted, bleeding, and a bit shamed, pride burning nearly as much as your injury.
“You know,” Soonyoung says eventually. “You don’t have to keep acting like this. We know you’re tough.”
“Get over yourself. I’m not performing for you.”
He seems satisfied with your answer, falling back into silence.
Eventually, your head tilts forward, heavy with sleep and a bit dizzy from the blood loss and injuries. Your eyes drift shut, the cool wind kisses the back of your neck. You feel Soonyoung shift behind you, thighs tightening to help you keep your seat as you start to doze.
Warnings: Yandere behavior, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.
A/N: Seokjin has been a menace lately and not the baby gurl we know him to be. I love it
Masterlist, Part XI of __
“Who did this to you?”
You looked at him and stubbornly pulled your wrist away. You knew that considering how hard his jaw was clenched that he let you, otherwise you would still be imprisoned in his hand.
You stepped to go around him, yet he emotionlessly stepped to completely block your path. His position only further solidified your earlier thought that he was an immovable force should he deemed it necessary. You sighed to muster all the strength that was left of you before looking up to meet his eyes that were looking for answers.
“I-I fell,” you started before your courage could dwindle. Even in the small courage you had, your voice trembled. “Look. I am exhausted. I just want to sleep this off. I need to work later so can you please just let me be?”
He was looking at you and yet, despite the closeness, you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. The Seokjin you knew was widely expressive. Animated, even. Anyone could tell what he was feeling at any given moment but not now.
But right now?
Right now, he was unreadable.
His jaw ticked once, just the barest movement, but his eyes remained strangely still before he stepped aside to let you pass. He watched you as you tried to insert the key. With your trembling hands, however, it was close to impossible. They rattled against the lock, over and over again, until finally—
Seokjin gently took the keys from your hand and opened the door himself. His hand was on the door knob as he pushed it in. If you thought that there was a chance that he would let this go, the scene behind the door was enough to solidify his initial thought that this was no accident. Any hope you had that he might let it go—that maybe, just maybe, he’d believe the lie and leave—shattered in an instant.
This was planned.
Your pain was intentional.
The answer was found in the mess that you weren’t able to hide when you hastened to the hospital because despite the exhaustion you felt, you still clung to what was left of your life. You hadn’t meant to leave it like this. It was a scene of chaos. A chair knocked over. A cracked lamp. Glass scattered on the floor like breadcrumbs leading straight to the truth.
The sound of his breath hitching was unmistakable, sharp enough to make you flinched.
You feared more questions from him. You feared that he would keep asking questions you didn’t want to answer. However, to your surprised, he merely let himself in your small apartment, shoulders tense, gaze unreadable. The door clicked shut behind him, and his movements turned purposeful—swift, efficient. He walked past you like a force of nature, heading straight for your bedroom.
“W–what are you doing?!” you stammered, your voice cracking under the weight of confusion and panic as you followed him down the hall.
He was already grabbing your bag from the chair, throwing in a change of clothes, your charger, your medication from the nightstand. Every movement was filled with quiet fury and absolute clarity.
“You’re not staying here,” he said, not even glancing back at you.
You stood frozen at the doorway, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. “Seokjin, wait—what? You can’t just—this is my place—”
He finally turned to you, eyes dark and steady, voice low but unyielding. “And it’s not safe.”
The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in around you as you struggled to breathe. “You don’t understand—”
“No,” he said flatly, cutting you off. “You don’t understand. Someone hurt you, and they didn’t just stop there. They came here. And you were going to sleep next to that like nothing happened?”
“It’s none of your business!” you shouted because if anyone was going to be hurt, you’d rather it be you and not him. You couldn’t let yourself drag someone as pure as him down in hell with you. Honestly, you would rather they break your bones than let anyone hurt this person.
He stepped past you again as though he didn’t hear your refusal, brushing your shoulder lightly. “You can yell at me later. But right now, you're leaving with me.”
Kim Seokjin was steady, you noted. He was someone who did things his way. You noticed now that he was someone who didn’t take no for an answer as evidenced by how you were seated in his comfortable sofa which, you were certain, was more than a month’s worth of your rent. A soft blanket was wrapped around your shoulders. A cup of tea was on the table. And Seokjin was crouched in front of you, your injured wrist gently cradled in his hands as he inspected it. He was quietly asking you about the medical procedures done and about your prescription.
You looked away, uncomfortable beneath his concern. “As you can see, I’m okay,” you muttered, pulling your wrist back—not forcefully, just enough to make a point. “Can I please leave now? I have work tomorrow.”
“I’ll call your department head,” he said without missing a beat. “You need rest.”
“Seokjin!” you snapped, exasperated. “You can’t just—this isn’t your decision!”
He sat back on his heels, unfazed. “Then whose is it? The person who hurt you? Your boss? Because right now, you’re acting like your own well-being is the last thing that matters.”
You stood up, harshly pushing him away from you. “This is so unprofessional. You have no right to-”
He didn’t get up. He didn’t argue. Just looked up at you from the floor, his expression quiet and unraveling. The usual sharpness in his eyes dulled into something tender, something aching.
“Then please,” he murmured, voice barely holding itself together. “Give me the right, Sunshine. I… I just can’t lose you. I can’t let anyone hurt you. Not when I—”
You sighed, your heart aching at the defeated position he was in. If he was like this with just a mere sprain, what more if he witnessed the dozens of times that you were badly hurt and forced to pretend that it was all normal?
“Fine,” you said at last, voice flat but shaky. “I’ll stay here tonight.”
His shoulders barely moved, but you saw the way the breath escaped him—slow, steady, almost like he was afraid to believe it.
“And I’ll resign tomorrow.”
---
“You called?”
Seokjin took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes trained on the twinkling lights of the skyline. He was quiet for a long time, and to anyone who knew him, they should have known that it was dangerous. A quiet Jin was the Mafia Prince. Cold. Sharp. Calculating. The version of him that no one walked away from untouched.
You were sleeping in one of his guestrooms. Soundly, he had hoped. But after what you went through, he knew you were just waiting for the sun to shine to leave him. However, he did have bad news for you come morning. He would keep you safe, whether you wanted to or not.
“I need you to look into her.”
“Noona?” Jungkook questioned, his voice in disbelief. He offered to conduct a background check on you, even on things that were unrecorded. Seokjin vehemently refused then. He didn’t need to know, he surmised. He didn’t want to dig. No. He could just get to know you like normal people did. “Yes,” he said now, voice firm, leaving no room for question. “My sunshine.”
There was a pause on the other end. A long one.
Jungkook’s voice, when it came, was slower, more careful. “Your?”
“Mine,” Seokjin said simply. No hesitation. No pretense.
Another beat of silence. Jungkook never was good with words when emotions started crawling beneath them. “What made you change your mind?”
Seokjin turned his head slightly, watching the lights of the city bleed across the window. His reflection stared back at him—calm, composed, dangerous.
“Someone dared hurt her,” he said. Each word dropped like a blade.
There was no response. Only quiet. Calculating.
“And then what will happen if you know who they are?” Jungkook finally asked.
Seokjin’s grip on the glass tightened, but his voice remained quiet. Unshaken. “Then they’ll just have to meet me.”
--
Sleep evaded you.
The conversation you had with him despite it being unfinished was enough to keep you up all night. You never wanted anyone to know about your situation. It was embarrassing enough for you without seeing the pity in their eyes. Kim Seokjin, with his pristine life, his spotless career, his name spoken with reverence in every hospital wing. He shouldn’t even breathe in the same direction as you, much less look at you like he cared. He didn’t have any scars you could see. No blemishes, no bruises tucked under sleeves. Just brilliance and success and the kind of gentleness life had never taught you how to trust.
With that in mind, you went out of the impossibly comfortable room, ready to tell him that you were leaving. You padded quietly through the hallway, rehearsing the words in your head: Thank you, but I’m going. You’ve done more than enough. Except that what greeted you was him in the kitchen, humming to himself as he cooked. Never even in your wildest dreams that you would see the great doctor Kim Seokjin wearing a pink apron while cooking. The dining table was already filled with several dishes and there was even a flower in the middle of the table.
Was this truly the person who not more than a month ago ran away from you like you were a dementor? S Was this really the person who couldn’t stand to be an inch closer to you as though proximity to you would short-circuit his genius brain.
He turned at the soft shuffle of your feet, his expression shifting instantly from concentration to gentle surprise. “Oh,” he said, eyes warm, “good you’re awake. Let’s eat?”
He smiled at you as he placed down the steaming soup on the table before walking to where you were. He ruffled your hair gently before guiding you to your seat. “How are you so adorable in the morning, Sunshine?”
You stared, momentarily speechless. You watched him as he rounded the table again, now checking the rice cooker with practiced ease.
“Coffee?” he offered without looking up.
“Yes, please,” you answered automatically, the words leaving you before you could stop them. It almost felt like a script. Domestic. Familiar. Dangerous.
You didn’t expect him to be this…light. You were sure that the way you pushed him away last night would result to him being cold.
But no.
“Hmm. Later,” he said easily, reaching for a pair of tongs. “I have a wonderful coffee machine here—imported from the States, state-of-the-art. It even talks. I talk to it when I’m lonely. But anyway, let’s eat first. Coffee on an empty stomach is just terrible. A recipe for gastritis.”
You raised a brow at him. “I’ve seen you drink coffee at four in the morning. There’s no way you’ve already eaten by then.”
Without missing a beat, he looked over his shoulder, grinning like a sinner with a saint’s smile. “Do what I say, not what I do. Not everyone is blessed with this body.”
You snorted despite yourself, the sound slipping out before you could smother it. “Seokjin—”
He turned toward you then, setting down another plate, expression playful but soft around the edges. “Yes, my sunshine?”
You hesitated.
Seokjin finally sat in front of you, still wearing that ridiculous pink apron like it was haute couture. He didn’t waste time with small talk. Instead, he began spooning food onto your plate with care like it was second nature, like it wasn’t the most intimate thing someone had done for you in a while.
“Don’t worry,” he said casually, scooping soup into a bowl and pushing it gently toward you. “There’s no shrimp here, so you won’t suffer a reaction.”
Your chopsticks paused mid-air. “How did you know I’m allergic to that?”
He looked up, deadpan, arching a single brow like you’d just asked why the sky was blue. “Medical records, Sunshine.”
You gaped. “That’s invasion of privacy.”
He waved his chopsticks dismissively, not the least bit remorseful. “Privacy is overrated, don’t you think?”
You blinked at him.
“And eat,” he added, pushing a side dish closer to you. “How are you losing weight every week? That’s bad! Terrible. I’ll have to report this to myself.”
You stared. “You’ll report me… to yourself?”
He nodded solemnly. “As your attending physician, your caretaker, and soon, the president of your fan club, I must insist that this trend stops immediately.”
Despite yourself, a laugh broke free.
And across from you, Seokjin’s eyes crinkled in that familiar way that made the world feel just a little less heavy.
“I’m adorable, aren’t I?”
--
Your voice carried down the hall, half-indignant, half-defeated as you stood just outside the doorway to his home office. You were holding a thick stack of academic pages like they were contraband—because in a way, they were.
Seokjin barely looked up from his desk, blinking at you with wide, faux-innocent eyes. He tilted his head toward the finished pile next to you with the ghost of a smirk. “But you already read those.”
You scowled. “That’s not the point.”
The workaholic medical director—the man who’d once been impossible to find outside a white coat—had chosen not to go in today. Instead, he was at home, “working remotely.” His laptop was open, emails unread, a virtual meeting muted in the background. But it was clear where his real attention was: you.
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, and regarded you like you were a very amusing experiment. “I’m not keeping you here, Sunshine.”
“You literally bribed me with academic bait—”
“—But did you know,” he interrupted smoothly, “that I also have a copy of the last paper the famous Dr. Lee wrote before he died?”
You narrowed your eyes.
His expression turned downright devilish. “It’s just… so astonishing. Groundbreaking, even. Never made it to publication.”
You stared at him.
He clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. “Don’t you want to read it?”
There was a pause.
A long one.
Damn it, you thought.
He grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
You groaned, flopping dramatically onto the couch outside his office as he slid the next paper onto the coffee table like a dealer feeding a dangerous addiction.
“You’re the worst,” you muttered into a cushion.
“And yet, here you are,” he replied sweetly. “Held hostage by footnotes and theoretical frameworks.”
He winked.
And you hated—hated—how much you liked it.
God, was it not enough that you made him handsome? Was it really necessary that you also made him so brilliant?
As if the chiseled jawline and those unfairly symmetrical features weren’t already enough to ruin your day, he also had the audacity to have an IQ high enough to solve equations you wouldn’t even attempt without crying. And somehow, he had memorized your allergy list and your emotional tells, all while managing to cook a perfect breakfast and casually hold back the weight of your crumbling life without so much as flinching.
Unbelievable.
You glared at the paper he had just given you, as though it were the real enemy. “I swear if this is another experimental case study on trauma bonding, I’m walking out.”
“It’s not,” he said cheerfully from his desk, not even glancing up. “It’s on attachment theory and the neuroscience of trust.”
You made a strangled sound.
He looked over, lips twitching. “See? I knew you’d love it.”
And you hated—loathed—how right he was.
---
“Seokjin.” Your voice was strained with disbelief, hands planted on your hips. “It is nine in the evening. Trains will stop running soon. Can you, for the love of God, give me the keys?”
Across the living room, Seokjin didn’t even blink. Still lounging on the couch like he had all the time in the world, he tilted his head with mock confusion. “What keys?”
“You know,” you bit out, slowly and clearly, “my apartment keys.”
He glanced around dramatically, as though searching the air for invisible evidence. Then he pointed to himself with the audacity of a man too handsome to ever be held accountable. “Why would I have that, Sunshine?”
“Because you took it. Just an hour ago. From the coffee table. I watched you do it.”
“I have no recollection,” he said, blinking up at you with exaggerated innocence that would’ve been more convincing if it weren’t for the very obvious shape of your keychain poking out of the front pocket of his sweats.
You narrowed your eyes.
Then slowly, deliberately, you dropped your gaze to the set of keys sticking out like a guilty confession.
And pointed. “So you’re saying those aren’t my keys?”
Seokjin followed your line of sight, then gave the smallest glance down at his pocket.
A beat of silence.
Then, he shrugged. “Hmm. Could be mine. Hard to say. All keys look alike in this economy.”
“Seokjin.”
“Yes, Sunshine?”
You marched over and yanked the keys from his pocket in one swift move.
“Ah!” he yelped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Robbery! How dare you violate my personal space!”
“Oh, please,” you muttered, already heading for the door. Yet when you opened it, Jeon Jungkook was standing outside, his doe eyes blinking innocently at you.
He was wearing an oversized sweater which was as dark as his pants. He had a bucket hat on and he was grinning at you. He stood at the doorstep like a child who had just won a prize, arms full with two greasy bags of chicken and a six-pack of beer tucked under one arm. “Noona! I bought chicken! And beer! It’s my birthday!”
“Really?” you asked in a deadpanned voice, remembering the time he claimed it was his birthday when it wasn’t.
His eyes darted. “Yes?”
Before you could respond, a voice shouted from somewhere behind him—sharp, irritated, and unmistakably Seokjin’s.
“Yah! Jungkook, she cannot drink beer. She’s taking her meds, you idiot!”
--
Jungkook sipped his beer as he looked at his hyung who was tenderly brushing your hair away from your face.
You were curled up peacefully, your head pillowed on Seokjin’s thighs, one hand loosely clutching the hem of his sweater.
He had never looked at anyone as softly as he did you. They all thought the Mafia Prince didn’t have it in him to be tender to anyone and if anyone told him that his hyung had eyes on someone, he would tell them to get their head checked.
Until he saw how he looked at you.
In fact, Jungkook knew the depth of his hyung’s feelings before Seokjin could even figure it out himself. For heaven’s sake, he bought a house one night when he was drunk. It was comical, really, when Jungkook was drinking with his hyung and come morning, Seokjin acted like it was not because of you.
“So that wasn’t you who got drunk last night when she didn’t reply and decided to go ahead and buy a house in the countryside where, and I quote, ‘you and her can build a family with three adorable kids and grow old there’?”
Seokjin didn’t even flinch. He blinked slowly, adjusted his watch like this was just another Thursday morning meeting, then asked, dead serious—
“Did the house at least have a big kitchen?”
Jungkook nearly choked. “That’s not the point!” he barked, throwing his hands in the air.
But Seokjin was already pulling out his phone. “I just want to make sure the layout’s good, that’s all.”
“You bought a house!”
“I didn’t buy it,” Seokjin corrected smoothly. “I just made an offer.”
“You put down a deposit!”
“That can be refunded,” he said with a shrug. “Probably.”
Jungkook groaned, collapsing into the nearest couch and burying his face in a pillow.
“Noona’s not allowed to drink beer but you can slip in sleeping pills?”
There was a pause. A quiet kind of pause. Then Seokjin answered, his voice softer, more serious.
“You saw her, Kookie. She was ready to leave. It’s dangerous.”
Jungkook let out a breath, slow and resigned, and handed over his tablet. “This is all I found about Noona’s situation.”
Seokjin took the device, his fingers tightening slightly as he began to scroll. “It’s bad, hyung,” Jungkook added, quieter now.
“I figured just as much,” Seokjin replied, though even his calm couldn’t mask the tension slowly building behind his eyes.
The report was damning. A trail of small-time extortions, loan shark traps, forged contracts. At the center of it was a name he knew too well—a lowlife gang he’d crossed paths with years ago. He remembered sparing them because they were insignificant, scavengers trying to survive in a world ruled by wolves. He figured they'd die out on their own.
He realized now what a mistake that was.
His voice was like stone. “How much does her father owe them?”
“Around 100 million won,” Jungkook said.
Seokjin’s eyes darkened further. “Is her father alive?”
“Yes. But… she doesn’t know that.”
A beat.
“Good,” Seokjin said coldly. “Let it remain that way.”
Jungkook looked at him, brows knitting. “What are you going to do next?”
Seokjin finally looked up from the tablet, his face unreadable, the soft façade slowly crumbling into something sharper—something far more dangerous.
“I’ll meet them, of course.”
Jungkook frowned. “As who?”
He smiled. Not the kind that reached his eyes. “As the good citizen, Kim Seokjin.”
synopsis: you’re a struggling pianist, playing in an underground lounge owned by the mafia. one night, the club’s true owner, yunho, finally appears—a man whispered about in the darkest corners of the city. Your music becomes the only thing that calms him.
authors note : : i love the aesthetic of this fic. this one is more descriptive, idk if I did it justice
[series masterlist]
—You play the piano in an underground lounge, the soft melodies swallowed by the low murmurs of criminals and the heavy clink of expensive glasses. No one really listens; your music drifts above their heads like smoke they barely notice. The air smells of old whiskey, stronger cigars, and something metallic that you’ve learned not to think too hard about.
The place is called Halazia—a name whispered with a strange kind of reverence on the streets. From the outside, it looks abandoned: cracked bricks, rusted signage, windows so dark you can't tell if the lights are even on. But past a guarded, steel door and a staircase that dives into the earth, the lounge breathes with dangerous life.
Halazia isn't glamorous. It's all deep shadows, bruised purple lights, and velvet so dark it could swallow you whole. The tables are low and cluttered, the chairs heavy and old but too expensive to replace. Everything inside seems dipped in a sense of faded royalty—gold edges dulled with time, red curtains that look almost black in the dim light. The ceilings are low enough to make you feel like you're being pressed down, the air thick with secrets.
You sit at a battered grand piano pushed into a corner of the room, just barely illuminated by a single spotlight that's more moody than bright. Your fingers move across the keys like second nature, but there's no applause, no recognition.
You are background noise. Just another piece of Halazia’s furniture, like the stained glasses and the blood that sometimes doesn’t quite get cleaned off the floor.
Tonight, you’re wearing a black slip dress that clings to you when you move, the hem brushing just below your knees. A thin, silver chain circles your throat, catching the light with every tilt of your head. Your shoes are plain black heels—scuffed a little at the toes, though no one can really see in this lighting. Your hair is pinned up, a few stubborn strands falling free to frame your face.
You've never seen the real owner—the one everyone murmurs about between drinks and bad deals. Yunho. A name that carries weight. They say he's dangerous. They say he’s untouchable. You’ve only caught whispers, overheard things you were never meant to hear: how he handled a betrayal without blinking, how entire territories shifted because of a single decision he made.
But he doesn’t come here often. People like him don't linger where the blood is still fresh.
They say he rarely shows his face here, too busy with whatever dealings keep the ATEEZ syndicate running like a well-oiled machine. Some call him the executioner, others the right hand of the real leader, a man whose shadow is just as lethal as his bullets. Either way, Yunho is someone you don’t want to cross.
Not that you’d have the chance.
You don’t know if the stories are true—if he really killed a man with his bare hands at sixteen, if his name alone is enough to make people disappear. But you do know this: he is feared. And men like him don’t waste their time listening to music.
—Yunho didn't come to Halazia without a reason. He hated the place, if he was honest—hated the way the walls seemed to sweat with the desperation of men who thought money or violence could buy them safety. Hated how the ceilings dipped too low, how the air thickened with every whispered deal. But tonight, he had business to oversee, and if there was one thing he respected, it was showing up when it mattered.
He pushed through the heavy door without a word, the guards stepping aside the moment they caught sight of him. He didn’t bother looking at them. His presence alone was enough. A silent weight pressed into the room the second he entered, unnoticed by most but felt by anyone who mattered. Conversations slowed, some halted altogether. A few of the smarter ones kept their eyes glued to their drinks, pretending they hadn't seen him arrive.
He moved through the lounge with the kind of ease only a man with absolute control could carry. Long coat brushing his knees, boots heavy against the cracked tile. A black shirt, simple but expensive, clung to his frame; sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the veins on his forearms.
At first, Yunho barely registered the music threading through the stale air. Just the piano—soft, steady, haunting in a way that tugged at something buried deep in his chest. He should have ignored it. He had more important things to handle tonight: negotiations, threats, the delicate dance of violence disguised as business.
But then his gaze found you.
You sat tucked away in the corner, half-swallowed by the dark. Your posture was easy, practiced, the movement of your fingers across the keys effortless. You weren't playing for them, he realized—you weren’t playing for anyone. The notes you coaxed from the piano were yours alone, slipping into the cracks of the rotting lounge like stubborn vines.
You didn’t see him. Not when he stopped mid-stride, not when his attention locked onto you with a focus he rarely gave anything outside a deal or a target. You were lost in your own world, shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm you built.
Something about that irritated him and fascinated him.
He took a seat at a table near the back, still half in the shadows. From there, he could watch without interruption. Watch the way the dim light brushed your skin, the way your dress clung to your frame in all the right places without ever begging for attention. Watch the way your eyes stayed down, focused only on the keys, as if refusing to acknowledge the filth that surrounded you.
He lit a cigarette with a slow hand, the flame briefly illuminating the hard lines of his face. The smoke curled lazily around him, adding another layer to the haze that seemed to cling to Halazia’s walls. He took a drag, exhaling toward the low ceiling, his gaze never leaving the girl at the piano who had no idea the devil himself had finally decided to notice her.
For the first time in a long while, Yunho wasn’t thinking about business.
For the first time, he was thinking about something—or someone—he might want for himself.
—Yunho returns the next night.
And the night after that.
Always the same routine: slipping into Halazia’s suffocating dark, cutting through the smoke and stale sweat like a blade. Always finding the same table tucked into the shadows where the lights couldn't quite touch him
He watches as your fingers move effortlessly across the keys, your body swaying slightly with each note, completely immersed in a world no one else seems to understand. The lounge is still full of men with bloody hands and expensive suits, but even they keep their voices lower when he’s around. They know better than to disrupt whatever is keeping him so still, so quiet.
And eventually, Yunho decided he'd had enough of waiting.
It was late when he moved. Most of the night's vultures had already scattered, leaving only a handful of drunk, half-conscious stragglers. The lights were even dimmer now, the air heavier. You were finishing a quiet piece, something slow and aching, when the sharp sound of boots against wood echoed through the lounge.
You barely noticed it. Not until he was standing there—leaning casually against the edge of the grand piano, close enough that you could see the silver of the rings on his fingers, the careful roll of his sleeves to mid-forearm.
“Play for me.”
The words are deep, smooth, cutting through the smoke-laced air like a blade. The lounge is quieter than usual, but maybe that’s just your ears ringing.
You don’t look up again. Instead, you inhale slowly, steadying yourself as your fingers press into the keys. You play the first thing that comes to mind—not a classical piece, not a song meant for an audience. Yours.
A tune you composed years ago, when the world felt different, when you still had dreams beyond playing in a place like this. It’s soft at first, hesitant, like an old memory being pulled from the depths of your mind. But then your fingers find their rhythm, and the melody spills into the air, painting the room in something only you understand.
You feel his stare. It burns. Like a predator studying its prey, except there’s no malice, no threat—just curiosity.
The song ends too soon. Or maybe you wished it had lasted longer.
The final note lingers before vanishing into the air, swallowed by the weight of the moment. You exhale, standing quickly, your hands instinctively tugging down your extremely short dress.
"Which song?" His voice is deep, smooth—like the whiskey he drinks.
You hesitate. "It’s mine."
A beat of silence before he hums softly.
Your stomach twists at the sound, your breath caught in your throat. His presence is suffocating, consuming. And when he finally speaks again, his next words make your pulse stutter.
"And your name?"
You hesitate. Just for a second. For a terrifying moment, it’s like you’ve forgotten it—like his presence alone has stripped you down to nothing but a girl behind a piano, nameless, insignificant. But then you force it out, your voice quieter than you’d like.
Yunho repeats it. Testing it on his tongue. Then, with a slow nod, he waves a hand—dismissing you. The conversation is over. Just like that.
You nod, mumbling a quick, breathless, “Thank you,” before slipping away. And as you walk off the stage, you swear his gaze follows.
—Your apartment is silent, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the peeling wall. The air is still, heavy with the scent of old books and faint traces of perfume lingering from earlier that evening.
You sit on the worn-out couch, your legs curled beneath you, mind restless as it replays the events of the night.
Why did he ask for your name?
The question loops endlessly in your head, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts.
Jeong Yunho wasn’t just some man. He was someone people whispered about in hushed tones, a figure who existed in shadows and blood-stained loyalty. And tonight, he had asked for your name.
Did you do something wrong?
Were you not supposed to play your own composition? Had you somehow offended him by ignoring him? Had your silence come across as disrespect?
Your heart pounds as anxiety coils in your stomach. You try to rationalize it, to tell yourself that maybe it was nothing—but deep down, you know better. Men like him didn’t do things without reason.
Your stomach twists. Maybe you played something you shouldn’t have. Maybe he recognized the melody. Maybe—
A sudden knock at the door makes you jolt.
Your heart slams against your ribs, panic surging before logic kicks in. You aren’t expecting anyone. And in a city like this, an unexpected visitor was never a good thing.
Slowly, cautiously, you approach the door. You hesitate before opening it, breath caught in your throat. But when you pull it open, there’s no one there.
Just a box. An expensive one at that.
Sleek, black, with a subtle golden trim. The kind of luxury that doesn’t belong in a place like this. Your stomach tightens as you bend down, fingers ghosting over the surface before carefully lifting it inside.
You place it on your small dining table, your throat dry as you lift the lid. A card rests on top.
Come tomorrow at 8 PM to the Halazia Lounge. Sharp.
– JY
Your fingers tighten around the card. You suddenly forget to breathe.
Jeong Yunho called you to the lounge. Personally.
Your mind races, panic rising like a tide. Why? Was this it? Some kind of warning? A test? Were you in trouble? You weren’t stupid—when men like Yunho sent for people, it was never for something trivial.
You swallow hard, trying to steady your nerves. But then—your gaze shifts to what lies beneath the card.
You lift the fabric carefully, your breath catching in your throat as the material spills over your hands like liquid ink. A gown.
Nothing like the cheap, short dresses you were forced to wear at the lounge. This was something entirely different—long, elegant, heavy with quality.
The color is a deep midnight black, nearly blending into the shadows of your apartment. The fabric glides against your skin, intricate embroidery catching the dim light. It’s tasteful yet undeniably alluring, the neckline dipping just enough to be striking, the silhouette hugging in all the right places before cascading down in soft waves of fabric.
And then—the final touch. Resting at the bottom of the box, nestled in tissue paper, is a pair of heels.
Tomorrow, you were supposed to meet Jeong Yunho.
Oh god.
You were in so much trouble.
—The lounge is empty.
The realization settles deep in your bones as you step inside, your heels clicking against the marble floors, the sound unnervingly loud in the vast silence. It was a Sunday. The busiest night of the week, when criminals and power-hungry men filled the space, drowning themselves in expensive liquor and whispered deals. But tonight—tonight, it was deserted.
Except for one person.
Yunho.
He sits on the long leather seat in front of the grand piano, one arm draped casually over the armrest, his posture effortlessly powerful. But what unsettles you more than the emptiness of the room is that he’s already looking at you.
Your breath catches, and for the first time since receiving the dress, you feel the weight of it. The fabric clings to your frame, the smooth material skimming the floor as you move. It fits perfectly, like it was chosen with intention, with precision.
Yunho shifts slightly, and with the smallest tilt of his chin, he motions to the seat beside him.
Wordlessly, you move forward, the soft click of your heels echoing as you step onto the stage. The closer you get, the stronger his scent becomes—rich, dark, intoxicating. A blend of expensive cologne, whiskey. It lingers in the air around you, clinging to your skin the moment you lower yourself onto the seat beside him.
You sit with your body angled toward the piano, hands resting lightly on your lap, while Yunho sits facing outward—toward the empty lounge. You’re close. Close enough that the warmth of him seeps into your side, close enough that every slow inhale you take is filled with him.
“Play something.”
Your fingers twitch slightly. “What song?”
“Something new.” He doesn’t look at you this time. Just leans back, gaze still fixed on the room ahead, voice impossibly calm. “Something you composed.”
No one ever asks for your compositions. No one ever cares to. The lounge patrons want something familiar, something they can drink to, drown in. But Yunho—he doesn’t ask for a song. He asks for you.
A shaky breath leaves your lips as your fingers hover over the keys. You close your eyes for a moment, grounding yourself before finally pressing down.
The first note rings through the empty lounge, filling the space like a ghost taking form.
Your hands move instinctively, muscle memory guiding each stroke, each transition. The melody is raw, something you created long ago but never had the chance to share. It unfolds before you, bleeding into the room like ink on parchment, like a secret whispered into the dark.
Yunho isn’t looking at the lounge anymore. He’s looking at you.
You can feel it—the slow turn of his head, the quiet intensity of his stare pressing against the side of your face, burning into your skin with something unreadable. You don’t dare look back. Instead, you focus on the music, on the way your fingers dance over the keys, on the way the sound seems to fill every crack and crevice of the space around you.
But his presence is overwhelming. And then, as the final notes begin to fade, you gather the courage to glance at him. Your eyes shift, just barely, just enough to steal a glimpse of the man beside you.
Yunho’s head is tilted slightly back, his expression unreadable, his features softened by the dim lighting. But what steals the breath from your lungs is the faint curve of his lips.
Not a smirk. A smile. Small, barely there.
Your heart stutters violently, panic gripping you as you quickly snap your gaze back to the piano, as if you had seen something you weren’t supposed to see.
The final note fades into silence. Your fingers remain resting lightly on the keys, unmoving, waiting. You don’t even dare to look at him.
Then—clapping.
The sound startles you. Your head turns sharply, eyes wide as you take in the sight of Yunho, clapping.
No one had ever clapped for you. Not in this lounge. Not in this life.
And yet, here he was—Jeong Yunho, the man whispered about in fear, the man whose name alone sent shivers through the city—clapping for you.
—It happens again. And again. Every week, like clockwork. The same sleek black box waiting at your door, another delicate note written in that same sharp, deliberate hand. The instructions never change. The day, the time, the place—always the Halazia Lounge, always at 8 PM, always signed the same way. JY.
And inside, another gown.
Each dress is more luxurious than the last, nothing like the cheap, threadbare fabric you were used to wearing. They mold to your body perfectly, the silk draping over you as if it had been made for you and no one else. The colors shift—deep emerald, sapphire blue, obsidian black, crimson red—but the quality remains the same. Expensive. Immaculate. Undeniably his choice.
You don’t ask why.
You don’t even consider refusing.
Because each time you arrive at the lounge, Yunho is already there, waiting. He sits in his usual spot in front of the grand piano, his back to it, his body angled slightly toward you, as if he had never once looked at the instrument itself—only at the person playing it.
You should feel nervous. You should feel terrified. Yunho is not just anyone—he is someone who carries power like a second skin, someone who could reduce an entire empire to ashes with a single command. And yet, despite all that, despite the cutthroat world he belongs to, You feel safe in his presence.
Even now, as you ascend the stage, your heels clicking softly against the polished wood, his gaze follows your every movement. The slit in your dress shifts slightly as you walk, the fabric parting just enough to reveal the curve of your thigh. You feel the weight of his stare, the quiet intensity behind it, but it does not make you uneasy.
You lower yourself onto the seat beside him, feeling the warmth of his body even though your shoulders do not quite touch. His scent envelops you instantly. It is familiar by now, but no less overwhelming.
Your hands find their place on the piano, your fingers hovering over the keys, preparing to play. But just as you inhale to begin, his voice cuts through the silence.
“Stop.”
Something inside you turns cold, panic creeping into the edges of your mind. Had you done something wrong? Had you overstepped? Yunho is unpredictable. He is a man who operates in ways you cannot possibly understand, a man whose patience is not something people dare to test. Your breath stills in your throat as you slowly turn to face him, waiting for an explanation.
But there is no anger in his expression. No frustration. Only quiet scrutiny, something almost thoughtful in the way his head tilts slightly. When he speaks again, his tone is even, calm.
“You always look down when you play.”
Your brows furrow slightly. “I need to see the keys.”
“No, you don’t.” He leans in just a fraction, his voice low, edged with quiet certainty. “Someone as skilled as you doesn’t need to watch their hands. You could play looking away.”
Your throat goes dry. He’s right—you could. You’ve done it before. You don’t need to see the keys to know where your fingers should land. But not with him looking at you like this. Not when his gaze is so heavy, so unrelenting, pulling you under like an ocean tide.
You open your mouth to protest, to come up with some excuse, but before you can, he moves. His fingers find your chin, tilting your face up with effortless ease.
It’s not harsh. It’s not forceful. It’s careful, like he’s testing something fragile. His thumb brushes the underside of your jaw—barely a touch, a whisper against your skin, but it steals every ounce of breath from your chest.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
And you do. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn back toward the piano, your fingers pressing into the first key without breaking eye contact.
The melody begins, soft and slow, and for the first time, you aren’t watching the keys, you’re watching him.
The silence between notes stretches long, thick with something that makes your stomach twist into knots. His hand remains beneath your chin, steady and unmoving, his touch light but firm enough that you cannot escape it. His thumb strokes your jaw in slow, absentminded movements—so subtle, so unconscious, that you wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it.
Your heartbeat stutters. Your fingers tremble slightly against the keys, but you keep playing.
The room feels smaller. More intimate. The empty lounge fades away, the world narrowing to just this moment, just this man, just this touch that is as fleeting as it is devastating.
The song reaches its final note, the last chord dissolving into silence.
His hand lingers for a moment longer, the pad of his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw so gently, so deliberately, that your chest tightens.
And then—he smiles. Not a smirk. Not something cruel or amusing. A real smile. Something you’ve never seen from him before.
—The ATEEZ headquarters was rarely ever silent. It was a constant hum of chaos—phone calls being made, weapons being cleaned, business being handled in hushed voices and sharp commands. But today, there was a different kind of chaos. A Yunho-shaped chaos.
Seonghwa was the first to strike. "You’ve been leaving early these past few weeks."
Yunho barely had time to pour himself a drink before Wooyoung chimed in. "And you’ve been dressing nicer."
"Exactly," San nodded, arms crossed. "You even wore cologne last time."
Yunho sipped his whiskey, unfazed. "I always wear cologne."
"Yeah, but now you actually smell good," Mingi said, narrowing his eyes. "Before, it was just ‘man who kills people for a living’ smell. Now it’s... expensive man who kills people for a living."
Yeosang, who had been silently observing, finally leaned forward. "You’re going to Halazia a lot lately."
Yunho didn’t blink. "It’s my lounge."
Hongjoong smirked. "It’s our lounge. And you never used to care about it before."
Yunho took another sip of his drink, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. "There’s a pianist there."
Jongho frowned. "You’re going there... for music?"
San squinted. "Since when do you care about music?"
"Since when do you care about pianists?" Yeosang added.
"You don’t even own a piano," Mingi pointed out.
"Wait, wait, wait." Wooyoung raised a hand. "You’re saying you’ve been ditching us every Sunday night to listen to some random pianist play in an empty lounge?"
"She’s not random," Yunho corrected, still casual, still unreadable.
Hongjoong gave him a look. "Oh? And what exactly makes her not random?"
Yunho exhaled through his nose, debating for half a second if it was worth explaining. But he had known these idiots for too long. They wouldn’t drop it.
"She’s good," he finally said. "She plays differently."
Seonghwa’s brow arched. "Differently how?"
Yunho leaned back in his seat, fingers tapping against his knee. "She doesn’t just play. She feels the music. She composes her own pieces. You should hear it." He shrugged, keeping his voice even. "It’s interesting."
Yunho was never interested in things like this. He didn’t do hobbies. He didn’t have favorite pastimes. The last time he had shown any level of personal interest in something unrelated to their empire, it had been a limited-edition watch—and even that hadn’t pulled him out of their meetings every single week.
Wooyoung leaned in, voice slow, suspicious. "...So, you’re saying you go all the way to Halazia, alone, on a Sunday, when it’s supposed to be the busiest night, just to sit in an empty lounge and listen to a pianist who is not random play her little songs for you?"
Yunho’s expression didn’t change. "Yes."
Jongho blinked. "And that’s it?"
"That’s it."
Seonghwa studied him for a long moment. "...So you just sit there?"
"Yes."
"And listen?"
"Yes."
"No other reason?"
"No other reason."
Mingi spoke, face dead serious. "Guys... I think Yunho’s going through a midlife crisis."
"You think it’s stress?" Wooyoung whispered dramatically. "Do we need to get him a therapist?"
"He just needs a vacation," San nodded, looking oddly sympathetic. "Or a new hobby. Maybe golf?"
"He already has a hobby," Jongho muttered. "Apparently, it’s watching a pianist."
Yeosang frowned, voice dry. "We should get him checked for a concussion."
"I don’t have a concussion." Yunho’s voice was flat. "And I don’t need a therapist. Or a vacation. Or golf."
"Then what do you need?" Hongjoong asked, watching him carefully.
Yunho met his gaze, unfazed. "For all of you to shut up."
They did not shut up.
—The soft melody drifts through the empty lounge, curling into the air like smoke. Yunho sits in his usual spot, his arm draped lazily over the armrest of the seat, the golden glow of the chandeliers casting long shadows across his sharp features. You don’t know why, but tonight, he looks particularly unbothered—completely at ease in the quiet solitude of the room, watching you play like he has all the time in the world.
And then, without a word, he pulls a cigarette from his pocket.
You watch from the corner of your eye as he places it between his lips, flicking the lighter open with a single motion. The flame flickers for half a second before the end of the cigarette glows a soft ember red.
The scent of smoke reaches you almost instantly, mingling with the deep, rich cologne that has become so familiar.
You don’t stop playing. But you do narrow your eyes.
"You smoke?"
Yunho exhales slowly, watching the thin tendrils of smoke rise toward the ceiling. "Sometimes."
You frown, fingers still gliding over the piano keys. "That’s bad for you."
A soft hum of amusement rumbles from him, his voice smooth and low. "You care?"
Before you can think twice, your hand lifts from the piano, reaching across the short space between you. And then, with absolutely no hesitation, you pluck the cigarette straight from his lips.
His gaze flickers to you, sharp and unreadable, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t stop you. His lips part slightly, the absence of the cigarette noticeable, but his expression remains impassive, curious, even.
You press the cigarette down on the ashtray sitting atop the piano, snuffing it out without ceremony. The final note of your song lingers in the air, almost too perfect as an ending.
Slowly—so, so slowly—Yunho turns his head fully toward you. His eyes flicker with something unreadable, something quiet yet intense, and suddenly, you’re hyperaware of everything. The warmth of him beside you. The way his gaze drops just slightly, lingering on your parted lips before rising back up.
"Bold move."
You swallow. "You’re welcome."
Yunho huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, his eyes still on you, something unreadable flickering behind them. You can feel the weight of his gaze even as you turn back to the piano.
Your fingers poised to start another song but your fingers freeze over the keys as you watch him from the corner of your eye. He doesn’t go far, only circling the bench until he’s behind you. And then, with effortless ease, he sits down again—this time, facing the piano.
Your pulse stutters, and for some reason, you can’t seem to find your voice. The warmth of him settles into the space beside you, and suddenly the elegant grand piano feels too small, too intimate.
He stretches out one long arm and presses a single random key. A jarring, out-of-place note rings out. Loud. Offbeat. Completely wrong.
You stifle a laugh. Yunho tilts his head, staring down at the piano like it had just personally offended him. “That didn’t sound right.”
A soft giggle escapes before you can stop it, and you press a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking. “No, no, it really didn’t.”
He exhales through his nose, and you catch the faintest quirk of his lips. His fingers hover hesitantly over the keys, as if he’s trying to figure out where to place them, and for some reason, the sight of him—a man so powerful, so feared, completely out of his element in front of something as harmless as a piano—makes warmth bloom in your chest.
Gently, cautiously, you take his wrist and guide it down, adjusting his fingers to rest on the proper keys. Yunho stills beneath your touch, his gaze flickering to you, sharp and unreadable, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Here,” you murmur, voice softer now. “Try this.”
You press down lightly on his fingers, guiding him into playing a simple, steady note. The sound rings out smooth this time, blending seamlessly into the space between you.
Yunho watches your hands carefully, brows drawn together in quiet concentration. His fingers twitch beneath yours, adjusting slightly, pressing down again on his own this time.
“Not bad,” you tease lightly.
He hums, tilting his head toward you slightly, and you realize too late how close he is now.
His face is only inches from yours, his warmth pressing into the small space between you. His fingers are still resting against the keys, his wrist still lightly caged beneath your own, but you can’t focus on that anymore—not when his gaze flickers down ever so briefly, just for a second, before meeting your eyes again.
And then—he presses another key, completely offbeat.
A laugh bursts from your chest before you can stop it, bright and full, and you swat lightly at his arm, shaking your head. "You did that on purpose!"
He leans back slightly, feigning innocence. "Did I?"
"You absolutely did." You cross your arms, trying to suppress the grin stretching across your lips. "You were doing fine, and then you just—butchered it."
His smirk grows, just a little. "Maybe I wanted to see you laugh again."
It’s the way he says it—so effortlessly, so casually, like it’s not something that should make your stomach flip. Like it’s not something that should make your heart stutter.
You swallow, suddenly finding it very difficult to look at him, so you turn back to the piano instead. Your fingers find the keys again, pressing lightly, anything to steady yourself.
—You were expecting the box.
It had become routine by now—the faint buzz of the intercom, the quiet thump of something left at your door. Always around the same time. Always the same sleek black packaging with a handwritten note tucked neatly inside. And always a dress. Another beautiful thing you had no reason to deserve, meant to be worn in an empty lounge for a man who barely spoke.
So when the doorbell rang, you barely looked up from the sink.
Wiping your damp hands on a kitchen towel, you walked over, half-distracted, your mind already picturing what color the dress would be this time. Maybe a deep green. Or something soft and silver. You reached for the door and opened it—
It wasn’t a box.
It was him.
Yunho stood there, perfectly still, framed in the doorway like something out of place in the dim, narrow hallway of your apartment building. His frame was wrapped in a sharp three-piece suit, deep charcoal, almost black, with a matching coat draped over his shoulders. His hair was slicked back, effortlessly elegant, the kind of look that made him seem more like a character from a movie than a man who existed in your very real, very modest world.
And in his hand was not a gun, not a file, not even a glass of whiskey, but a brown paper bag.
He looked vaguely… awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just not him.
The silence between you stretched long enough to become a little ridiculous, until Yunho cleared his throat and shifted the bag slightly in his hands. His voice, when it came, was low but careful. Like he’d thought about this before showing up and still wasn’t quite sure he was doing it right.
“I, uh… wanted to take you to dinner.”
That sentence should have sounded strange coming from him, but it didn’t.
You blinked. The words finally registered. “Dinner?”
He nodded once, lifting the bag slightly. “There’s a dress in here. I wasn’t sure what you had.”
You stared at the bag, your brain tripping over itself. “I’m not ready.”
“I’ll wait,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And then, just slightly—his eyes shifted past you, toward the inside of your apartment. “May I come in?”
You hesitated for a second, then stepped aside.
He ducked his head politely as he entered, and suddenly your tiny, quiet apartment felt incredibly inadequate. The living room was clean enough, but plain. A small couch that sagged in the middle. A bookshelf with mismatched spines. Faint music from the old radio near the window. Nothing here was worthy of the man who now stood in the middle of your space, too tall, too composed, looking like he’d stepped out of another world entirely.
You closed the door behind him, heart pounding against your ribs, and forced yourself to keep breathing. “I’ll just… change.”
He gave a short nod, gaze politely dropping toward the floor. “Take your time.”
You bolted to your room, shut the door behind you.
Jeong Yunho was in your apartment. In. Your. Apartment.
You pressed a hand to your face, pacing for a second before forcing yourself to breathe and look inside the bag.
The dress was deep burgundy, simple but elegant. The fabric was soft with a gentle sheen, designed to flow around the body rather than cling. It had thin straps, a gentle dip at the neckline—not too bold, not too modest. A perfect in-between. And somehow, impossibly, it was your exact size.
Of course it was.
You changed quickly, smoothing the dress over your hips, running your fingers through your hair in the mirror until it didn’t look like you'd just lost your mind. You didn’t own heels to match, but you settled on the cleanest pair you had and exhaled deeply before opening the door.
Yunho hadn’t moved.
He was standing exactly where you left him, hands in his coat pockets, his back to your bookshelf like he was trying not to look at anything too closely. You almost wondered if he was nervous.
When his eyes finally landed on you, something in his expression shifted.
And then he softly smiled, “Shall we?”
You didn’t speak. Just nodded once, your throat dry as you stepped out beside him into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind you, locking your quiet apartment in the dark as you followed Yunho down the narrow corridor. The building’s usual creaks and moans echoed around you, each footstep oddly loud in the stillness of the night.
He walked just slightly ahead of you but never too far, as if aware of every movement you made, adjusting his pace without looking.
When you stepped out onto the street, a black car was already waiting. Of course. Sleek, polished, and clearly expensive, the kind of vehicle that made people turn their heads if they had the nerve. Its engine hummed softly under the streetlight glow, and without a word, Yunho stepped forward and opened the door for you.
Yunho stepped ahead and reached for the back door, pulling it open with ease.
You murmured a quiet “Thank you” as you slid into the passenger seat, and he waited until you were settled before circling the car to climb in beside you.
The ride started smoothly, the city rolling past in a blur of warm yellow streetlights and deep shadows. The interior was dimly lit, the soft leather cool beneath your fingertips as you smoothed your dress absently across your lap.
You kept stealing glances at him—Yunho, the man who had become a ritual in your life, now sitting next to you like this, was all perfectly normal. His jaw was sharp in profile, the dim lights of the dashboard casting soft shadows across his cheekbones
Finally, you turned toward him, voice soft but steady. “Why dinner?”
He looked at you then. His gaze met yours for a second before returning to the road.
There was a beat of silence. Then, in a voice quieter than you expected, he said, “I wanted to talk to you. Somewhere that isn’t the lounge. Somewhere normal.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. “You wanted to talk?”
He nodded, still watching the road ahead. “Get to know you. I figured it’s overdue.”
You smiled, small and genuine. “You could’ve just said so.”
His lips curved at that, “I’m saying it now.”
—The car slowed in front of a glass-paneled tower that stretched high into the dark sky. Soft golden lights glowed at the entrance, and two suited valets stepped forward almost immediately as Yunho pulled to a stop. Without a word, he cut the engine, stepped out, and tossed the keys to one of them.
You stepped out slowly, eyes lifting to take in the full height of the building. It looked like the kind of place where people made million-dollar deals over imported wine.
Yunho said nothing, only caught your gaze for a moment and nodded toward the entrance. You followed him inside.
The lobby was quiet, polished marble and soft music under soft light. A man in a tailored suit greeted you with a bow deeper than necessary, and when his eyes flicked up to Yunho, recognition flashed in his expression. No names were exchanged. He simply gestured toward a private elevator and said, “It’s ready.”
You stepped in first, and Yunho joined you without speaking. The elevator was quiet as it rose. You tried not to fidget.
At the top of the tower, a server was already waiting. Another bow. Another hushed welcome. And then you were led to a table tucked near the window, set for two, the city spilling out beneath the glass like stars scattered across asphalt.
Yunho moved ahead of you and pulled the chair out before you could reach for it. It was such a simple gesture, so quietly done, but it made your throat tighten unexpectedly. You mumbled a soft, “Thank you,” as you sat, smoothing your dress absently.
He didn’t say anything—just nodded once and moved to take his own seat. He unbuttoned his blazer as he lowered himself into the chair across from you, the fabric of it folding neatly as he leaned back.
The server brought the first course quickly, something light and plated like art. You glanced up to find Yunho already watching you—not in that quiet, unreadable way he usually did, but more openly now, like he was figuring something out.
For a while, you talked about things that weren’t important at first—music, restaurants. You joked about how you’d never stepped foot in a place like this. He didn’t laugh, but there was a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, the kind you’d learned to recognize as his version of amusement.
He asked about the first time you played piano. You told him. He listened. His eyes stayed on you the entire time.
You were mid-sentence when he leaned forward slightly, brow drawn in subtle focus. He reached for a cloth napkin from beside his plate, and before you could react, he gently reached across the table.
“Here,” he said quietly.
You blinked, confused—until you felt the soft brush of the napkin against the corner of your lips.
And his hand paused, just for a second, before he drew back and folded the napkin neatly again, setting it beside his plate.
Neither of you said anything about it.
You went back to eating, slower now. More aware. He kept glancing at you, and this time when your eyes met, you didn’t look away.
The meal came to a quiet end, plates cleared, wine glasses nearly empty. The night outside the windows had deepened, the lights below blinking like a scattered constellation.
Yunho rested his hand lightly on the edge of the table, fingers tapping once. Then he looked at you, “There’s a park a few blocks from here,” he said. “Would you like to go?”
You nodded, just once. “Yeah. I would.”
Yunho rose from his seat with that same quiet composure he carried everywhere, offering his hand as you stood. You took it without thinking, steadying yourself as you stepped away from the table. He didn’t let go right away, and you didn’t pull away either.
The walk to the park wasn’t far—just a few blocks through quieter streets, the kind that hummed with life during the day but fell into a peaceful hush at night.
The park was mostly empty, just a few dim streetlamps casting long shadows over empty benches and carefully kept paths. Trees swayed in the breeze, branches rustling softly, and the night air held the faint scent of damp grass and spring. It was the kind of silence you didn’t need to fill.
You walked side by side, not speaking at first. His hands tucked in his coat pockets, yours curled around your arms for warmth.
But after a few minutes, your steps began to slow.
The ache in your feet, sharp and insistent, made it harder to keep pace. The heels—beautiful, expensive, chosen by him—had felt manageable in the restaurant. On smooth marble floors, under soft lights. But here, on uneven paths and quiet gravel, they were becoming unbearable.
You tried not to limp or to wince, but Yunho noticed anyway.
He looked over, brow drawing slightly. “Are they hurting?”
You gave a small, sheepish smile. “Just a little. It’s fine.”
He stopped walking. You didn’t, but then, with no warning, he reached for your wrist gently, just enough to stop you. You turned toward him, confused.
“Sit,” he said, nodding toward the nearest bench.
“It’s fine, really—”
“Sit.”
You gave in, lowering yourself onto the bench with a quiet sigh. He knelt down in front of you, one knee pressing into the grass, his coat shifting around his frame as he reached for your ankle.
“Yunho—”
“I’ve got it.”
You hesitated, heat rising to your face as his fingers gently wrapped around your foot, steady and careful. His touch was light, almost reverent, as he slipped the strap of your heel open and slid the shoe off. Then the other. His brows furrowed ever so slightly in focus.
When he stood again, he held the heels lazily in one hand, the straps hanging from his fingers. Then, with his free hand, he reached out toward you again.
You slipped your hand into his, and he helped you to your feet.
You just started walking again, side by side, his fingers still wrapped around yours, your heels swinging gently from his other hand.
Your fingers remained curled in his, and for a moment, you just looked at him—unsure whether to thank him, to let go, or to pretend like this wasn’t happening at all. But Yunho, standing there with your shoes in one hand and your hand in the other, looked completely at ease. He met your eyes, and as your lips curved into a shy, uncertain smile, something in his expression shifted. The faint crease in his brow softened. His mouth pulled into a slow, quiet smile—one that reached his eyes this time.
It made your stomach twist in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.
The two of you began walking again, no real direction, following the winding paths of the park without speaking. Your feet were bare against the earth, cool and damp, but it didn’t matter. His hand was still in yours, steady and warm.
You weren’t sure how long you walked like that. Time blurred in the quiet.
But just as you turned down a narrower path, a sharp drop of water landed on your shoulder. Then another. Then five more. And before either of you could react, the skies opened up above you, a sudden downpour crashing through the trees with a roar.
You stopped walking as rain soaked through your dress in seconds. The wind picked up, and your hair clung to your cheeks, water running down your arms.
Yunho immediately glanced around, spotting the small wooden structure a few meters back—some kind of park gazebo. He turned toward you, already tugging at your hand. “Come on, let’s go under—”
You shook your head, standing your ground as rain slid down your face. “It’s fine. Just rain.”
He hesitated. The water was already dripping from his hairline, darkening his suit. He looked like something pulled out of a painting—sharp, severe, and completely soaked. But he wasn’t bothered by it. Not really.
He took a small step closer instead, still holding your hand. The rain kept falling, warm and relentless, and the world around you faded into nothing but the sound of it.
You watched each other through it. Your lashes stuck together, droplets catching on your cheeks, and he looked at you like he was memorizing everything.
Then, gently, his free hand came up to brush your hair away from your face. He tucked it behind your ear, slow and careful, his fingers trailing against your damp skin as they pulled away.
It was quiet, the kind of quiet that builds and tightens until it’s impossible to ignore. You felt your breath catch as his eyes flicked to your mouth and back again, and suddenly there was no more space between you.
His hand was still on your cheek, your fingers still laced in his, and his face was closer now. Closer than it had ever been. You weren’t moving away. Neither was he.
And just as his mouth hovered over yours, his phone rang.
You both jumped, startled by how quickly the moment shattered.
Yunho pulled back instantly, his hand dropping from your face, his eyes darting away as he stepped back, just slightly. You let go of his hand, suddenly unsure of what to do with your arms, your body, your breathing.
He reached into his coat pocket, the expression on his face unreadable as he glanced at the screen. “I have to take this,” he muttered, his voice quiet, but firm.
You nodded, your pulse racing in your ears. You turned away before he could see the flush creeping up your cheeks, unsure whether it was from the near-kiss or the fact that you had wanted it.
—It had been days since the night in the park. Since the rain, the almost-kiss, the phone call that shattered something neither of you had dared to name. You hadn’t seen him since.
No messages. No black box at your door. No notes written in careful, slanted handwriting. And worst of all, no Sunday meetings at the Horizon Lounge. The quiet rhythm the two of you had fallen into—the silent understanding, the music, the glances—was suddenly gone.
You cursed yourself for it. For letting that moment happen. For wanting it. For ruining whatever fragile thing had existed between the two of you.
Now, the only excuse you had to see him was gone too.
You found yourself scanning every corner of the Halazia Lounge during your shifts, eyes flicking up from the piano every few seconds, hoping to catch the silhouette of his frame in the shadows. But there was nothing. He wasn’t there. Not once.
Your schedule had only gotten worse. Your boss, already demanding on a good day, had started pulling you in earlier, keeping you later. You barely had time to eat properly, much less rest.
Tonight was no different. You were walking home from a late run to the grocery store, a paper bag tucked under your arm. The streets were mostly empty now, the hour too late for comfort but too early for safety. You were too tired to care.
Your feet dragged, each step heavier than the last. And instead of taking your usual long route home, you turned down the narrow alleyway that split behind the old post office. It wasn’t ideal—it was dark, quiet, barely lit—but it shaved ten minutes off your walk. You told yourself it was worth it.
Three men, loud and slouched, leaning against the wall near a back exit of some bar. Their voices carried—slurred, careless—and before you could glance away, one of them noticed you.
“Well, what do we have here?”
“Out a little late, aren’t you?”
You backed up instinctively, clutching the grocery bag tighter. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Trouble?” One of them laughed. “No trouble, sweetheart. We’re just being friendly.”
The first one moved closer, reaching for your arm, and you reacted out of reflex. You shoved him back, quick and sharp, but your body was slow to follow through. You were too tired. Everything hurt. The second one caught your wrist, and you yanked away, stumbling back into the alley wall. Your head clipped hard against the edge of the brick, and a flash of pain burst behind your eyes. You didn’t fall, but you dropped the bag.
You weren’t scared—not really. Just angry. Angry at your body for being so slow, for betraying you when you needed strength. Angry at the men. Angry at everything.
And then, suddenly, they were gone.
The first was shoved hard against the wall, a loud crack of impact ringing through the narrow alley. The second was yanked back and dropped to the ground with a punch that echoed like thunder. The third barely had time to react before he was flung aside, groaning as he scrambled back to his feet.
You blinked, heart hammering, trying to steady your breathing as the men stumbled away.
Yunho stood in front of you, chest heaving, hands clenched at his sides, and he looked furious.
He turned to you, eyes immediately softening. “Are you hurt?”
You nodded, then shook your head. “Just my head. It’s nothing.”
But your knees buckled a little, the exhaustion finally catching up to you. You swayed, and Yunho stepped forward just in time to catch you, your body collapsing against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
You barely heard him. Your arms curled weakly around his coat, your head resting against his shoulder as the cold and the panic drained from your system. You felt his arms shift, one under your legs, the other behind your back. And then he lifted you, without effort, cradling you against him like you weighed nothing at all.
You could feel his heartbeat where your cheek rested, could feel his breath as it hit the top of your head. You stayed like that, letting the movement lull you, eyes heavy.
After a moment, you spoke, voice faint. “We stopped meeting.”
His steps didn’t falter, but he sighed. A soft, quiet sound. Not at you, never at you.
“Work got in the way,” he said gently.
You smiled, small and tired. “I thought I did something wrong.”
He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something else. “Never.”
You weren’t sure how long the walk back to your apartment took. Wrapped in his arms, your cheek pressed against the steady beat of his heart, the time blurred. He didn’t speak again, but you didn’t need him to. His grip was secure, his pace calm and unhurried, as if carrying you through the quiet city night was the only thing that mattered.
When he reached your building, he didn’t hesitate. His fingers slipped easily into the side pocket of your bag to find your keys, and soon you were through the door, into the dim light of your apartment.
He carried you straight to your room, gently lowering you onto the bed like something fragile, careful not to jostle you more than necessary. The mattress dipped under your weight as he pulled the blanket aside, settling you against the pillows before crouching down beside you.
His hands moved slowly as he brushed a few damp strands of hair from your forehead, eyes scanning your face, your shoulders, your arms. “Anywhere else?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head. “Just my head.”
He nodded, then stood up. “Stay here.”
A few minutes passed before Yunho returned, the small white box in his hands. He placed it on your nightstand and knelt beside the bed again, resting one hand lightly on the edge of the mattress. His other hand reached out, fingers brushing gently through your hair, shifting the strands away from your face so he could see the wound clearly.
It wasn’t just the coolness of the antiseptic or the sting of it against the broken skin—it was the way his fingertips moved. The way he tucked your hair back so carefully. The way he hovered close but didn’t touch you more than he had to.
“You should’ve gone the long way,” he said softly, voice low. “Even if it took longer.”
You wanted to respond—something smart, something to brush it off—but the weight of his concern was too real. You couldn’t make light of it.
He applied the antiseptic slowly, carefully dabbing around the wound with practiced hands. You hissed once, and his jaw clenched slightly, but he didn’t stop. He only said, even quieter, “Almost done.”
After cleaning it, he reached into the kit for a bandage, his hands working gently, wrapping it around your head with a care that didn’t match the man the world feared.
When he finished, he sat back a little, eyes meeting yours. “That should hold for now.”
You stared at him. At the way his tie had loosened, at the drops of sweat near his temple, at the way his brows were still furrowed with concern even though the danger had passed. You wanted to say something, to thank him, to reach for him again—but the words were slow to come.
He stood, not abruptly, but with quiet purpose, closing the box and setting it aside.
“You should rest.”
You didn’t want him to go, but you also didn’t know how to ask him to stay.
Yunho lingered for a second, eyes searching yours, like he was waiting for something. When nothing came, he exhaled gently and nodded.
“I’ll come by tomorrow.”
—The pain pulled you out of sleep like a hook behind your eyes. You sat up slowly, groaning as the headache throbbed, sharp and insistent. For a moment, you stayed still, hoping it would pass. But it didn’t. It lingered, pulsing behind your temples, turning each blink into a dull ache.
You reached blindly toward the nightstand drawer, searching for the little bottle of pills you always kept tucked there. Your fingers came up empty. You opened the drawer fully, rifling through it again—nothing. You moved to the bathroom cabinet. Nothing there either.
The silence in the apartment pressed in around you. You didn’t want to go outside. Not after what had happened. Not after the alley, the panic, the blood. But your head pulsed again, sharper this time, and you knew you wouldn’t sleep.
So, with a heavy sigh, you grabbed your purse and slipped out into the night.
The city was quiet this late, more shadow than light. The sidewalks were mostly empty, the occasional distant car rumbling past. You moved quickly, sticking close to the glow of the streetlamps, head lowered. The pharmacy was open, barely lit, manned by a half-asleep cashier who didn't bother to look up. You paid for the pills in silence and tucked them away, eager to be home again.
You were halfway back when you heard a scream.
You froze. It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp—sickeningly sharp. A few feet ahead, just past a flickering lamp post, was a narrow alley. Your first instinct was to turn around. You had no reason to get involved. You were barely healed from your last run-in with the shadows of this city.
But then came another scream.
And your feet moved before your fear could catch up.
You stepped into the alley, cautiously, each step slow and deliberate. The light from the street barely reached here, the darkness thick and heavy. But as your eyes adjusted, you saw figures clustered near the far end.
One of them stood apart.
His back was to you, tall and broad-shouldered, body tense. The others surrounded three crumpled bodies on the ground. Blood was already pooling beneath them. Not enough to be fatal, but enough to make your stomach twist.
Your eyes locked on the lone figure standing over them, unmoving, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Yunho?”
He turned sharply at the sound of your voice. And in that instant, everything slowed.
The streetlight hit his face, and the sight stole the breath from your lungs.
Blood spattered across his cheekbone, on his jaw. His knuckles were red, the skin raw. His eyes were wide, not angry, not cold, but startled, like a child caught doing something they were never meant to.
He waved a hand toward the others behind him without looking away from you. His men understood immediately. Two of them grabbed the battered attackers and began dragging them away, quick and silent.
You walked toward him without speaking, ignoring the way his eyes darted away from yours like he couldn’t bear to meet them, like he expected to see disgust there.
You closed the space between you until you were standing right in front of him, the scent of rain and rust thick in the air. Slowly, you lifted your hand.
Yunho tensed, as if bracing for something, but all you did was reach up to his face.
Your fingers brushed gently against his cheek. You wiped the blood away with your thumb, not looking at the mess or the violence in the air.
He blinked, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes, like he was searching your face for disgust, for fear, for anything that might confirm the worst. But there was none of it.
His hand lifted, slow and hesitant, fingers hovering near your jaw. He paused, just long enough to give you the chance to move, but you didn’t.
His palm settled against your cheek, warm despite the dried blood.
You met his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?”
Yunho stared at you for a moment longer, breath shallow, and then something in him gave way. The careful restraint cracked. He leaned in, and then his mouth found yours.
His lips were warm, hesitant at first, brushing against yours like he was still waiting for you to pull away. When you didn’t, he deepened the kiss—just slightly—his hand shifting to cradle the back of your head, careful to avoid the healing wound. You tilted into him instinctively, your own hands rising to grip the front of his coat.
There was no one else in the world in that moment.
He pulled back slowly, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, his breath mingling with yours. Then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze.
SUMMARY: Nothing in your life ever comes easy. Not family, not money, and certainly not jobs to pay the endless stack of bills. The only thing easy is the smiles you give Chan when he comes into your convenience store at the same time every Saturday to buy his cherry sours. And then one day you run into him where you're not supposed to, and everything changes.
WC: 27,990
AU: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Strangers to Lovers
GENRE: Romance, hint of angst, smut
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Due to the nature of this fic, warnings are under the cut. This is far tamer than either of this fic's predecessors.
A/N: This fic, though a part of a greater "collection" of fics, can be read as a standalone. I do highly recommend reading Baby and Vengeance, though. They provide much more color to the characters you meet in this. Welcome back Angel, Baby and Soonyoung! This fic also introduces Jeonghan :)
A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta reading this absolute monster and being my biggest cheerleader.
MASTERLIST | ASK | FULL COLLECTION | ▷ NOW PLAYING | MOODBOARD
FULL WARNINGS: General violence associated with criminal behavior, depictions of murder, fight sequences, mentions of drug use/references to drugs, mentions of death, mentions of Syndicate War and its toll on the city, threats of physical violence, depiction of guns and knives, explicit language, some depictions of classism/reader struggling to make it by, Jeonghan is in his evil era, pls forgive him, some angst regarding reader's perception of the world/how she feels about her life, morally grey characters (but they're fun lmao), reader agrees to sort of be paid company for the night - nothing sexual happens but I don't shy away from the implication of escorting, Chan gets a bit possessive, a bit of a miscom trope, explicit sexual content including vaginal fingering, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected sex, light cum eating, use of 'good girl' a few times. I think this mostly covers the big things, please let me know if I missed anything.
SWEAT DRIPS DOWN KANG LI YANG'S FOREHEAD. Chan watches it sharply, tracking the bead as it travels from Kang’s salt-and-pepper hairline to his thick brow. Chan has to give it to the older man - he doesn’t reach to wipe the sweat. Instead, he tries to seem unaffected and relaxed, leaning back in his chair to view the cards in his hand.
Chan already knows what the cards are. Even if he wasn’t one of the top gamblers in the room, Kang is a terrible gambler - funny, considering he owns the ornate casino they’re sitting in. It’s just the two of them at the table with a single dealer, a woman dressed in a tight-fitted, all black suit. There are tiny LED lights stitched into the fabric, glittering subtle to make it look like she’s swimming in the cosmos.
The high rollers room is quiet, the heavy privacy curtains blocking out the noise from the main gambling floors. Only a few tables are open with dealers similarly dressed as the woman in front of him passing out cards. It gives the illusion that they’re surrounded by people who will mind their business, who will afford them privacy.
It’s supposed to put Chan at ease. It doesn’t.
He might be at ease if Kang weren’t sweating through his custom suit. He might be at ease if he didn’t recognize that the people at the tables around them were Patrons of the Yong Syndicate. He might be at ease if Kang’s fingers weren’t trembling as he moved his cards around to his preferred order, trying everything in his power to do anything but look around the room for what Chan knows is an ambush.
He’d have figured it out even if Jeonghan hadn’t given him a warning. The right hand man of Choi Seungcheol is full of secrets, and though Chan has no idea why he has so much knowledge of the Yong family, he’s thankful for Jeonghan nonetheless.
Chan sighs. Kang notices, steel grey eyes flickering up to Chan. “Worried you’ll lose another hand, Lee?”
Chan does not lose games of poker - not even a single hand. He lets people win, sure, but he does not lose unless it is a part of his game to win. Because that is what Chan is good at - winning. It’s why he’s one of the most trusted members of the Choi Syndicate, a powerful Chariot whose single job is to broker and secure alliances and business to keep the money and loyalty flowing into Choi Seungcheol’s pockets.
“Do you know why The Syndicates started calling brokers Chariots?” Chan asks. He flicks his finger upward and pushes glittering chips toward the middle to raise the bet. Kang shakes his head at Chan’s question and matches his bet. “In the old days, one of the cards in a tarot deck was the Chariot.”
The dealer burns the cards on the table and deals out anew. Kang looks at his hand, a ringed finger tapping against the back of his cards. His sweat increases on his brow and his eye twitches in the corner as he risks a glance to Chan’s left.
“I didn’t know that,” Kang says eventually.
“The Chariot,” Chan explains as Kang places a bet, “is a card that represents triumph through determination and overcoming obstacles. It’s what I do for a living - I overcome obstacles and move the Choi Syndicate in a positive, forward direction.”
“I see.”
“I believe that you think you do.”
Kang glances up as Chan slides chips onto the table. “Being a Chariot is more than being charming or letting the owner of a high-performing casino beat me at hands to earn his trust and make him feel confident.” This makes Kang frown, his shoulders tensing. “It means knowing when someone is bullshiting me, and you, Kang Le Yang, are bullshitting me.”
“Excuse-”
“Three weeks ago you were more than eager to set up this meeting.” Chan presses on as the dealer moves the cards again, impervious to the crackling tension at the table. Kang is rippling with tension now, clutching his cards harder. “You’ve been wanting to lick the boot of one of the Syndicates since you opened this place.”
“Listen here, you-”
“The Tower of the Choi Syndicate was amenable to bringing on the Kang Family as a Patron serving under the banner of the mountain, so I agreed to meet with you, Kang Le Yang.” The dealer asks the men to reveal their hands, but Kang is staring at Chan, fury reddening his cheeks. “Imagine my surprise to find you less eager, and inviting me to your table with several men loyal to the Yong family in the room.”
Kang Le Yang’s face drains of color. He drops a hand from his cards to signal someone, but Chan tuts, stopping him. Chan reveals his cards - a straight flush. He doesn’t need Kang to drop his hand to know he only has a straight.
“You’ve been delaying talking about business for the last hour,” Chan observes, leaning back in his seat and leveling the older man with a heavy stare. “You’re sweating through your clothes despite the anti-perspirant modification your wife had you do three years ago, and you keep looking over my shoulder to the left, which leads me to believe you’re waiting for someone.”
“Get out of my establishment.”
Chan cocks his head. “Why? I haven’t cashed out my poker chips yet. Anyway, it looks like your wife isn’t done with playing her game yet.”
Kang spins around in his chair. He’d sat himself with his back to the entrance of the high rollers room like any good guest establishing trust would. He had given Chan a seat with a good vantage point to set the tone for confidence and to feel like he was safe.
Which meant Kang Le Yang had not watched his wife, Kang Daiyu, walk into the room and sit at a table of her own. She’s flanked by two of the personal guards belonging to the Kang family, but the player next to his wife gives Kang a glittering smile with all teeth when he looks at them.
When Kang turns to look at Chan, he is shaking and pale. “Get that demon away from my wife.”
“Her name is Angel, actually. The bible is confusing, I know.” Chan leans forward and pulls his winnings toward him. Kang doesn’t move, vibrating in his seat.
Most members of the Syndicate know the woman sitting next to Kang’s wife. Kang himself might not know her, not embroiled enough in Syndicate politics to recognize one of the Rooks of the Choi Syndicate, but he does. Which confirms Jeonghan’s contact was right - Kang Le Yang had been prepped and educated about the Choi family in a way that screams collusion with another Syndicate.
Lucky for Chan, Angel’s presence keeps Kang in his seat for the time being. Seeing one of the renowned killers of the Choi Family next to his wife is enough insurance that Chan has a few moments to spare before leaving - it was why he had Angel tag along in the first place.
“I’m going to take these poker chips, walk over to the teller and get my cash, and then I’m going to walk out of here and go home. Probably going to stop to find someone to take with me on the way because I need a good fuck after this bullshit.”
Chan points at Kang, the ring on his finger catching the light. It's a gaudy thing, all hammered gold and lapis lazuli with a chariot etching on the front. “And you are going to sit here and not do a fucking thing about it. And you’re not going to signal any of those Yong fuckers to touch me, or Angel is going to carve your wife open and play doctor with her insides.”
“You insolent-”
“Angel loves knives,” Chan interrupts. He looks at Kang seriously. Lets the casino owner see the weight of his words. “Her favorite is a pretty butterfly knife Yoon Jeonghan gave her, and that Yoon Minji taught her how to use. If that isn’t convincing, I urge you to call whoever you were waiting for to see who answers - the Yong contact you set me up with, or the Sentinel of the Choi Syndicate.”
Angel’s main purpose was to turn Kang Daiyu inside out if needed, but she was also an additional set of eyes and ears for Chan. She’d signaled Chan with a single flick of her hair fifteen minutes ago confirming that Soonyoung had removed whoever Kang was waiting for to come through the back door.
Everything about Chan’s demeanor seems unaffected, but he’s raging inside, heart pounding. He and Angel are the only two people from the Choi Syndicate in the room and they’re outnumbered five to one. Soonyoung is somewhere lurking outside the high-rollers room doing whatever it is the hired guns of the Syndicate do.
It’s not Chan’s best gamble, but he is making one right now. He is betting that Angel and Soonyoung’s reputation will be enough to terrify the casino owner into submission. Chan can be scary in his own way - he’s lethal too. But this is where he thrives, leveraging the names of two well known butchers that answer the call of Choi Seungcheol, ready to spill blood.
Kang might get to kill the three of them tonight, but not without irreparable damage. Damage he’s going to take anyway for letting them go, but not irreparable. He can survive a petty skirmish with the Yong family. He cannot survive a fight with two of the Choi Syndicates most lethal members and the long term fallout with Seungcheol.
The gamble pays off. Kang sags in his seat, the exhaustion transforming him. His apprehension turns to defeat and he nods, forehead in hand as he dismisses Chan. Chan gives him a charming smile, standing up and collecting his poker chips as he goes.
Despite his confidence that Kang won’t do anything stupid, Chan doesn’t let his guard down. He walks with even steps, fingers ready to reach for his weapon as he goes. The Patrons under the Yong’s dragon banner watch him go, confused.
None of them raise a hand to him. He gets the sense that they want to, but they haven’t been given the signal. They’re low enough on the totem pole in terms of Syndicate rank to do nothing, watching as Chan stops by the table Angel is playing poker at.
He bends down to kiss Kang Daiyu on the top of her hand politely, flashing her a smile. She flushes and fans herself as he says, “You never fail to look less than ephemeral, Lady Kang.”
It’s not untrue. Kang Daiyu has all the cosmetic enhancements money can afford, putting her appearance at somewhere around her late thirties while her physical age is somewhere in her early sixties. He still finds it uncanny, but he ignores the nervous flip in his stomach the proximity of her brings when he catches a whiff of altered pheromones, made to attract.
Daiyu smiles, her red lips sparkling. “Lee Chan, you tease.”
Angel makes a face behind her as she stands. In rare form, Angel is wearing a dress. She looks nice, which is disorienting and deceiving. Chan is used to seeing her wearing nothing but black tactical clothes or nondescript black pants and long sleeves. He’d made the mistake of asking her why she always wore black once. Because it shows blood the least had been her chipper response.
Chan winks at Kang’s wife because he can. “Until we meet again.”
She pouts. “You’re leaving so soon?” Her eyes dart to Angel and a flash of rage goes through them. “Ah, it’s always the youngest of the flock.”
Chan laughs. “I assure you, Lady Kang, nothing in the world could lure me into this one’s bed. I think I would find too many teeth and a very angry, very prickly boyfriend.”
If Angel is offended by implying she has too many teeth or that Chan thinks Vernon is prickly, she doesn’t say so. She is placid calm, watching him with even eyes as Kang Daiyu wishes him farewell and he sweeps by. She falls into step with him, saying nothing as her gaze sweeps from right to left, on high alert.
When they exit the high roller room, Chan is hit with a barrage of noise and visuals. The casino is space-dark and filled with intricate holographics casting blue and purple light around the shine and clamour of the slot machines. Above the casino floor, the ceiling seems not to exist. Instead, a whorl of stars and galaxies float above, giving the illusion that they’re looking straight up into the night sky somewhere undiscovered.
Soonyoung pushes off a slot machine, tucking his phone in his pocket. He’s dressed in all black as usual, and his silver hair is styled back and tucked behind his ears - longer than usual, like his girlfriend likes it. He falls into step easily with Chan and Angel, hands in his pocket, dark eyes like stormy seas sweeping the room.
Together, they head toward the teller. Soonyoung makes a noise in the back of his throat when he sees Chan diverting toward the glittering booth, a woman dressed in a space suit behind the counter.
“I’m collecting my chips,” Chan says seriously. “I won fifty thousand credits off that stupid fuck.”
“I’ll give you fifty thousand credits to skip it and get out of here. There are only three of us.”
Chan rolls his eyes, walking backward toward the counter. “It’s a gamble, but it’s not a bad one. Wait here.”
Soongyoung does not, in fact, wait where Chan tells him to. He follows in Chan’s footsteps up to the window, a dangerous shadow that makes Chan sigh. He knows it’s Soonyoung’s job to keep the Syndicate - and Chan by extension - safe. Soonyoung has only been the Sentinel of the Choi family for a few months, inheriting the position of militia leader when Seungcheol stepped in to lead the family business after his father’s passing.
Life has not been easy for any of them lately, least of all Soonyoung. Chan glances at his friend sidelong while the teller counts his chips. Soonyoung looks tired, circles under his eyes and a little watery at the edges. But he’s nothing like the mess he was last year, nothing like the shadow of himself he’d been before his girlfriend had made it back to him.
It makes Chan’s mouth twitch in a smile. He looks down at the counter, waiting for the teller. Seungcheol’s sister coming home and escaping the clutches of the Kim family had been the miracle that they all needed - and the start of the war that’s kept Chan busier than ever.
Syndicate war isn’t common. It always devastates the city’s infrastructure, makes the general population panic, and has been known to wipe out entire family lines. That thought alone makes Chan glance over his shoulder at Angel. She’s standing in the middle of the casino, her gaze everywhere and nowhere at the same time. She looks like that a lot these days. Lost and found. Swimming and sinking. Here and there. Burning and fading.
She’s the last of her family in more ways than one. She has no living relatives left that Chan is aware of, and though she’s not a Yoon by blood, she’s one of them by marriage and by Yoon Minji’s careful design. She’s one of two Yoon family members left in the city, the Wisdom of the Choi family and Seungcheol’s right hand man the other.
The teller hands Chan his money and asks if he needs an escort. Soonyoung snorts and pushes off the wall, sticking a stim pop in his mouth as he goes. “I’ve got it,” he assures them, narrowed eyes. “Have a nice night.”
Chan’s lips twitch again. He wishes the woman behind the counter a goodnight as well and follows Soonyoung, who charges toward the door. Angel is by his side in seconds, snapping from seemingly inattentive to alert.
As they walk ahead of him, Chan relaxes just a little. He feels safer when they’re around, though he can take care of himself well enough. His mother had been a Sword for the Choi family, a hired gun and excellent fighter both with her hands and with a knife. She’d taught him how to defend himself from a young age, giving him the tools to be scrappier than most of the other Chariots in the Choi Syndicate.
As a Chariot, it’s Chan’s responsibility to put himself in dangerous situations. He’s one of the few who has the audacity to go after deals and partnerships that put him deep in enemy territory - or walk through the doors like he did tonight to see if he can salvage a potential partnership anyway.
It’s what makes him so successful. He’s willing to do whatever needs to be done to help the family - and if he likes the feeling of winning impossible wagers, well that’s his own business.
Outside, the hiss of rain is hot on the pavement. Summer is bringing more and more rain to the city - not that it’s ever not raining - turning the world into a slick blur of watercolor. They’re in the Upper District of Hyperion, which means the storm drains actual work and the world doesn’t smell like piss and decay immediately when it rains. It doesn’t smell good, but it’s not as rotten as the gutters of the Lower District.
A car pulls up in front of the lobby doors. The driver steps out and pops up a black umbrella, looking like a black beetle as they make their way toward Chan and the others. Chan recognizes the man as one of the Choi drivers and relaxes, complying when he escorts the three of them to the car, holding the umbrella over their heads.
Inside, the interior is warm and smells like amber. Soonyoung shoves him to the side with a curse and Chan growls, moving to sit by the other window - until Angel opens the door and narrows her eyes at him. Which is how Chan, the youngest of his friends, ends up smashed in the middle between them.
He sighs and lets his head fall back against the headrest. “Can we go get fucked up?”
Soonyoung shakes his head and tells Chan his girlfriend is waiting for him at home. Chan eyes Soonyoung, whose focus is on his phone, the holographs floating above the screen showing news articles. He notes that Soonyoung doesn’t call Seungcheol’s sister Baby anymore, like the rest of them. Soonyoung says her name, rolling off his tongue soft, like it belongs to him.
Chan supposes it does.
He turns to ask Angel and she already shakes her head. “I’m meeting up with Hansol to go hunting.”
Chan doesn’t have to ask what Angel means by hunting. Ever since her stepmother’s murder the night the Kim Syndicate tried to take the Choi’s by surprise, Angel has been murdering members of the Kim family like clockwork.
Like Soonyoung, Angel says Vernon’s given name like it’s something precious. It makes Chan feel unsettled. He’s never had what either of them do with their partners, a missionary-like devotion to the people they love that borders on unstable.
The only thing Chan has ever been devoted to is his charm and his ability to talk people into a deal and into bed. He will be fucking damned if either of his friends who are in a relationship will rob him of that tonight, so he asks to be dropped a few blocks away from the casino at the corner of a strip of clubs under the Choi banner.
Soonyoung rolls down the window before the car rolls away. “Be careful,” the Sentinel warns. His dark eyes flash. “Remember our territory isn’t safe either.”
“God, you’re so serious these days.”
“Syndicate war is serious.”
“You sound like Baby.”
Soongyoung’s mouth twitches at the mention of his partner’s nickname. “Yeah, well she’s smarter than both of us.” Soonyoung looks at his watch. “Try to be no longer than an hour, Chan. You’re charming, I’m sure you can find some pussy in that time frame?”
“He’s also annoying,” Angel remarks from behind the window.
Soonyoung snaps his fingers and points to Angel, who Chan cannot see. “Right she is. Maybe make it two.”
“Thanks dad,” Chan growls. “I’ll come home when I want.” Soonyoung’s face darkens for a second, levelling Chan with a look that makes Chan happy. “But if you’re going to ruin your night worrying about me, I’ll make it two hours. Now leave.”
Soonyoung blows Chan a kiss and rolls up the dark window as the car’s tires hiss against the wet pavement.
Watching the car go, Chan has the brief feeling he should have gone with them. He is exhausted, pulling long, stressful shifts and spending longer and longer in clubs, casinos and anywhere that will accept his invitation to get more people across the finish line and united under Seungcheol’s family.
It’s not easy work. Times of unrest in the city don’t make people confident in doing business with the Syndicates until it looks like there’s going to be a winner. And right now, it’s hard to tell. The Choi family is doing a good job holding out against the pressures of the combined might of the Yong and Kim families, but two against one isn’t easy.
Stress knots in Chan’s shoulders. He rolls his neck, hissing when he feels the way the muscles coil. He’s fucking stressed. Everyone is. But the long nights weigh him down in a way that he’s not used to, and now he’s constantly walking across the edge of a knife.
Almost all of his meetings have been like the one with Kang. It’s not the first time someone has tried to maneuver him into a place where they can eliminate him, and it won’t be the last. He’s just glad that this time there was no bloodshed, unlike two weeks prior.
Determined to find someone to take home and destress with, Chan starts walking up the street. The neon lights of a corner store capture his attention and his steps slow as he thinks about it. He hasn’t eaten all night and his energy is plummeting. He pats around his pockets and realizes he’s out of stimpops. Sighing, he pivots and walks toward the door.
A blast of air conditioning hits him in the face and the airlock on the door hisses. Inside the convenience store is a cacophony of neon advertisements and rows and rows of product: snacks, medical supplies, books, food, technology, tobacco products, hygiene products.
Chan ignores it all in favor of going to the back wall, lit blue by the refrigerator lights. Multiple advertisements pop up on the screened fridges as he browses, each louder than the last. He winces, in a hurry to find the energy drink he wants so he can escape advertising hell.
Opening the fridge, he braves the cold as he snatches a cherry flavored energy drink that promises to wake him the fuck up with no added sugar or calories. He’s about to close the fridge when he thinks better of it and grabs a water as well.
He trots to the front of the store, head ducked down as he goes. There’s no one else at the checkout counter as he drops his shit on top, knocking over the can. He reaches to right it, but a hand shoots out to do it for him.
Chan startles, surprised at the human hand. Most convenient stores have little robots with singsong voices, but when he looks up at you, he freezes. You are certainly not a robot. Well - maybe you are. You look too pretty to be human, eyes glittering under the neon light above your head, casting you in a pink halo. You give him a shy smile, almost apologetic when you retract your hand back after fixing the can.
“Find everything okay?”
Chan just continues staring, items long forgotten.
Chan is so rarely thrown by a pretty face. He’s seen them all - natural and cosmetically enhanced, simple and exotic, friendly and not. He does a lot of business with a lot of people who make it their job to be pretty, whose entire purpose is to lure him in.
He’s pretty good at cutting through pretty, but you cut right through him, down to the arsenic filled core of him.
“Are you okay?” The question makes him blink a few times. Your mouth is downturned - still sweet and flush with sticky red like candy. “Sir?”
“Yes,” Chan answers finally. “Yes to both questions. Uh - found my shit and uh - sorry, that sounded rude. I found what I needed and I am okay. Yes.”
“This is my favorite flavor.”
Chan glances down at the energy drink. “Same.”
“You know they make a candy that tastes exactly like this but sour?”
He realizes that the candy you’re referencing must be what the sticky residue on your mouth is. Suddenly he’s never wanted them more. “And where would I find them?”
Your smile lights up the room and he swears his heart beats faster like he’s just done a line of frostbyte. When you point, Chan notices a tiny tattoo on your wrist. It’s in the shape of a red heart. The corners of his mouth quirk upward. Cute.
Following your direction, he walks back toward the candy aisle, hands perusing the shelf until he finds what he’s looking for. He picks up the box and shakes it as he approaches you, making you grin. Holy fuck he wants to keep making you grin.
Once you’re finished ringing his items, he hovers his phone over the pay station. The machine chimes and you slide his bag over to him, red heart catching his eye again.
“Enjoy your night,” you say.
“You too.” He steps toward the door and holds the bag up. “I’ll let you know if I like the cherry sours.”
“You will.”
Night air hits Chan in the face, humid and sticky. Even if he hates the candy, he’ll certainly tell you otherwise.
Instead of walking toward the club and cracking the energy drink, Chan calls one of the drivers for the Choi Syndicate to come get him. He passes the time by turning to look over his shoulder back into the interior of the store, but he can’t see you from where he stands.
Cute. You were cute. In a way that he can’t quite pinpoint, but that sticks with him even when he slides into the air conditioned interior of the car. Your candied smile and little heart tattoo haunt him all the way home, nearly making him forget about the candy until he’s keying into his apartment.
Tossing his shit on the counter, he reaches into the back and produces the little box. He gives it a shake, pleased at the rattle. Ripping the lid open with his teeth, he spits the spent cardboard on the counter and shakes out a few red, heart shaped candies. It immediately makes him think of your tattoo and he chuckles.
Chan pops a few of the candies into his mouth and gives a thoughtful suck, humming pleasantly. They are sour, making his eyes water for just a second before they turn sweet. The taste of cherry is perfectly balanced and doesn’t taste like chemicals like most other candies.
When he finally crawls into bed, Chan wonders if you taste as sweet as the cherry sours.
-
Chan doesn’t do drugs. Well - sort of. He eats plenty of stimpops and every once and a while he has to resort to frostbyte as a last resort. His job requires him to operate at a level of awareness for hours longer than normal, and even though he takes the supplements and does all the wellness shit in the world to keep him operating, sometimes an illegal stimulant is the best way to get it done.
It isn’t that he thinks drugs are bad - he just knows he has an addictive personality. Which is why Chan has been able to make a career out of high stakes and gambling, turning everything he does into a game. He is pretty good at not straying too far - it would cost him his life if he did - but he still gets a high from a closed deal, feels a rush of something strong when he wins.
He can’t not work. It’s what makes him one of the best Chariots in the Syndicate, and Seungcheol’s favorite. The others take too much time off, or are too patient, too okay with losing. Chan is addicted to the risk and reward of navigating backdoor deals and under-the-table transactions.
The inability to quit is why he doesn’t do drugs. Chan knows that once he starts, he won’t stop.
Which is exactly how he winds up at the same corner store every Sunday at 3:40 AM sharp. He doesn’t bother telling himself it’s because the store is on the way home and because it’s the only one that carries the new cherry sours he likes (he wouldn’t know where else to look for them, he hasn’t tried). Chan knows it’s because that’s the only time your schedule doesn’t conflict with his.
At least, that seems to be the case. He doesn’t have your schedule exactly - he has resisted doing that to feel less crazy. But Chan’s entire job is to be observant, and over a few weeks of trial and error, he knows for a fact the only time he is guaranteed to run into you is the late night hours of Sunday shifts.
You’re a breath of fresh air every time he sees you. He has no idea how you manage to be so sweet while working arguably the worst shift at a convenience store that seems chronically empty, but he likes it. You’re a tiny pocket of kindness in his overwhelmingly cruel world.
Tonight, Chan’s hands are shaking from post-adrenaline rush. He takes a few deep breaths outside the store. The air is heavy with the promise of rain, the smell of petrichor lingering. Better than the scent of blood that had filled his nose forty minutes ago. Chan hates the smell of blood.
Steeling himself, Chan enters the store. The bright lights make him squint, the flashing holograms and fluorescents above a little too much for his liking. You look up from the counter and his heart trips over itself, doubling its speed when you smile and wave at him. Friendly. Familiar.
Chan flashes you a smile in return, tilting his head in his own greeting before he ducks to the back where the freezers hold all of the drinks. He grabs his usual, taking his time as the advertisements beg him to pick their product. The cool air when the glass slides open is refreshing.
He follows the same route he does every Saturday night, moving from the fridges to the candy aisle. He glances over the top of the shelves as he goes, watching you. You’ve jumped up on the back counter, swinging your legs as you hold a tablet in your hand, the words of what appear to be an online book projecting above the screen.
You’re lost in your own world and he appreciates that. The first few times he’d come in here, you hadn’t let yourself be distracted. You’d stood and waited for him to grab his things and check out, every bit the customer service employee and attentive while someone was in your store.
Now? You let Chan do what he wants. It’s a recent development over the last two weeks, one that he thoroughly enjoys. Last weekend you’d been listening to music, humming sweetly as you sat and kicked your feet back and forth while he walked around the aisles to collect his usual.
Cherry sours in hand, Chan heads up to the counter. This part is bittersweet. He loves to chat with you, but he knows how short the shelf life of the conversation is, how quickly he has to say goodbye once he pays for the items.
As usual, you hop down from the counter. You give him a smile that lights up the entire store and it’s all Chan can do to not drop everything on the counter for you to ring up.
“How’s your night?” You ask, eyes flicking up to drink him in.
Terrible is the honest answer. Chan had nearly died under an hour ago, and had to murder his way out of a bad deal. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.
Instead, he says, “Better now. What are you reading?”
“Umm it’s some sort of ancient classic? It’s about two lovers who come from warring families.”
“Ah.” His mouth twitches. “Romeo and Juliet.”
“You’ve read it?”
He nods. “It’s one of the few books my mom owns.”
“Your mom owns books? Like physical copies?”
Chan winces. It’s easy to forget that something like a book is a simple possession to him and not the rest of the world. While most citizens of Hyperion only have access to the digital world, those with money and storied family history have access to things others don’t: physical art, tangible books and paintings, sculptures, gardens, decorations that are meant for looking and that don’t serve a purpose.
“Ah,” he scratches the back of his neck as he pays for the items. “Yeah. She’s very fortunate.”
You hum and he looks at you. There’s a look on your face he doesn’t understand. He stares until you look up at him and he shoots you a questioning look.
“You said she is very fortunate,” you point out. “So either you don’t share in the wealth - which I doubt because you’re always dressed nice - or you’re calling it hers because you don’t want to make it awkward that you own physical books and I can’t.”
Chan opens his mouth. Closes it. Your observation is dead on, leaving him at a loss of words for a moment, which is unfamiliar territory. But Chan is observant too, and he notices the way you say that you can’t own physical books. Not that you don’t. Because it isn’t a possibility for you, it’s not just something you haven’t been able to do yet. It’s something that you’ll never be able to do, a firm no.
“It’s the second one.” He opts for honesty here, in this space with you. He cheats almost everyone else, but he doesn’t want to cheat you. “I forget that it is incredibly privileged of me to just… have access to books.”
“I think it’s easy to forget what is normal for you isn’t the same for everyone.”
He doesn’t like where this conversation with you is going. He’s never talked to you this much at once, but it feels negative, feels like he’s putting distance between you instead of pulling you closer. So he switches to asking, “What do you think of it so far?”
“Despite its age, it's quite relevant. Family wars wreak havoc on everyone.”
He looks up at you sharply. “You’re referencing the Syndicate War?”
“Those are families, so I suppose they fall under the category.”
Chan narrows his eyes a fraction. You don’t look at him straight on, but your words hold meaning enough, even if you’re not brave enough yet to look him in the eyes and tell him. He doesn’t mind, hiding a small smile as he gathers his items.
“You’re not wrong,” he says evenly. You glance up at him. “About either thing.”
“Anyway, sorry to bore you. It’s a good book.”
“No apologies necessary, you’re far from boring. Have a nice night?”
You nod and step away from the register. He aches to stay, but he’s tired and the timer has burned out on this interaction. Chan turns to go, but stops when your voice calls him back from the register. “By the way?” He looks at you over his shoulder. “There is blood on your hands. I hope you’re alright?”
Surprised, he looks down at his hands. You’re right - there are smudges of dried red, not yet flaking from the rest of his skin. He looks back up at you to see real concern in your eyes. You’re leaning over the counter, hands pressed flat to the top to peer around the stand of phone charges that would otherwise block your view.
“Yeah,” he calls awkwardly, laughing a little. “Yeah, I’m alright.”
You chew the corner of your mouth. “Alright. Have a good night, Chan.”
“You too.”
Chan steps out into the humid air of the city, immediately cloyed by the sticky fingers of promised rain and heavy clouds. Instead of looking up to the swollen sky, he glances over his shoulder to look back through the door. He can’t see you, but he knows you're there, sitting and reading your story.
Fuck. Chan sighs. Like Romeo, he suddenly feels that his consequences too, are somewhere hanging in the stars.
-
Exhaustion burns your eyes. You press the heels of your palms into them, willing the burn to stop. When you remove your hands, they’re still stinging and likely red. Sighing, you slide off the counter and pull open the drawer behind the register. It’s creeping past three in the morning, and these late, never-ending shifts are starting to weigh down you.
They don’t weigh as much as the debt inherited from your father, though, so you squeeze some drops in your eyes, crack an energy drink and tell yourself that you at least have something to look forward to tonight.
Sundays are the only bright part of your nights. Maybe your life. It feels too heavy to admit that, though, so you pretend that seeing Chan for five to ten minutes once a week isn’t the only thing you look forward to for days at a time, even if it’s true.
You wish you had those fancy stimpops you sometimes see him chewing on when he wanders into the store. He always throws the paper stick out in the trash before he comes to the register, as though he’s too afraid to let on that he likes them.
In school, they told you stim was the gateway drug. Now, knee-deep in twelve-hour shifts split between two dead-end jobs, you know better. The real gateway to hard drug use is just surviving. Just waking up and existing in a world that grinds down anyone who dares to breathe too loudly. You don’t blame people for needing an escape - you need an escape.
Chan is that very escape.
You’ve never touched stim. Not because you don’t want to, but because the Taps in your neighborhood terrify you and the reward isn’t worth the risk. You can’t drown yourself in virtual reality clubs or AI lounges, either. Those require time and money, neither of which you have.
So you settle on what you do have: seeing Chan once a week in the dark hours of the night.
It’s not much, but it’s everything. Between dragging yourself through never-ending cashier shifts and folding sheets in the hotel’s laundry room until your hands are raw from the scrape of fabric, your world has shriveled to a pinpoint of focus to survive. You sleep. You eat. You work.
You think about Sunday when Chan will stroll in, grab his usual energy drink and box of cherry sours, and for a few minutes, you’ll remember what it feels like to want something just because it makes you feel alive.
And when he leaves, the moment will last for a single, ephemeral minute and then die, the embers of a fire gone cold.
A patron enters the store with a gust of rain and the melodic chime above the door. You don’t bother looking up, knowing it isn’t Chan. He arrives at a very specific time every night. No earlier, no later. You like that about Chan. It makes him feel reliable.
No one else is reliable.
You know little about Chan. What you do know is that he does something questionable, sometimes coming in with flecks of blood on his hand or on his neck where he thinks he’s scrubbed himself clean. You know that he comes from money - you’re not sure how many generations - with access to paper books, a luxury you can barely fathom. You know that he’s charming, and after the first few times he’d come in, he’d gone from shy to coy.
He’s also kind. At least, you think so. He always asks how your night is, lingering at the end of your conversation, as though he’s just as hesitant to go as you are to let him. It’s a little fantasy you play in your head after he leaves, taking his energy drink and cherry sours with him: who will break first.
Of course, you don’t think Chan is playing a game. You’d never assume that anyone with the access to the lifestyle he has would be interested in more than mindless flirting on their way home.
A man comes up to the register and buys a handful of food items. You scan them wordlessly, bagging them and handing them over the counter. He’s just as wordless, snatching them from your hands and turning on his heel to exit the store. He’s dressed nicely, evidence of tailoring and an old fashioned watch on his wrist.
That is Chan’s kind of crowd. People who move through the world blind to those beneath them, living in a bubble so self-contained they don’t even realize anyone unlike them exists.
This time when the door opens, you shoot a grin toward the door. Chan is already smiling when he sees you, lifting his hand in a small wave. He points to the back of the store, as though to tell you he’ll be with you in a moment after he grabs his things. You nod - because that’s what you always do. Because you’re just eager to see him, heart hammering as he vanishes down an aisle.
Advertisements yell at him as he goes. You swear you hear him tell one of them to shut up and the first genuine smile you’ve had all week breaks across your face. Heart skipping, you jump up on the counter behind the register, trying to appear calm. Watching. Waiting.
Chan will only be here for fifteen minutes, but you love all fifteen of them.
When he appears, it feels like your blood sings. You smile at him, sliding from the counter as he approaches. He’s dressed down today, not in his usual button up and blazer, but rather black slacks with a grey shirt tucked in, a leather jacket pulled over his arms. Beads of water cling to the leather from the rain, and his dark hair is damp and hangs in his eyes.
His hair has gotten longer over the last few weeks. You like it long, wondering if it’s as soft as it looks. You imagine it is, watching him as he brushes his hair from his forehead with the delicate tips of his fingers, looking up at you with a small smile.
“How are you?” He asks, voice warm.
“Good. Not working tonight?”
He looks down at his outfit. “Could you tell?”
“Mhmm.” You slowly ring up the energy drink first. “You’re usually dressed very fancy when you’re working.”
“I’m not always, I promise. That’s just for meetings.”
“So you are working, but no meetings?”
He winks and your heart sputters to a stop. You nearly knock over the box of cherry sours in your attempt to pick it up and ring it in. “Believe it or not, I’m just starting work.”
“At three in the morning?”
“Graveyard shift.”
“Well then I hope you have a good day.”
Chan pays, holding his phone up to the reader. You study him, drinking in each familiar part of his face, committing it to memory so you can think of him fondly until the next time you see him. His expressive eyes are downcast as he types something on his phone, the blue glow of the holoscreen bathing him in ethereal light. You admire the soft curve of his cupid’s bow, the angular cut of his jaw.
He’s beautiful in a world where beauty feels manufactured. You like the small scar on his face, untouched by lasers, left exactly as it is. You like the dark circles under his eyes, quiet evidence that nothing’s been smoothed or erased. You like the way his face shifts effortlessly from commanding to kind. Most of all, you like that it’s real. He’s entirely, unapologetically human.
When he looks up at you, you think you could fall into the dark depths of his eyes and never stop falling. Would do it, if it meant you could stay with him.
“I have something for you.”
His words break the spell. You blink, equal parts dazed and surprised. “Oh?”
“And I don’t want you to freak out when I give it to you.”
“Well I wasn’t going to, but now I think I might.”
He groans, still playful. He opens the lapel of his jacket, revealing a red, silk interior paneling. It makes the jacket that much nicer, an elegant touch to what otherwise looks nondescript. When his hand comes back out of his jacket, he’s holding a thin book.
Your heart catches as you stare at it. He holds it out to you but you pull your hands away like you’re afraid to be bitten. It’s a beautiful thing, thin and sleek with a red leather cover and gold filigree pressed across the front. Pressing your palms to your middle to keep them from shaking, you look at the cover where it says Romeo and Juliet back up to Chan, who is waiting.
“I promise that you can. I know it’s… look it’s not the only copy in my library. And I don’t say that as in ‘this means nothing to me because I have multiple.’ I mean that I can spare one, and I would like you to have it.”
In your little corner of the world, a paper book is a rarity. Only a certain level of the upper echelon have something so permanent. Everything that has always been available to you is digital screens and hollow imitations of art.
Chan’s gift - a real piece of art - hits you harder than you expect. It’s more than a gift. It’s proof that once upon a time, humans created something genuine, that humans were more than what they are now.
And Chan wants to just give it to you.
Gently, Chan leans over the counter and presses the book into your hand. You tentatively take it, pinching the tome between your fingers. He lets go, giving it to you without ceremony. There’s no bow, no note, just the weight of it in your hand.
You glance up at him. He says nothing, watching while he chews the corner of his lip. You turn it over in your hands and run your finger on the embossed title, feeling the groove of the letters. The gold glitters in the neon light of the store, flashing colors as it catches the lights.
Tears pool in your waterline, ridiculous and sudden and silly. He’s giving you this because he can, and crying feels like too much of an emotion in front of him, so you suck in a sharp breath and look up at him, giving him a smile.
“This is too much. I don’t know how to express my thanks.”
He shrugs. “None needed. I just want to know that you enjoy the physical version. It feels realer that way.”
It does, you want to say. You can’t find the words, throat constricting as Chan looks at his phone and sighs regretfully.
“I have to go.” You look at the clock. He is a minute over fifteen, one minute longer than he usually spares you. “Tell me how you like it in this version. Forgive me for all the handwriting in the margins and all of the bent pages - this specific volume has been very loved by me and I took a lot of notes when in school.”
Chan’s admission makes your heart beat harder, your fondness grow softer. He has no idea what this means to you, no idea how it’s already become your most treasured item, and it probably means little to him - almost nothing.
“Have a good night,” he murmurs, giving you a final smile before he gathers his items and heads out the store, leaving you teetering between bursting into tears and falling ridiculously in love.
-
Perched in the neon-drenched skyline of Hyperion, The Spire overlooks most of the city, boasting that it’s the tallest building in all of Hyperion. That’s true - for now. There are plenty of real estate and building architects interested in beating the luxury hotel’s claim to fame, but for now The Spire remains top of the list and top of the city, with its penthouse rented out to people you could never dream of knowing.
The building spirals upward like a helix, pulsing in the night like an aura as LED bands thrum from bottom to top. When you stand at street level and look up, the top of the building vanishing into the clouds, turning them blue and pink and purple as the LEDs flash.
You’re rarely at street level, though. Unlike the occupants who get to rent rooms and stay among the clouds, you exist in the bowels of the building, tucked deep below the guest levels in sublevel B6 of the Service Core. If the glittering building is the body, the Service Core is its nervous system, branching out like roots beneath the hotel.
There’s no glamour in the Service Core. Steam hisses as you enter into the cavernous, industrial laundry room. Above, the white-blue fluorescent lights flicker and hum. Where the hotel itself has so much color, the Service Core does not. Gunmetal walls stained with years of detergent runoff from the machines and the laundry room above, exposed pipes hissing and twisted overheard like a mechanical spider web - it’s far from the glory above.
The Service Core exists to serve a single purpose to the hotel - serve it. Kitchenstaff, waste management, laundry, engineering, housekeeping - it all exists on multiple sub-level floors. The Spire has a robust staff, churning people in and out to keep the thousands of guests above happy.
Weary and heavy-footed, you trudge to the folding station. The table hums and flickers as you approach and stick your thumb on the top of it, clocking in. Next to the table is a stack of linens that need folding. There are hundreds of types of robots that could do this for you, but part of The Spire’s pillars is giving back to the community and ensuring there are jobs for real people who need real money.
Except they don’t pay a real living wage.
Still, it’s a job. And a mindless one where you can zone out, grabbing a linen and placing it on the glowing grid of the folding table. The interactive surface recognizes the material easily and a folding guide pops up, showing you exactly which way to fold each part. You’ve been doing this long enough that you don’t need it, hands getting to work before adding it to the appropriate pile to be scanned and rated on quality of fold.
The air smells like ozone, bleach and burnt polyester. It singes your nose as you fold, but eventually you get used to it, the smell vanishing the longer you pull, fold, repeat. Pull, fold, repeat. The ambient sound of whirring machines, dripping condensation and chatter between tables brackets the soft thunk as you flip sheets over, pressing your fingers along seems, feeling the hiss and burn of silk against your fingertips.
Eventually, someone calls your name. You look up, eyes adjusting in the dim light as Cara clocks in to the table next to you. She’s dressed in the same drab, grey-blue uniform, her blinking name tag showing a little red heart. You’ve never added anything extra to yours, just your name.
“Yay, I get to work with you!” Cara gushes, brushing an auburn strand of hair behind her heavily pierced ears. “It’s been so long since I saw you!”
“You haven’t been taking shifts,” you note, arching a brow.
“Haven’t needed them until now. Ugh, I’ve been making really good money at that gig I told you about, but Bebito had some debts to pay off so…”
So naturally, Cara is picking up the slack for her piece of shit boyfriend again. You grimace but let her chatter on, filling you in on some sort of hotel staff drama dealing with names of people you don’t remember and faces you cannot recall.
Cara is pretty. The kind of pretty that gets in trouble, catching the attention of all the wrong people. Cara likes that attention, though - thrives on it. It’s why she sticks around with her deadbeat boyfriend who does nothing but low-level work for some minor Syndicates in the city and blows away his money. But the danger appeals to Cara - and apparently, the mind blowing sex.
It’s good to see her. When she goes weeks without a shift, you start to worry. You’re not friends, but she’s friendly. Kind. A flower in a world that rarely sees sun. It’s why she’s been plucked by another group of women in the Service Core to occasionally participate in the side gig she talks about.
“So I know you always say no,” Cara broaches, glancing side-long at you. “But Tivi dropped out of this high-level event we’re supposed to be doing in two weeks and we really need another girl. I swear it's safe. You just have to be pretty and stand there and sometimes sit on a lap.”
Your stomach turns sour. Cara has asked you a million times before. She makes good money being an accessory to powerful people who want to put on a show, but it’s far more dangerous than she lets on. Plus, you’ve never been keen on letting someone touch you for money, even if it’s just a hand on a waist or a brush of fingers on an arm.
Shamefully, a small part of you resists because you have Chan. You don’t need the attention of anyone else, patient like a planet eager to come back into its sun’s orbit again. The thought of someone else getting to smile at you and bat their eyelashes makes you squirm.
“I’m good,” you assure Cara. “Thank you for offering, though.”
Cara sighs, not disappointed, but a bit resigned. “Figured you say that. You ever change your mind though, you know where to call?”
“I do.”
“Good.”
You offer her a tight smile and nod, pretending to focus on the sheet in your hands. It’s soft, lavender-scented, obviously from one of the higher suites. It’s the kind of luxury you can only touch with gloves on. You slide it into the folded stack.
Cara’s offer lingers in your mind. You could do it. Just one night, one event. Stand there and look pretty. You’ve seen the other girls come into work with something new and pretty - sleek earrings, upgraded iris mods that glimmer behind their eyes like they’ve caught a glimpse of something you’re not invited to.
But the thought of someone else's hand curling around your hip, their fingers tightening like they own you, even if you’re just rented, makes you stop. You think about Chan and your throat tightens a little. He doesn’t know about these offers, you think. You’re sure he wouldn’t even be able to understand them. His world is books and soft silk. Yours is steam and callused fingers.
At the end of your shift, you wave goodbye to Cara, touching her elbow gently, happy to see her. You tell her to be safe and you head out, stopping only to check the glitching screens by the door to check your upcoming schedule.
You frown. Usually you’re scheduled for thirty hours a week, but it seems like you’ve only got ten upcoming. Ten doesn’t pay your rent. Ten doesn’t even come close.
Chewing the inside of your cheek, you head to the office tucked in the corner of the room, nestled underneath a tangle of pipes. The glass window is full of fog from the humid room, and inside is just as cloying and thick with steam.
“Ethel?” You ask gently, standing at the door. The B6 manager looks up over her foggy glasses. You jut your thumb backward toward the main floor. “I just checked the schedule and it looks like my hours are wrong.”
Ethel is a wiry woman with greying hair, gnarled fingers and swollen knuckles from decades of folding, and blotchy forearms from years of exposure to bleach. Now, she gets to sit in this small little room, the pipes clanging above her and the mold gathering in the corner giving her a wet cough.
“No,” she sighs. “Not wrong. Just received word this morning that we're cutting back hours.”
“What?”
She shrugs. “Corporate hierarchy. Costs are heavy. Syndicate war. The owner is a Patron to the Yong family. They’re not doin’ so good with them Chois.”
Everything in Hyperion starts and ends with the Syndicates. It's always been that way. In this city, three families reign supreme: the Yong family, the Kim family and the Choi family. As of a few months ago, all hell had broken loose among the top three families. As you understand it, the Kim and Yong families had joined forces against the Choi family when their patriarch finally passed, and they’ve been going at it ever since.
You have nothing to do with the Syndicates, have stayed away from them your entire life. But the Syndicates have never stayed away from you, every decision their Tower’s make trickling down to affect you, an ant beneath their boot.
This time, it seems the Yong family is going to step on you.
“I really need the hours…” You murmur, wringing your hands together.
“You and everyone else. Schedule is final.”
You leave The Spire the same way you came in - through the gutters. It’s not really a gutter, but the city drainage systems are so bad that it feels like it as you slosh through shin-deep rain runoff to get up to street level.
Outside, it smells like rain and something vaguely coppery, like blood or rust or both. You tug your jacket tighter and start walking, the wet smack of your boots on the pavement your only companion as the distant glow of buildings hover over you.
Your mind loops like a faulty video: cut hours, Syndicate war, Cara’s offer, Chan. Cut hours, Syndicate war, Cara’s offer, Chan. You’ve been careful, saving when you can and avoiding anything that is too dangerous or illegal, but being careful doesn’t pay your rent, especially in a city designed to make a criminal out of you.
At a crosswalk, you pause. There’s a newscast screen playing at one of the main squares. It’s mostly devoid of people, save the few walking with umbrellas along the street, making them look like beetles. The bright blue of the screen makes you squint against the night, shielding your eyes as you watch the scrawling text feed at the bottom of the screen.
Choi family suspected in retaliation event in Pearl District. 14 confirmed dead. Yong family still denies involvement in the death of matriarch Yoon Minji.
You look away, not bothering to look at the images of fire, blood and pictures of the fallen on the screen, not because you can’t stomach it, but because you don’t care. These people and their wars mean nothing to you so long as you can’t make a living under their thumb.
By the time you reach your apartment, your legs ache and the weight in your chest from the week has settled into something low and pulsing. Cut hours. Syndicate war. Cara’s offer. Chan.
You take the stairs. Every step up, you think about Ethel’s hands, bent, clawed, broken. You think about her arms, bleached with time. You think about her bent over her desk, crooked. Has she ever left B6 or the Service Core? Has she ever had dreams of being anything else?
You think about Chan. You think about the book he gave you, sitting under your pillow and protected.
Four days. In four days you’ll see Chan again. He’ll walk in from the rain and smile at you, asking you how your day is. You’ll tell him good, even though it’s not, and for the fifteen minutes that he leans against your counter, looking up at you with stars in his eyes, everything will be fine.
-
Everything is not fine.
The night had started out like normal - you’d gone from your last shift for the next few days at the laundry room to the convenience store, clocking in with heavy-lidded eyes and even heavier steps. But at least today was a Chan day, so it made it more bearable. Made it easier to pretend that for the next week, you weren’t going to be desperate for money.
It was a slow night, only two people coming in before three in the morning approached. Each minute the clock counted down, your heart picked up speed. You’d been looking forward to this for days, thinking of everything that you wanted to tell Chan about the little notes he took in his copy of Romeo and Juliet, thinking about gushing over the way each of the pages in the book he gifted you felt like heaven, the words typed so perfectly on paper, each one meticulously placed and -
When the door opens, you’re already smiling. Chan walks in, shaking off the rain. You start to lift your hand to wave when a woman steps in after him, elbowing him out of the way and barking at him to let her in before she drowns outside.
Your smile vanishes. It feels like someone has kicked you in the stomach, punching through to your very core. You can barely breathe as you watch Chan turn to her, shooting back a quip that has her rolling her eyes. Their affection and intimacy is immediately palpable, familiarity written in every shove as the girl walks by him and vanishes into the aisle.
He rolls his eyes and gives you a smile. You try to return it. You’re not sure if you do. He disappears down the aisle behind the girl and they restart their bickering, voices rising and falling in a steady cadence as they browse around the store.
Turning around, you press your palms to your cheeks. They feel hot-flash warm, your heart thundering in your chest, breaths coming in short, rapid bursts. Chan is with a girl. Chan has a girl. There’s a girl with Chan. A girl has Chan.
Every thought sputters like a broken engine, coming to life and cutting out, starting and stopping. When one thought begins, another one crashes into it, shattering it before you can fully get a grip on any of them and make them tangible.
A feminine voice makes you spin around, breathless. The girl is standing in front of you, bent down to look at the types of gum in front of the counter. She looks vaguely familiar, though you can’t put your thumb on it. She is gorgeous, the type of gorgeous that rips the wind out of your sails, that leaves you stranded in dead water.
Of course she’s pretty. Why wouldn’t she be? You’d always known what type of cloth Chan was cut from - it was the same type that you folded for the gods who stayed at the top of The Spire, the type you could only handle with gloves.
“Why are there so many flavors?” She mutters, scrunching her brow.
“Orange creamsicle is good,” you blurt, not really knowing where it comes from.
The girl flinches and looks up, eyes going round. “Holy shit,” she laughs. “There is an entire person there. I didn’t even see you. I thought most of these places had robots.”
“Well I’m human. Last time I checked, anyway.”
“Huh. What do you know? Good on this store.”
Of course she hadn’t seen you. You’re nothing but a ghost to these people. They don’t know the difference when you’re there or not, whether you live or die.
Except Chan.
The girl stands, groaning as she stretches. She tosses the orange creamsicle gum on the table, alongside energy drinks and a candy bar with a tiger on it. Chan appears behind her, his usual gathered in his arms. He adds his items to the collection and glances at her.
“Are you not paying?” He asks, deadpan.
“You said we had to make a pit stop. You’ll be funding this one.”
“You’re such an ass,” he mutters, pulling his phone out. “All the money in the world and you always make me pay.”
“Right. I’ll remember that next time I get you a car for Christmas, Chan.”
He flushes and looks up at you. He has the decency to look flustered and chagrined. “Ignore her. She has no manners.”
“Bullshit!” She slaps his arm. “I took like four years of etiquette classes.” She gestures to you. “By the way, I had no idea there was a person here. I thought these places had robots.”
“Baby,” he sighs, paying. The term of endearment is the nail in your coffin. It feels like the world falls out from underneath your feet and it’s all you can do to not to turn around and burst into tears, fantasy shattered. “You’re being rude. She has a name.”
When Chan says your name, it doesn’t feel like a caress this time. It lands cold, impersonal. It doesn’t settle into your chest like it usually does. It slides right off. You're just… you. She’s baby.
She giggles as Chan shoulders past her to grab his things, but she doesn't even flinch. She grins at you, polite, cheerful, effortless, plucking her items off the counter like she owns the moment, like this is her story and you're just some passing name in the credits - you are just name passing in the credits. Then she skips off toward the door, the picture of ease, popping gum like punctuation.
She sings your name to get your attention. You blink at her, surprised she remembers it. “Amazing recommendation. Thank you!”
“Ignore her,” Chan says, voice soft, sheepish, cradling his items like they might shield him from how awkward this suddenly feels. “I know she’s hard to ignore. She’s a bit of a… presence.”
“Oh.”
It’s all you can think of. Chan wavers between where he stands and the girl at the door, who scrolls on her phone. “What did you think of the book?”
“What?”
He raises his brows. “The book I gave you.”
That catches the girl’s attention from the door. Her eyes dart between Chan and you, narrowing. Your hands shake, knowing the look when a shark smells blood in the water. “You gave her a book, Channie?”
If it’s possible, he goes several shades redder. She starts to walk toward the two of you again. Her gaze has gone from dismissive to calculating, eyes narrowed, pupils dilated like a cat that has discovered a new toy.
Before she reaches you, Chan steps back. He doesn’t say goodbye. Just gives you a look—something you can’t read anymore, not after what you’ve just seen. You stare back at him, hollowed out and unsure.
We’ll talk about it next time,” he says, voice soft and too fast. “Sorry again about her.”
Then he’s gone.
Your shift drags out like something dying. Each hour longer than the last. Everything around you is gray, dulled, like someone pulled the saturation out of your world. The only thing that stays sharp is the image of Chan, but not with you.
By the time you lock up and step outside, the air has cooled. The streets are quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like you don’t belong in your own life. Your footsteps echo against the pavement, louder than they should. You cross your arms tighter around yourself.
She called him Channie. He’d called her baby.
It replays again and again in your head. That voice. The way his shoulders didn’t stiffen. The way he didn’t correct her.
He gave you a book. But he let her call him that. He gave you something thoughtful. Quiet. Careful. And she still got to stand closer. Laugh louder. Be the one he left with in his orbit.
You think about Cara’s offer. It comes to you unbidden, pressing against all other thoughts until it’s all you can think of. It’s good money, a way out of your shortened hours, and… Chan isn’t yours. The fantasy is ruined. Shattered. Burned down.
Beneath the surface of the city, the subway smells like rotten rainwater. You ignore it, careful not to slip down the wet stairs as you go. Bundles of sleeping bags are shoved in the corner, people inside of them. There’s someone offering needles from his coat and a girl dressing in a translucent, LED body suit purring at people as they walk by.
You ignore them all, getting onto the subway, thankful when the doors suck shut behind you. The subway hums beneath your feet, a dull and constant shudder that rattles up your bones. You grip the cold metal pole beside you, staring at your own reflection in the window as the tunnel blurs past behind it.
Your reflection is washed out. Tired. Someone who works too long and too hard. Not someone like the girl Chan was with. Not someone who laughs like they haven’t a care in the world, not someone who argues over money despite it not being an object to them.
The train isn’t crowded. A few scattered passengers, most of them asleep or hiding in a corner away from everyone else. There’s a man whispering to what you think might be a ferret in his coat, but you’re not sure. At least he has a companion, even if it’s some lanky critter.
It feels like you’re not even on the train. You’re still stuck in that shop, watching Chan’s back as he walks away. Watching her walk toward him like she belonged there. Like you never did.
You close your eyes. You hadn’t realized how much of your hope had been pinned to the idea of him. To the what-if. The maybe. Maybe he saw you the way you saw him. Maybe he meant something when he gave you that book. Maybe you were different.
None of it was real. Like the idyllic fantasies in an alternate reality club. You suppose you’re no better than the people who get addicted to AI and alternate reality - you just didn’t need help to get there.
The train jerks, lights flickering for a moment overhead. You open your eyes again.
Cara’s offer, you think, not for the first time tonight. It drifts back to you like a ghost with impeccable timing. You look at your reflection again across the train. The lights smear across the glass now, and for a split second, you see yourself not as you are, but as you could be. Full of color.
Pulling out your phone, you text Cara and let her know that you’ll fill in for her friend. The train doors open with a hiss. You step out. You let the illusion of Chan shatter behind you without looking back.
-
Chan doesn’t get nervous.
At most, he’ll admit to heightened awareness. He knows when the air shifts, when the room tenses, when the eyes start to watch just a little too closely. But it’s not nerves. It’s instinct. Nerves are for the untrained. Nerves make one sloppy, make your hand shake. Nerves mean you’re not ready.
Chan is always ready.
Tonight, there’s something gnawing under his skin. A feeling he can’t quite name, sharp and low like the ache before a storm. He tells himself it’s the stakes—the weight of the meeting, the caliber of the people in the room. But even that doesn’t fully explain the unease.
This isn’t a standard deal, where he’s greasing the wheels of some shell corporation or smoothing over a turf-sharing agreement with one of the mid-tier syndicates. Tonight’s meeting is internal business. Formal.
He still doesn’t know why Jeonghan picked him.
Not that he would’ve said no. No one says no to Jeonghan these days. At least, not unless they have a death wish or a taste for public verbal shaming and potential Syndicate ruin. Chan had said yes immediately, without question, like a good soldier. But deep down, he’d said yes because it was Jeonghan.
Not the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate. Not the youngest second-in-command in their history. Just Jeonghan.
The car is dead silent. Not even the soft hum of the radio. Just the city lights flickering past and Jeonghan sitting beside him, cold and unreadable. Not awkward, exactly. But heavy.
Oppressive.
There’s something new carved into Jeonghan. Something mean and sharp and hungry. It hadn’t always been like that. Chan remembers when Jeonghan used to laugh more, when his anger was calculated rather than constant, but the death of Yoon Minji had carved a hole in him. Killed him. Left something more sinister in his place.
Unlike most of Chan’s meetings, he is armed to the teeth. Layers of steel and weight hidden beneath his well-cut suit. Security is sure to check him at the door, but he still needs to try to get in what weapons he can. Tonight is not the kind of night that is safe. He doesn’t have Soonyoung waiting at the back door, and Angel isn’t sitting in the room with a gun pressed to someone’s wife’s stomach for insurance.
Angel has given Chan some insurance, though. She had gifted him a butterfly knife not long ago. Slim, elegant. The hilt is carved obsidian, etched with a pattern that shimmered in the light like wings in flight. Beautiful and cruel, exactly like her. It’s tucked deep into his boot now, strapped in place with anti-metal-detection mesh. One of a handful of things he’d rather die than be caught without.
A meeting with a distant branch of the Yong family had not been on Chan’s agenda at the start of the week. Chan had originally been slated for a meeting down near The Salts, but Jeonghan had added him at the last second, insisting that someone as charming and sharp as Chan needed to be a part of the discussion.
Unlike most of Chan’s deals, tonight isn’t about business or territory or partnership. It’s about influence. About getting someone on the inside to let Jeonghan and his Chois in to eat the Yongs from the inside out.
“Tell me again,” Chan says, voice quiet over the hum of the tires. “How’d you hear about Yuli having second thoughts about the current Yong leadership?”
Jeonghan doesn’t look at him. Just stares out the window, face cast in the blue glow of passing signs and headlights. His expression looks almost skeletal in the light, like the grief still hasn’t stopped hollowing him out.
Chan isn’t sure it has.
“Inside source.”
“I can’t imagine he was just… venting to strangers about how much he hates his family,” Chan adds.
Jeonghan finally turns, slowly. His mouth pulls into a humorless smile. “Inside source.”
Chan raises a brow. “Meaning?”
Jeonghan slips his phone into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, buttoning it with a deliberateness that feels almost threatening. When he answers, his voice is clipped. Cool. “Meaning stop asking questions above your station, Chariot.”
Chan bites back the instinct to wince. The title hits harder than the words. Not his name. Not Chan. Chariot. Syndicate designation. A reminder. Jeonghan is in Wisdom mode tonight.
The rebuke stings, but not enough to push him off balance. Chan swallows it. Focuses on the cold glass of the window instead. Watches the city bleed by in streaks of neon and shadow. He knows Jeonghan well enough to recognize the warning for what it is. A boundary drawn in blood and old loyalty. Just because they grew up together doesn’t mean Jeonghan won’t cut him down where he stands if he oversteps.
Chan lets it go. He’s known Jeonghan for far too long to let something so small eat at him. They’d grown up in the same rooms together, bled in the same combat classes, laughed at all the same jokes. Out of the hundreds of hands that belong to Choi Seungcheol, Jeonghan has always been the one Chan trusted most, even now, when Jeonghan teeters on the sharp edge of the knife he’s using to carve a warpath.
The car slows. They’re in a nondescript neighborhood on the far edge of town. It’s not wealthy, but it’s modest. Here, there are no flashing lights and neon holograms. There’s just buildings pressed together, cars lined up out front, like something out of a history book.
For a split second, the thought of books makes Chan think of you. It is fleeting. Heart pounding. There and gone again because as much as Chan wants to dive headfirst into thoughts and dreams of you, he can’t. Not right now.
The door is unmarked. Just black, steel-reinforced, and guarded by two men in identical suits, both broad-shouldered and blank-eyed. One of them steps forward as Chan and Jeonghan exit the car.
“Wisdom,” he says, voice even and polite. Manners is the name of the game here. “Weapons check, please.”
Jeonghan says nothing. Just holds out his arms. The sensor beeps several times on him. Jeonghan divulges an array of knives and a single gun. Chan notices a butterfly knife with symbols carved into it in one of the dead languages: brother.
His mouth twitches, knowing Angel’s work when he sees it.
Chan follows suit, keeping his expression neutral as the second guard runs a scanner over his body. A soft beep when it hits the knife at his hip. Another at the shoulder holster.
He surrenders both, smiling with professional ease. “Sentimental, not stupid,” he murmurs as they take the weapons.
The guard grunts and says nothing, stepping back and waving him through when he finds nothing else. They don’t find the butterfly knife in his boot. Good.
They step inside a dark home. Chan glances around, but it looks like a normal home. There are stairs to his immediate right that lead to the second landing, and a door to the left that goes to what looks like a study. Straight ahead, the house opens up into a living area with doors to other parts of the home.
It’s quiet inside. Chan feels tense as they are led through the house, not a single light on. He can barely make out the shapes of furniture, paintings on walls. They’re brought to a door at the far back of the house. Sound drifts up from the stairs revealed behind it when a guard opens the door, stepping down and into the dark.
Chan goes first, shooting Jeonghan a glance. The Wisdom’s face is unreadable.
Downstairs, the decor changes immediately. Chan is relieved to see that the lights are on, bathing the room in gold glow. He feels like he’s stepped backward hundreds of years in time, the old-world luxury of something like a speakeasy clashing with modern era touches. The room is small, but pristine, with black marble floors, warm lighting, oil paintings that don’t match the building’s exterior, and soft jazz playing from speakers Chan can’t see.
A woman waits for them just past the threshold, dressed in a carmine gown that clings to every curve in her body. There’s a slit up the side, showing a flash of tan thigh as she slinks over to them, a coy smile on her lips. She is stunning, reminding Chan something of a femme fatale.
“Gentleman,” she greets, voice like smoke. “Welcome. Can I grab you refreshments while you mingle? The next game starts in fifteen minutes.”
In the center of the room sits a long green felt table, crowded with men in suits and women who aren’t wearing much at all. The air buzzes with laughter, the clinking of chips, the soft background jazz that does nothing to dull the tension.
Jeonghan barely spares her a glance as he cuts toward the table. “Boulevardier.”
Her eyes cut to Chan. They are cat green and almost uncanny. “Whiskey neat, please. Yamazaki, if you have it.”
The woman bows her head, her gaze lingering a second too long before she drifts toward the bar in the back. Chan watches her go for a split second before he scans the room, drinking in all the details.
Girls circulate with silver trays carrying glasses of scotch, whiskey, and champagne. Some settle in men’s laps, some whisper into their ears, all of them part of the illusion of wealth, comfort, control. Chan steps forward, eyes adjusting to the dim glow-
He sees you and he nearly goes catatonic.
You’re dressed like the other women, but somehow even more out of place. Not because you don’t belong, but because he doesn’t expect to see you here, couldn’t even have imagined it. Not in a thousand years would he have made this gamble. You were never even in his odds of being here.
You’re standing near the far end of the room, your lips parted slightly in what looks to be mid-laughter in response to something the man talking to you has said. Chan’s chest tightens so sharp and sudden that he staggers, wondering if he’s having a heart attack.
You are painfully beautiful, dressed in a sapphire gown that ripples like water when you walk. He barely has time to register how perfect the cut of it is, the way it hugs your waist, the way you turn and it undulates like a living thing, turning you into a goddess of the sea. Maybe in another life he would appreciate how beautiful you are, but right now, he can’t.
This wasn’t supposed to happen, you weren’t supposed to be here - weren’t ever supposed to cross his path outside of that goddamn convenience store. He had prepared for tonight for days, planning everything perfectly, scripting each gamble and risk, calculating it to the fucking detail and it’s all for nothing, because you standing there in that fucking dress ruins it all.
Chan’s thoughts scatter like dropped cards. Jeonghan has already started the evening without missing a beat, greeting someone sitting at the table with a handshake dripping with charm. Chan tries to follow suit. His body moves, just barely, but his mind doesn’t, still stuck on you.
You laugh again and it feels like Chan has been stabbed.
What are you doing here? And worse, what does it mean that you are? Is this some intricate play by the Yong family? Are you here because you’re in trouble? Both are equally likely and send Chan down a violent rabbit hole of thoughts, chasing all of the possibilities. He suddenly doesn’t know if you’re a threat or someone who needs saving, and it rattles him to the core.
Chan finally starts to collect himself, dragging his eyes away from you, trying to calm himself. It’s too late. You turn to look at him, a fleeting glance that turns to shock. Recognition blooms across your face and if Chan wasn’t in such panic, he might grin at how cute you look when you’re surprised.
When you don’t smile at him, Chan cracks. He forces himself into a mask, but the damage is done. There’s already a hitch in his step, a breath he can’t seem to take. His hands twitch toward his chest as though he needs to search for a physical wound there, a gunshot he can’t see.
Chan is thrown off. Confused. Out of balance. Exposed.
The woman who took his drink order appears just as Chan siddles up next to Jeonghan. He can hardly hear what she says to him. Everything feels secondhand, the dissociation hitting him as he tries to shield himself from his own panic.
He accepts the drink and knocks it back before shoving the glass back in her hand and ordering another. He’s not even sure he says anything, just staring at the men surrounding the poker table, unfeeling and unseeing.
Jeonghan doesn’t look up at Chan right away. He’s mid-handshake with someone else, voice low and pleasant as he exchanges pleasantries. Every word from Jeonghan is barbed silk, and Chan should be at his side, watching and backing him up with easy charm, matching volley for volley.
When Jeonghan finishes his greetings, he sits in a high-backed velvet chair. His sharp eyes find Chan and narrow before they dart at the open chair next to him. Chan nearlys trips over his own feet as he scrambles to sit down.
Jeonghan watches him, his eyes sharpening like a blade sliding free of its sheath. “What,” Jeonghan growls lowly as he flashes someone’s wife a smile, “the fuck is wrong with you?”
Chan blinks. His heart’s been pounding for minutes, making him feel sick with adrenaline. “The girl from the convenience store is here.”
Jeonghan’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice is flat when he asks, “Who?”
“Cherry Sours.”
There’s a tick in Jeonghan’s jaw before he turns his head a fraction, gazing in your direction. It takes Jeonghan only a second to find you across the room where you’re struggling to keep up with the conversation the man at your side is having with you.
When Jeonghan turns back to Chan, his eyes are flint. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Chan doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Jeonghan leans closer, his voice sharper than any blade Chan has ever known. “Why the fuck is someone you know here? Is she with the Yong family? Do you think we’re being set up?”
“I- fuck - I don’t know,” Chan admits. “I don’t know why she’s here. She’s only ever worked at the convenience store. I’ve never- Jeonghan, I don’t know.”
“Stop.” Chan shuts up. Jeonghan’s voice has the hard edge of the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate right now. “You have ten seconds to get your head out of your ass. Or leave if you know you can’t do this. Now.”
Chan doesn’t move. His eyes flicker to you. You’re not looking at him but he can feel your panic from where he sits, matching his own. Can Chan do this? He doesn’t know, but he can’t leave you here. Not in this pit of vipers. Jeonghan leans back slightly, drinking in Chan’s deliberation.
“Decide,” he warns, voice like velvet. “If you fuck this up, I will remove you as Chariot myself, no matter the years between us, Lee Chan.”
It hangs in the air between them. Chan nods and straightens his shoulders, falling into the casual and cocky Chariot he’s trained to be. Jeonghan turns back to the conversation, smiling like nothing ever happened as he asks someone about how their kid’s play went.
Chan sits for a second longer, disengaged and heart rattling. But he doesn’t look at you again, taking in a deep breath as he tries to relax.
This time when the woman brings him his drink, Chan’s smile is lazy and flirty, winking at her as she walks away.
The low murmur of conversation quiets as a man that Chan recognizes as Yuli stands up from across the table, his arms spread like a gracious host. He has a glass of something expensive in one hand, his suit cut to perfection and his smile even more so.
“Friends,” he says smoothly, voice carrying over the music, “thank you for making the journey tonight. I know how busy our lives have become, so I consider your presence here a personal courtesy.”
A few men chuckle, raising their glasses. Others merely nod, already watching Yuli like players waiting for the first move on a board. Chan watches with absolute focus, chin slightly lifted. Yuli’s eyes skim across the room, assessing. Weighing. When they alight on Jeonghan and Chan, they pause only for a moment before he keeps going.
Jeonghan doesn’t move, but Chan knows that he saw the acknowledgement too, that Yuli knows the stakes and is interested in this dance.
Yuli continues, “Let’s not waste time. The table is ready, the cards are warm, and luck will favor the bold.”
Those who aren’t already standing around the table move to take seats. Chan shifts in his seat to make sure he clocks every single face at the table, going over their profiles in his head. He recognizes Yuli’s sister, Anita, her long hair piled high on her head. The table is mostly men, though there is a single other woman that Chan realizes is Yuli’s wife, younger than he expected, probably due to procedures.
No one in the room or at the table is high up in the Yong Syndicate. Here are all the blue collar workers, the men and women who are cousins of cousins, or Yong by marriage. Not blood. Who are Yong by long-association, perhaps. Distant family, who, when push comes to shove, have enough claim to Yong name that with the right support, could challenge the Tower.
As the final guests settle in, a few of the girls glide through with refilled drinks and practiced smiles, heels soft on the carpet. You’re among them. Chan doesn’t look. Not yet. Instead, he watches as Yuli retakes his seat and taps his finger on the felt, signaling the dealer to shuffle.
The game starts, though Chan already knows he’s playing far more than poker. He folds into the game like he’s never missed a beat. His smile is relaxed now, easy. He leans back in his chair like he owns it, lets his sleeves roll up just enough to show off the ink curling over his forearms. The men around the table are watching each other, sizing each other up, but not Chan. Not yet. He plays the part of harmless well.
The women, though, they pay attention to him. They give him smiles and ask him questions, let him shoot flattery their way. They eat it up, even if they know it’s fake. Fake or real, it doesn’t matter to them. Any of it feels good, especially from someone they’re not used to hearing it from.
Jeonghan, always sharper, plays the opposite role. Where Chan flirts, Jeonghan flatters. Where Chan jokes, Jeonghan probes. Together, they work the table like a duet, sowing discord, planting seeds.
“You can’t really be betting that much on that hand, can you?” Chan teases the man across from him. It’s some cousin of Yuli’s, with a watch too big for his wrist and a tendency to overplay. The man laughs, but it’s the uncomfortable kind. He folds. Again.
There’s a beat of laughter around the table and Yuli points a shaking finger at Chan like he’s a troublemaker, and then a new hand begins. Chan places his bet. Doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. He knows you’re still in the room. You’re lingering at the periphery, hovering like a ghost. You’re pretending not to watch him, and he’s pretending not to notice you. But both of you are failing. Badly.
Worse is that someone else notices you too. The man three seats down from Chan is watching you, interested. He’s older and heavyset, with a gold chain resting over his chest. Finally, he leans over and starts chatting you up, loud enough to cut through the din of conversation.
“You new?” He asks you. Chan remembers this man - he’s one of the owners of a strip of clubs under Yong jurisdiction in the Pearl District where Baby has made it all but impossible to do business with anyone but the Choi family. “I’d remember a face like yours. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Chan watches out of the corner of his eye, his stomach souring. You laugh and it’s pitched too high to be normal or polite. You don’t give him your name, but you tell him yes you’re new and you’re learning poker. The man reaches out toward you, as though to guide you over to his lap.
It makes him break.
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t lean forward. He just lifts his eyes and says, “Hey.”
A few people on their side of the table still, looking up at Chan. The others are actively placing bets, chatter and music still going. You’re frozen in your spot, looking at Chan, mouth parted, breath quickening.
Chan tilts his head, smile lazy but eyes sharp. “Why don’t you come sit with me, gorgeous? I’m terrible luck without a pretty girl by my side.”
You blink. Clearly thrown. “I’m… um.”
The woman who greeted Chan at the door and who is clearly in charge of the provided women swoops in, a gentle hand placed on your shoulder as she lifts you up and guides you toward Chan. “She’d be happy to, Mr. Lee. Mr. Matsuo, why don’t you show me how to play?”
She is effortless in her chess game, this woman. She easily replaces you with herself, easing the annoyance of the other man while giving Chan what he wants. If he wasn’t so distracted, he would be impressed at the way she works a room, a weapon in her own right.
You stand there a second too long, but then you move, slow steps across the plush carpet until you’re beside him. You perch on the edge of the seat, hands in your lap, eyes avoiding his. You look like you want to melt into the floor.
“Better,” he says softly more to himself than anything else.
You hear him, though, asking tightly, “What are you doing?”
“Keeping you safe.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Jeonghan gives Chan a single, sharp look. He knows the Wisdom is thrumming with rage, but he ignores it. Jeonghan ignores him in return, starting a conversation with Yuli like he is supposed to.
Instead of talking, you and Chan fall into steely silence. The cards hit the table in steady rhythm. Chips shift hands. Laughter spills out from somewhere on the other side of the felt table, sharp, hollow, and far away. You sit at Chan’s side, refusing to look at him directly. He doesn’t look at you either.
Not even when his hand brushes against your knee when he folds a hand, tossing his cards on the table. Noe even when he folds again, flicking his wrist with the same careless confidence he always wears when he’s working, letting them think he’s bad at cards.
Your eyes stay in your lap, eyes forward, throat tight. Chan fights the urge to reach up and brush his fingers across your back to tell you to relax. If he does, he’s not sure what would happen. It’s the one gamble he’s not ready to make.
Chan feels Jeonghan’s pointed stare on occasion. He ignores him, more aware instead of tension vibrating between you. It’s like a live wire, tense, thin and vibrating, so distracting that Chan might actually be losing his hand on accident instead of on purpose.
After three rounds end, Yuli stretches in his chair and calls for a cigarette break. Players rise, some lighting cigars, some leaning back to talk in low voices with their entourage. You start to rise, but Chan is quick like an adder, leaning in and growling, “Come with me.”
You don’t exactly say yes, but you stumble to your feet when Chan jerks his chair from the table, jolting you from the arm. He immediately feels guilty about it, reaching out to steady you. Instead, you snatch your arm from him and march toward a far corner of the room, half-screened by shadows and heavy drapery. The music is quieter there when he follows you over, the air a bit thicker.
He stops as you turn, and now it’s just the two of you, inches apart.
You look around. “Is this where you usually drag girls to whisper sweet nothings? Behind velvet curtains and poker chips?”
He exhales like he’s already tired of this. “What are you doing here?”
You blink. “Me? What are you doing here?
“I asked first.”
“Working. You?”
His eye twitches. “Working. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Is this what you do for a living? Syndicate bullshit and flirt with pretty girls and cheat on your girlfriend?”
That throws Chan for a loop. He stalls trying to catch up, not understanding at all.
“Don’t play stupid,” you warn. “You’re not stupid. Then again, I guess I don’t really know you, do I?”
Chan opens his mouth, then closes it again. “I’m so confused right now. Yes, my work is Syndicate bullshit. You never asked so I never told you. Also - what girlfriend?”
You take a step back. “I saw her, you know. The girl. From the store. The one you walked in with.” Chan sucks in a sharp breath. You glare up at him. “She called you Channie. You called her baby.”
He fights the urge to press the heels of his palms into his eyes, unsure how he is having this conversation at this event. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he hisses, looking around to see if he’s drawn any attention yet. As always, Jeonghan is the only pair of eyes on him in the room. “She’s not even someone I like,” he rushes on. “Her name’s Baby. That’s just what people call her. She’s the Architect of the Choi Syndicate.”
You stare. “Her name is Baby?”
Chan pinches the bridge of his nose. “That is what you’re focused on right now?” You stare at him and he nearly growls. “Yes, technically it just stuck when we were kids because she was the youngest - well I’m younger, but she was babied a lot - look, it doesn’t matter. I wasn’t calling her that because she’s mine, and if I did, there is an insane blondie who likes guns that would murder me for it.”
You look away, jaw tight. “I thought…” you start to say something, then stop yourself. You shake your head, furious again. “Never mind.”
Chan’s heart is pounding. Everything he’s wanted to say since walking into this room is tangled up in his throat, clawing to get out. “Is that what bothered you? Thinking I was dating her?”
You flinch. He sees it. Sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your chin lifts like you’re bracing for a hit. “No.”
He laughs, then. The fight goes out of him because he sees the lie. Sees the vulnerability, the bitter edge of jealousy. It makes his heart flutter, realizing that you’d been mad at that. Before he can retort, someone calls for another round. You pivot on your heel, marching away and leaving him with his chest tight with everything left unsaid.
Slowly, he follows you back to the table.
When Chan slides into the seat for the next round, he’s still out of sorts. This time, it’s less panic about you being in the room and more about knowing you’d been jealous of Baby. It makes him spiral. What does you being jealous mean? He’d seen the hurt flicker across your face, so honest and raw and-
He cannot think about it right now. He needs to focus on the task at hand, even though your jasmine perfume is making it hard to think and you’re sitting so close to him that he can feel your warmth.
“The Tower has been levying heavy taxes on your businesses, right?” Jeonghan asks Yuli mildly. The question draws Chan’s focus to a needle point. Jeonghan shuffles his cards, not looking up. “A few weeks ago I saw the outcry from businesses. Steep taxes.”
Yuli’s expression tightens. “The Tower has to make a lot of decisions.” It’s a generous answer. “It is… perhaps short-sighted, though.”
Chan tries to focus. He really does. But the man next to him - Daesik, some mid-tier Yong affiliate - leans in toward you. “You know,” he offers, “you could sit on my lap the next round. Chan seems to be losing hands left and right. Maybe you could bring me luck.”
You shift uncomfortably, not responding. Chan tenses. Daesik notices, grinning. “Unless you’re taken? Are you two a thing? I thought you were hired company.”
Again, you say nothing. You stare straight forward, lips pressed in a firm line. Rage makes Chan’s hand shake, and he clenches his fists. “She isn’t available.”
Daesik looks at you. “That true?”
“Yes.”
“Could have fooled me. The way he’s been ignoring you all night, I figured you were up for grabs.”
“Well she’s not,” Chan clips. The words come out harsher than they should, but he’s already too gone to reel it in, composure cracking. “So fuck off.”
The table goes silent. Chan already knows he’s misstepped. Chan never missteps, and yet it’s all he’s done tonight, one wrong foot placed after the other.
Yuli leans back in his chair, his smile thinning. “That’s a rather pointed tone, Chan.I hired her for everyone’s entertainment. Daesik is a guest. Just like you. If he wants her attention and she’s on my clock, I expect her to oblige.”
Across the table, Jeonghan doesn’t speak, but Chan catches the flick of a finger against his glass, a silent warning: pull back. Now.
Chan tries. “She shouldn’t be here,” he says, quieter now, aiming for diplomacy. “It was a miscommunication. She’s not… that kind of staff. Not really part of this.”
Yuli’s eyes flash. “You’re saying I made a mistake?” His voice is low, but cutting. “That I hire incompetents? That I’ve hired someone inexperienced for a party of this caliber?”
“No,” Chan answers quickly, though the tension in his voice betrays him. “That’s not what I meant.”
Yuli leans forward now, elbows on the table, smile gone entirely. “She’s here. At my table. Wearing what I assigned them to wear.”
The air curdles. Chan feels the tension shift and his hand goes to your back, flattening his palm against your spine. You’re rigid, but he feels you lean into the touch, seeking safety. Your hands shake - he can see them - and he curses at himself for putting you in this position.
Jeonghan sets his drink down pointedly, eyes fixed on Yuli with a patience that is menacing. His smile is slight, but Chan knows that smile. Knows the violence in it. It’s Jeonghan’s smile before it rains blood.
“I think,” Jeonghan says softly, “we have overstayed our welcome. Come on, Chan.”
Jeonghan stands with measured grace. Chan rises, tight-jawed and unable to look at you. As he turns from the table, he realizes you’re still sitting. He hesitates, waiting for you.
“Let’s go,” he urges, quiet but firm.
“No,” Yuli announces. “She’s not going with you. I have paid her to be here tonight. She’s here under contract, and you-” He gestures lazily between Jeonghan and Chan. “You’re both leaving.”
“She’s not staying.”
Before Chan can get another word out, Yuli lifts a hand and the room fills with Yuli’s personal bodyguards, hands brushing over their jackets. Chan moves instinctively, only to feel Jeonghan’s palm grab the back of his neck, scruffing him.
“Careful,” Jeonghan growls.
Chan’s hand is on your wrist. He feels you trembling under his touch, rooted between wanting to go with Chan and knowing that if you do, there will be violence.
Yulie’s voice sharpens. “Remove your hand from her. Take her with you, and I’ll consider it theft.”
“She isn’t your property.”
“And yet,” Yuli says, rising to his feet with the theatrical air of a man who loves having the final word, “I have rented her. So is she yours? No. She stays. You go.”
Silence.
Chan’s fingers twitch. Sweat drips down the back of his neck. He can feel it beading in his hairline. Now, his heart beats as adrenaline surges through him. He’s ready for anything, eyes drifting around the room as he makes everyone a mark, ranking them in the order they need to fall.
He smells blood in the air and he’s ready for it, grip tightening on your wrist to pull you down and shield you before he acts.
Jeonghan exhales once through his nose and steps forward, light and lethal. “Yuli,” he says, almost kindly. “I suggest you let the girl come with us.”
Yuli’s grin drops. “Or what?”
“You know what.”
Yuli narrows his eyes. “That a threat?”
“No. A reminder.” Jeonghan’s voice stays soft. “I know about Arkos. The safehouse. The twins.” Yuli freezes, his face leeching of all color. “I have all the information and the addresses, the schedules. Copied on two separate drives. One is in my personal safe, and the other is with my sister. Who do you think is faster? My sister who is already in Arkos on vacation, or you driving three hours from Hyperion?”
A hush ripples through the room. This is why Yoon Jeonghan is the Wisdom of the most powerful Syndicate in Hyperion. This is the man that Yoon Minji trained to perfection to take her place, wicked sharp and more lethal than any amount of brawn or weapon could make a human being.
Chan had no idea Angel was in Arkos. Doesn’t even know if Jeonghan is bluffing or being serious. That’s the thing with Jeonghan - you never know, so all of his threats are real.
Yuli looks split between murderous and panicked, his chest heaving as he figures out what to do. He seems to weigh his options, trying to puzzle out if Jeonghan’s threat about Angel is accurate.
Jeonghan cocks his head. It’s sharp and predatory. “You think I came without insurance?”
Yuli doesn’t move for a moment. Then, his tongue runs over his teeth, followed by a sharp, bitter exhale. “Fine. Take the bitch.”
Jeonghan doesn’t speak. He simply turns, his every step calm, deliberate. Measured. A man walking a highwire and pretending it’s solid ground. Chan mirrors him, shoulder squared, jaw locked. You stick close, nearly tucked beneath his arm.
No one dares stop you.
As soon as you hit the stairs, Chan feels your body press fully into his side. He slips a hand around your waist, grounding you. You're trembling faintly. His own hands aren’t much steadier. The scent of jasmine hits him hard, a knife under his ribs. The desire for you is so strong he closes his eyes for a half-second, breaths deep.
It’s not the time, so he shoves it down.
Outside, it feels like surfacing from underwater. The night air bites, cold and honest. The car is idling, a driver opening the door while one of Soonyoung’s Swords stands with his hand in his jacket, ready to draw if he needs to.
Chan gets you into the car first, palm steady on your back as you climb in. He makes sure to block the doorway, shielding you in case anyone decides to shoot you all from behind afterall. You say nothing. Instead, you curl in slightly like you’re bracing for an aftershock. He slides in beside you, surprised when you reach for him, almost on autopilot.
He lets you. The scent of jasmine hits him again when you lean into him, still shaking.
Jeonghan slides in on the other side of Chan, shutting the door with a bang that feels louder than a gunshot. You flinch and he murmurs a soothing word, tucking you into his side. It’s the closest he’s ever been to you and he hates the circumstances, hates that somehow, he’s run out of luck afterall.
The car pulls forward. Nobody speaks. The silence is brutal.
Your fingers tremble in Chan’s lap. He tightens his grip around you, light enough to not hurt, firm enough to try and tell you that he’s got you. His other hand rests in his lap, still shaking, still wanting to draw blood.
You shouldn’t have been there. He still can’t figure out why you were there in the first place. He should have walked out the second he saw you, should have left when Jeonghan told him to, cut his losses and not gambled-
“Hello.” Jeonghan’s voice slices through the quiet like a knife on silk. Chan’s stomach knots as he glances where Jeonghan has leaned forward, his eyes alighting on you. “I’m Jeonghan. Can I call you Cherry? Chan calls you Cherry.”
You give him a tiny nod and he grins like the cat that ate the canary. “I would say it’s nice to meet you, but you and your stupid lapdog of a boyfriend have thoroughly fucked up my night.”
Chan’s jaw clenches so hard it aches. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend. There’s no point. Because Jeonghan’s not wrong, and Chan is just trying to keep you breathing next to him long enough to fix whatever the hell he’s gotten all of you into.
-
Wind makes the building creak and groan. You have long since gotten used to the moaning whispers of your apartment walls, just hoping that the old building doesn’t decide to give up and fall down on top of you.
It’s entirely possible. A few months ago, a building just like yours, old and out of code and full of people had collapsed in on itself, killing hundreds, people missing for days. The pile of rubble and rust is still there, the dust hanging in the air like the ghost of the screams of those trapped inside.
The city just… never did anything about it. The Choi Syndicate had attempted to buy the land with the intention of removing the rubble and recovering the bodies, but this strip of neighborhood belonged to the Kim family.
The Choi Syndicate.
A flash of fear and fascination goes through you. Never in a million years would you have thought that Chan was a member of the Choi Syndicate - a high ranking one, no less. When he had stepped foot into the party a few nights ago, your entire world had shattered. You had seen him and frozen in place, confused, elated, then terrified all at once.
And he’d been with Yoon Jeonghan, the fucking Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate.
You don’t know how you didn’t put it together before. Polished, charming Chan. Smooth-talking, flirty Chan. That night he had come into the store with the girl he called Baby should have been the night you put it all together. Now you know why you thought she looked familiar, her face plastered in news articles and all over screens while posing next to her brother, Choi Seungcheol, at events across the city.
Chan worked for - no, was friends with - some of the most dangerous and influential people in the city. Chan was dangerous and influential. And yet you had never known, both of you existing in your tiny bubble of cherry sours and a single, gifted paperback book.
Nausea makes your stomach roll uncomfortably. That night exists as a nightmare now, equal parts terror, intrigue and embarrassment. Fear at how close you had come to being caught in violence you’ve only seen on the news, intrigue at the way Chan had held you close and called you his, embarrassment that you’d been there in the first place.
You haven’t talked about it. Didn’t talk about it on the drive home where you muttered directions to your apartment, Jeonghan muttering a comment about how Chan should move you somewhere that wasn’t a health risk. Didn’t talk about it despite Chan forcing you to exchange phone numbers to make sure you were safe. Didn’t talk about it because you answered none of his calls and none of his texts.
Didn’t know what to say. Still don’t. So the texts and calls go unanswered, despite the gnawing desire to pick up the phone and hear his voice again, to pretend that it’s him murmuring in your ear that it’s okay like he had that night, pressed against you and warm. Safe.
But the world doesn’t pause just because your life has fallen apart. The world has never paused for you. So you peel yourself off the single chair in your apartment and get ready for your shift at the convenience store.
The floor is cold beneath your feet. You flick on the bathroom light and wait for the flickering bulb to turn on. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. It depends on the fluctuating power grid and the need for power in the Upper District and beyond.
You dress quickly and in layers. It’s cold and rainy today, a tropical storm blowing in cold hair from the far coast and chasing away the sticky humidity temporarily. It’s a simple outfit: black pants, a work hoodie with a peeling logo on the chest, and a windbreaker that you found in the lost and found bin at work two winters ago. It’s missing a zipper, but it helps with the wind.
Your backpack is already half packed. You shove a bottle of water, a granola bar - because you’re not allowed to eat anything in the store on shift for free - and the keys to your apartment. The keys are a bit of a joke, considering anyone could kick your door down with a solid attempt.
Out the door and into the hall, you lock the door behind you. Not that you have much to protect, outside of the single paperback book that burns in the back of your mind, hidden under your pillow.
The hallway is dim, lit by a single buzzing ceiling fixture that casts long, flickering shadows down the hall. Mrs. Han from 23B is arguing with her dog again, her voice echoing from the apartment next to you. You start the trek down the stairs - all twenty three flights. The elevator had long since fallen down the shaft, killing the people inside of it before you ever moved in.
Twenty three lights is a lot. But it gives you time to zone out and focus only on the movement of your legs, only the burn in your thighs and the quickness of your breath as you wind down and down and down.
Finally when you reach the bottom, you’re sweating. You adjust your backpack, strap digging into your shoulder, and push the door to enter the main lobby. The door groans when you push it and slams behind you, vibrating in the metal frame.
Outside the world is wind and mist. It still smells like smog, familiar and acrid. Your breath mists as you make your way to the subway. It’s a few blocks away, the path caved through cracked pavement, hissing cats, Taps in alleyways pushing paraphernalia and explosions of neon from screens and advertisements for pleasure clubs and alternate reality lounges.
When you pass a Tap, you faintly wonder whose banner they’re under. You remember Jeonghan saying that this was Kim territory, so you assume them. It makes you give them wide berth, suddenly wary of every member of a Syndicate in a way that you weren’t before.
The subway station looms ahead, a smear of purple and blinking neon. You head down the stairs, feet tapping against the wet tile, and scan your card at the station gate. The turnstile sticks, like always, and like always, you lift a leg to kick at it until it gives.
A man is arguing with a holographic advertisement as you pass. The hologram doesn’t see him - doesn’t know he’s there. How could it? Still, the man yells something unintelligible at it, his frame crooked and leaning heavily to the side like a reed under too much water weight.
The train arrives with a gust of wet, sour air. You step inside and grab a pole, swaying when the car lurches forward. Ads scroll past the digital screens overhead, pushing plastic surgery, new modifications, biotech pills. It’s interrupted by a headline about a Kim family member being arrested and immediately released the same night.
Nothing new. Everything new. You wonder what that means for Chan. Does something like that affect him? Did he have something to do with it? You have all of these new questions, but you’re unsure if you want any of the answers.
You ride in silence, watching the city shapeshift as you cross districts. Graffiti fades into clean walls, grime into polished chrome. The Upper District arrives like a clinical slap to the senses: clean lines, glowing storefronts, security drones.
It’s drier here when you exit the station near the convenience store. You blend into the night, invisible to the partygoers heading to clubs a single district over and the suits exiting from buildings after insane hours at work.
The store comes into view, its bright signage a familiar beacon. You let out a breath, thankful that you can return to the routine and try to forget about Chan, maybe. This is a place you know. Here, you understand the shape of things, what they’re made of.
Inside, you’re greeted by the soft hum of refrigerated cases and the scent of cleaner. It’s almost comforting. Almost. You clock in at the back, scanning your finger on a screen similar to the one you use at the laundromat. You pull on your store-issued apron, fingers tying it around your back before you pass Eren with a nod as he heads out, wordless and tired.
At least working the graveyard shift means quiet hours. No one should bother you, allowing you to do stock or to scan items in inventory. It also means all the time in the world to think, which is exactly what you do as you attempt to lose yourself in stocking shelves and fridges.
No matter how hard you try, your thoughts go back to him.
To Chan.
Chan, with his easy grin and soft eyes, who liked to buy cherry sours. Chan who offered pieces of himself in small, delicate conversations and light teases.
Chan, who was a high-ranked member of the Choi Syndicate. Who walked into that party like a blade wrapped in silk. Who had growled a warning at those men and who clung to you so hard you could still feel the imprint of his hand now.
You see the memory in your mind’s eye: Jeonghan’s gaze, sharp as glass, the casual way the men talked about you like you were a piece of furniture in the room, Cara’s panic as she watched Chan take you. The way Chan stood too still, too tense, like he had been preparing to start a war if they took you away from him.
It’s embarrassing to realize how much you hadn’t known about him. And how could you, really? You’ve only talked to him for fifteen minutes at a time over the last few weeks, needing inference and his idle conversation to give you clues about himself.
Still, you had trusted him. Trusted that despite the fact he was clearly not like you, that he was at least similar in soul. It was a dramatic kind of trust, but a quiet one. One that said you see me and I trust you to keep seeing me.
You’re restocking instant noodles when the door chimes and you hear the rush of wind. You glance up, half-expecting some salaryman or a sleepy student, but your heart lurches violently when you see him. He’s standing just inside the door, dressed down in a hoodie, but there’s no mistaking him. He looks tired. His eyes scan the store until they land on you, and his shoulders drop just slightly, like he was holding his breath.
You straighten up too fast. The cup noodles clatter onto the shelf. “You should not be here.”
“I wanted to talk.”
“I don’t.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He holds up his phone, annoyance twisting his face. “You haven’t answered me in days.”
You scoff. “Did you really expect me to? After—what, that? After finding out you’re not just some guy who likes sour candy and books, but someone who gets invited to parties by Jeonghan?”
“I didn’t lie to you,” he says quietly.
“No,” you agree. “You just let me believe you were harmless.”
His face screws up. “Whatever version of me you conjured up isn’t my fault. I never implied I was harmless. I never implied anything.”
It stings because it’s true. You feel bitter about it, knowing how right he is. You shove the cup of noodles on the shelf and walk toward the counter, needing to put something between you, needing a shield.
“Well, you can’t just show up here.”
“Please just let me-”
“I’m not ready to talk to you.” The silence that follows is loaded. He watches you, eyes round. Hurt. “Please.”
He looks like he wants to say something else, but the words don’t come. He gives you a last look, eyes unreadable, and then turns to leave. The bell jingles gently in his wake. The silence that follows is heavy with tension.
You press a hand to your chest, trying to steady the sharp rhythm of your heart. You feel strung out and hollow, as if he’s somehow taken all the air with him when he left. Sinking behind the counter, you try to steady your shaking hands. You hate that you’re still shaking. Hate that part of you had wanted him to protest more, but begrudgingly appreciate he respected your request.
For a while, you sit there. You watch a moth flutter around a neon sign, oddly grounding. It’s quiet and for the first time in a few days, you don’t have any thoughts. No worries, no sounds, just the blue light and a single moth, fluttering as it chases something.
You peel yourself off the floor and go back to stacking ramen cups and wiping down the counters. The rhythm of work helps. It always has. Your hands remember what to do even when your brain is fogged and aching.
When the door opens this time, you don’t hear it, too caught up in the wet slosh of the mop in a bucket, eyes staring but unseeing as you press the mop into the tile door. When you come around the corner, you pull up short at the three men standing in the doorway.
Your blood runs cold.
Had more time passed, you might not recognize the man from the party a few nights ago. His name doesn’t stick - David, Donnick, Daesik. The man who had nearly started a fight with Chan over you, his hands in the pocket of a sleek jacket, like he’s attending a business meeting. There’s a tilt to his smile that makes you tighten your grip on the mop, skin crawling.
“You’re easy to find.” His eyes slide over the shelves before they make their way back to you. “But I realize that people like you don’t know how to disappear. You’re really not of this world, are you?”
Your throat tightens. “Can I help you?”
He raises an eyebrow, like the question amuses him. “You’re certainly going to.”
Terror makes you take a step back. You pull the mop in front of you, a shield or weapon you’re not sure. Your heart kickstarts, pounding so fast you swear you can feel it in your toes.
“I didn’t do anything to you,” you murmur, quiet.
He shrugs. “I’m insulted. I deserve an apology.”
“Fine. I’m sorry.”
Your phone is sitting on the shelf right next to you. You make the mistake of looking at it. He notices and you both act at the same time. He lunges for you and you leap for the phone, both of you crashing into the display. You scream as you both go down with the shelf, a tangle of limbs and chips.
It hurts, but you hit dial anyway. Daesik rolls on top of you, pinning you down by the forearms. You’re still holding the phone, unsure if it’s connected. You can’t hear anything over your own screaming and thrashing, lifting your hips and kicking your legs as you try to throw him off of you.
Daesik leans down, a smile twisting his face. You seize the opportunity and throw your head forward, your forehead connecting with his nose.
Pain explodes. Your ears ring. Your vision sputters. All you can see is red, head spinning as you fall backward, dazed from the hit. Someone is yelling and you feel a boot on your hand where it holds the phone. Something loud slices the air - your screaming, you realize.
And then something crashes, glass exploding inward. Daesik is off of you and for a moment, the world is nothing but glass glittering like rain as the window shatters inward. You hold an arm up, feeling the bite of shards cut into your arm where it’s exposed.
A car is idling in the front of the store. You’re less surprised at the car and more surprised to see Chan sliding over the hood, planting his foot into the chest of a man with enough force to send him flying into the drink fridge, the glass door cracking under the impact. The man crumples and remains motionless.
Another figure steps through the wreckage behind him, someone you don’t recognize. She’s grinning, eyes manic. Her eyes gleam with something sharp and hungry, and the moment she moves, you understand why. She doesn’t fight like a person. She flows, quick and precise, slipping past a punch and lashing out with one arm.
Red erupts from the man's throat. You gasp. You hadn’t realized she was holding a knife. Hadn’t realized she was already cutting him again. Again. Again. Fast, brutal slashes that seem almost too fluid to be real. With each flick of her wrist, more blood arcs through the air. The man crumples, clutching at his neck, choking on his own breath as he drops to his knees.
Daesik tries to scramble up, but he’s too slow. Chan slams into him like a freight train, taking him back down into the carnage of shelving and snacks. You roll away from the chaos, gasping in pain. Vomit climbs up your throat, head throbbing as you try to gain your bearings.
You sit upright and the room swims. Through the blur, you see Chan pin Daesik to the ground, one knee crushing into his chest. His hand is steady. The blade he holds is pressed flush to Daesik’s throat. His face is unrecognizable, fury distorting every line of it, a rage that is burning, holy, inhuman.
“I told you once,” Chan seethes, spittal flying. “Not. Yours. Say hello to all the other Kims and Yongs we’ve sent to the fucking afterlife.”
He drags the blade across Daesik’s throat. You turn away before you see it. You don’t need to. You hear it. Smell the iron and salt of it.
The store is a disaster of glass, blood, and chaos strewn across the floor. None of it feels real. Not yet. You sit curled up in the wreckage, your arms wrapped around your ribs, body aching in more places than you can count. Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts. You try to focus on anything that isn’t the iron tang in the air or the sticky warmth drying on your skin.
Footsteps approach, crunching through the destruction. Someone crouches in front of you and then you hear Chan’s soft, “Hey.” You look up at him, eyes scanning his face. There’s blood splattered across his tan skin. You don’t think it’s his own. “I’ve got you.”
Chan licks his lips and reaches for you and then hesitates, hovering just shy of touching you. “Can I? Are you hurt anywhere I can’t see?”
You nod. “I think I cracked a rib. My head hurts really bad.”
Chan’s eyes flit to your forehead and his mouth twitches. “Did you break his nose?”
“I think so.”
“Good girl.”
A shadow moves past behind him. Light, purposeful steps. “Gnarly. Is she coherent?”
Chan glances over his shoulder, exhaling. “Yeah. Angel, easy.”
Angel crouches beside him, resting her chin on one hand like she’s studying you. She has the same blood smeared across her sleeves, same wild glint in her eyes. She smiles. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… weirdly friendly.
“Good job breaking his nose. Pretty decent for your first time.”
The woman - Angel - offers you a hand. Her nails are painted and glossy, the juxtaposition against the dried blood on her wrist making you oggle at her.
“Don’t worry,” she winks. “I only use the knife on people who deserve it. Cherry, right? That’s what Jeonghan called you.”
Cherry. Jeonghan had called you that a few nights ago, implied that Chan had been calling you the cherry sours girl.
You nod slowly.
“Cute. Jeonghan liked you, so you must not suck.”
For some reason, the thought of Yoon Jeonghan signing off on you is not at all comforting.
Chan sighs. “Angel, please.”
“What?” she grins. “I’m being reassuring.”
You look at her hand. Then back to Chan. Then slowly, cautiously, let her help you to your feet. Pain radiates down your side and you wince, hissing through your teeth. Chan’s arm is under you instantly, steadying you.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, softer this time. “I promise.”
Angel steps back with a hum, eyes flicking around the store. “Jihoon is going to fucking kill us. Do you think Kero will come burn the place down?”
Chan glares at her. “We’re not burning it down.”
“Oh, so now arson is too far?” She gives him an innocent look. “Where was that energy ten minutes ago when I drove a fucking car through the window?”
“Yeah, what the fuck was that? That’s my car, Angel.”
“Tell Baby to buy you another one! She loves giving people shit on Christmas.”
You let out a small, choked laugh before you can stop it. A ridiculous sound. But you’re suddenly grateful for her madness, because it’s easier to focus on that than the blood drying on the floor.
“Come on,” Chan murmurs, guiding you toward the back door. “Let’s get you out of here.”
“Where are we going?” you manage.
“Somewhere safe.”
Angel trails behind you, humming as she steps over a body. “I’ll drive.” Chan shoots her a look. “Right, no car. So are we walking, or?”
-
You do in fact, take a car. You have to walk a few hurried blocks first, getting away from the scene of the crime as sirens scream in the distance. Angel makes a quick call and a sleek, black car pulls up to the curb for the three of you.
You barely remember getting into the car, or Angel tossing a bloodied blade into the glove compartment like it’s a pack of gum. You don’t remember the way the city lights slid across the windows or how Chan never let go of your hand, not once. Only when the car begins winding through tree-lined roads and passing silent iron gates do you begin to come back into your body.
“Holy shit,” you mutter, looking out the window. “What is this place?”
An entire jungle exists here, snatches of drives leading up to secluded houses. It’s beautiful in a way that feels haunting, old trees, stone paths. You’ve never seen so much green in your life, breath fogging the window as you pass through the tropical paradise, tires hissing on gravel.
“Go to my house, please,” Chan tells the driver.
The car turns down a near-invisible path in the trees. You watch as the world vanishes into a world of palmetto and palms. Chan’s thumb strokes back and forth on your hand, but he says nothing, frame vibrating with tense silence.
Chan helps you out of the car, his hand gentle at your back. Angel remains in the passenger seat, grinning as the car pulls away back down the path before it vanishes.
His house is nothing like you imagined. Not glass and steel or sharp, cold edges. No guards posted out front. No high walls. Just… nature. Dense tropical trees surround the house on every side, vines thick with dew, leaves rustling overhead in the cool air.
The house itself is low and sprawling, dark wood and warm stone, glowing from the inside with soft amber light. Plants hang in pots by the porch. There’s a hammock slung between two posts. Wind chimes stir gently in the breeze.
You stare.
“What? Chan asks, a little shy.
“This is beautiful.”
“Oh, uh. Family home. A lot of us um - live on property. Angel and Vernon are just up the road and Baby and Soonyoung are in the main house.”
Inside, the house is warm. It looks lived in and cozy. There are books everywhere, some open, some dog-eared, some stacked haphazardly beside a record player. A large worn couch faces a fireplace filled with glowing coals. A low table holds three mismatched mugs, one with tea still in it. There’s a blanket thrown across the back of a chair and a pile of laundry peeking out of a hallway basket. On the wall hangs a corkboard with photos pinned to it.
A home. One where generations have lived. Chan is pressed into these walls, his entire family’s history all here.
You swallow hard as he leads you to the couch. It smells like cedar, citrus, and something distinctly Chan. He helps you sit with a soft grunt. Your ribs pang and you curl your arms around them. He murmurs that he’ll be right back before vanishing down the hall, returning just as quickly with a med kit and a bottle of water.
“Let me see,” he says gently, kneeling in front of you.
You hesitate, then pull your shirt up just enough to reveal the bruises blooming across your ribs. His fingers brush your side with clinical precision, but you still feel the tension vibrating under his skin. His eyes are laser-focused, intense and dark. He doesn’t press hard, but his fingers map the edge of the damage.
“I don’t think anything is broken,” he murmurs, looking up at you with pinched brows. “Angel will bring Dr. Ymir to confirm, though.” He gestures to your head, where you realize it’s cut. “May I?
You nod and he cleans it, his touch careful. He works in silence, tension thrumming between the two of you all the while.
When Chan finally speaks, it’s pained. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to happen and it did and… that’s on me.”
You look at him. Really look at him. His jaw is clenched. His hair is still mussed from the fight. There’s a smear of blood, some on the collar of his shirt. And yet his eyes are full of something unbearably human.
“I didn’t know,” you whisper. “Who you were. What you were part of. I just thought… you liked cherry sours and paperback novels.”
He huffs a faint breath. “I do. I also happen to kill people who try to hurt the ones I care about. It’s not mutually exclusive. Does it… change anything?”
What is there to change? You almost ask, but don’t. You think about his question. Then ask one of your own, “Is it always like this?”
Chan tilts his head. “Like what?”
“People showing up. Trying to hurt you. People like Angel cutting throats and then offering to make tea.”
He snorts. “I can’t lie and say it’s not. It’s worse than usual right now. The family is at war and well…” He chews his lip. “I am so fucking sorry I brought you into this. Had I just… left you alone at the party…”
After a beat, you reach for his hand and squeeze. “I’m glad you didn’t.” He looks up at you. “Leave me alone at the party, I mean. Thank you.”
“It was selfish of me. The thought of someone else touching you…” He sighs again and stands up. You wish he would finish his train of thought - want to beg him to finish. “You’re safe now, but you should probably rest. Dr. Ymir will come around to make sure your ribs aren’t broken and to check if you have a concussion. We can figure out what to do then, alright?”
You nod. Let him take you to one of three rooms - this one is clearly his. It smells like him and there are more books scattered around the room, his sheets rumbled. It’s full of earth tones and soft orange light. It’s so different from the cutting edge modern that you’re used to, feeling like you’re stepping back through time to something soft. Homey.
Chan helps you lay down and brushes his fingers across your forehead gently, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “Rest. I’ll wake you when the doctor is here.”
-
You lose track of time in the days that follow. The world outside Chan’s house might as well not exist. The estate is so wrapped in dense greenery and quiet security that it starts to feel like a dream you haven't quite woken from.
Dr. Ymir arrives a few hours after the incident. She’s tall, sharp-eyed, and whip-smart, her touch clinical but not unkind as she checks your ribs, bruises, pupils, and reflexes. She doesn’t ask questions. She just hums quietly to herself, pokes you exactly where it hurts most, and tells Chan she’ll be back tomorrow. No broken ribs, no concussion, just a hard fucking head.
“Don’t let her do anything strenuous,” she says as she packs up her kit. “No stress, no stairs, no sharp objects.”
“So no Angel. Got it.”
“She’s surrounded by you,” Dr. Ymir replies dryly. “Which is worse.”
Chan scowls. You hide a smile, deciding that you like this family doctor very much.
That becomes the rhythm of your days: Ymir visits. You heal. Chan hovers. He won’t let you lift anything heavier than a fork. He follows you from the bedroom to the living room like you’re made of glass. He brings you snacks you didn’t ask for, fluffs the pillows behind you, and glares at them like it’s their fault you’re uncomfortable.
One night, you catch him asleep in the armchair beside the bed, his neck bent at an awful angle, arms crossed, a book half-open in his lap. You stare at him in the low light and wonder how long he's been sitting there watching over you.
On the fourth day, you surprise him in the kitchen. He nearly drops a glass when he sees you, rushing to make you sit down at a rustic wooden table.
“Chan, I’m fine.”
“Sit down.” He helps you sit and brings you a cup of coffee. “Drink your coffee and let me helicopter in piece.”
“At least you’re self aware,” you mutter into the mug, taking a sip. It’s sweet, flavored with cinnamon.
Finally, he sits next to you with his own cup. He looks good, dressed in a wrinkled t-shirt and pajama pants. It’s such a stark contrast to the polished Chan that you’ve always known, but you like this version of him. It feels real, now, this thing between you. You don’t know what to name it - don’t think you can give it a name - but there’s something there, buzzing.
You talk about books, about music, about everything except the night that got you here. You start to learn the layout of his home by touch and scent, by the warm corners where he likes to sit and the strange half-painted canvas hanging in the hallway, abandoned.
“Soonyoung,” he deadpans when he catches you looking at it. “Don’t ask.”
On the fifth day, your morning coffee is interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up in the driveaway. Both of you lift your heads. Chan is already moving toward the door, fingers twitching like he’s looking for a weapon. Before he can get there, the door swings open and Angel is stepping inside, dressed in an all black rain slicker and grinning.
“Hello, Household of Chan!” She moves to the kitchen, opening cupboards with practiced ease, clearly a frequent visitor despite how little she acknowledges it. “You look way better. How are you feeling?”
“Umm, better,” you offer, eyes darting to the door where Jeonghan enters like a shadow. He makes you shiver. Chan tries to shut the person behind Jeonghan out, but there’s a tussle at the door and a man with silver-blonde hair enters the room after shoving Chan out of the door. “Definitely better.”
“Hello, Cherry,” Jeonghan says, his tone light but there's an undercurrent of something else. It’s hard to tell what. “Long time no see.”
“Hi.”
The blond man tumbles into the room, still smacking at Chan. “Damn, no wonder you kept going to that goddamn convenience store. She is cute! Congrats.”
You blink, unsure if you should be offended or flattered. He doesn’t give you time to think, slinging himself onto the chair next to you. “Name’s Soonyoung,” he announces, voice practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “Don’t let Chan’s little ‘I’m too cool for everyone’ act fool you. I’m the fun one.”
You can’t help but feel a slight chill run through you. You know who Kwon Soonyoung is. The Sentinel of the Choi Syndicate is a known entity in the city, a violent predator who has been the thorn in the sides of the Yong and Kim families for months now.
“Soonyoung,” Chan says, voice low, “tone it down.”
Chan comes to stand behind you. You feel the heat of him on your back, a comfort that you lean into instinctually. Tentatively, he sets a hand on your shoulder, squeezing. Soonyoung’s stormy eyes lock on to the action and he grins, sharp.
“Sure, Chan,” Soonyoung gives him a cheeky look. “Just making sure she knows what she’s dealing with. Don’t worry, I’m mostly harmless.”
“Mostly harmless?” you ask, knowing this is someone who’s not mostly harmless at all.
“Mostly. You’d be fine. Probably. My girlfriend said you’re normal.” He takes the mug of coffee that Angel offers. He notes your confusion and clarifies, “You met her at the convenience store. That creamsicle gum, by the way? Fucking excellent. Do you have any more?”
Ah. This man belongs to Baby. You cannot imagine how. She seemed refined, regal, like someone who comes from a long line of divinity. This man is brutal, rough around the edges, a storm of blood and steel.
“Soonyoung,” Chan sighs, exasperated.
It’s late morning by the time you all move to the living room and settle, the sun filtering lazily through the wide windows of Chan’s living room. The tropical trees outside cast dappled shadows across the floor, branches swaying gentle in the breeze.
You’re curled up into one end of the long, sun-warmed couch, your knees tucked under you, a blanket draped over your shoulders. A mug of tea - made by Angel - rests in your hands, warm and comforting.
You don’t say much. You don’t need to. The others do all of the talking for you. Not that they talk over you or around you - they talk at you plenty, keeping you in the loop and trying to catch you up to speed on their world.
Across from you, they move with the ease of people who’ve known each other their whole lives. Soonyoung is sprawled across the rug like a lion in the sun, legs stretched out, gesturing wildly as he recounts something that makes Angel snort. She’s perched on the arm of the chair Jeonghan’s taken, leaning over to flick Soonyoung on the head when he gets too dramatic. It only makes him louder, more animated, like being the center of attention feeds something inside him.
Jeonghan, of course, is the calm in the chaos. Quietly smug, lazily amused, his eyes half-lidded as he listens. He’s more relaxed now, a layer of him melting. There is still something hard, there, an exterior you don’t understand. But you watch the way his affection shines through when he tilts his head and listens to Angel talk. At some point, you realized they’re adopted siblings. Once you notice, you cannot help but see the synchronicities in their movements and habits.
And Chan - he’s warmer too. He sits next to you, legs pressed against yours in a way that is overwhelming and distracting. His arms are crossed loosely over his chest, a half-smile on his face. This is the Chan you know from the convenience store.
You realize that your Chan is the same as their Chan. That this unpolished, open version that the people who he’s known his entire life is the same version of him that he gifted you. Even if it was only for fifteen minutes a week, between fluorescent lights and discount candy, he gave you this version of himself, freely, quietly, without expectation.
The thought drives you mad. Makes the room spin with possibilities. If that Chan was real, and if he looked at you then the way he’s looking now-
He is looking at you now. His gaze has drifted, as if drawn to you by an unknown power. It catches and it holds, his eyes never leaving yours. Everything recedes to a distant hum, the chaos of laugher, the quiet brush of leaves against the window - it’s all eclipsed by the weight of Chan’s eyes on yours.
His smile softens and you melt.
Chan doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His gaze dips briefly to your hands curled around your mug, then flicks back up to your face, almost shyly. It’s absurd, the way your heartbeat reacts. How quickly it speeds up.
When he meets your eyes again, there’s a question there. He straightens a little, uncrossing his arms like he might reach for you, like he wants to press you even closer to him and-
Jeonghan’s voice breaks the moment. “I have socialized enough.”
When you turn to look at Jeonghan, his gaze is pinned on you, a lazy smile spreading across his face. He’s read the moment, sees whatever is brewing on your corner of the couch. Soonyoung complains, but Jeonghan’s kicks at him playfully as he stands.
“Take me home, children.”
Angel unpeels herself from the arm of the chair like a cat, eyes flashing as she winks at you. Perhaps she noticed, too. “Bye, Cherry.”
Soonyoung gets to his feet and pouts. “Bye.”
The door clicks shut with the soft finality of departure. Now, silence. Chan hasn’t moved. The air is thick with something unspoken, something that’s been humming between you for days - no, longer. For weeks. In stolen fifteen minute increments.
He leans a little toward you, eyes half-lidded, dropping down to gaze at your mouth. He stares down at you like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s spent every spare moment these past few days trying to keep his hands to himself and is now dangerously close to giving in.
Your heart thuds.
“Chan,” you murmur, not really sure if you’re asking a question or making a statement.
That’s all it takes. Your voice. His name. He moves.
One moment there’s space between you, and the next his hands are cupping your face, and his mouth is crashing into yours like he’s breaking through the surface of water he’s been drowning beneath. It’s not tentative, not careful. It’s raw, heated, desperate. Like he’s been holding this back for far too long and the dam has finally, finally broken.
You gasp into him, the sound swallowed by his lips, by the way his fingers tighten like he’s scared you’ll pull away. But you don’t. You can’t. Your hands rise of their own accord, curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in him, anchoring yourself to the moment.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, your breaths tangling. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide.
“I can’t,” he pants, voice ragged. “I can’t do this if you don’t want this… whatever we exist in. You asked me if my life was always like this. I was honest: it is and it isn’t. You’ll never be entirely safe if you’re with me, but I will do anything to make it so.”
“I feel safe. Even at that stupid party. You made me feel safe.”
“I’m serious,” he whispers. “I know we haven’t talked about it all or what happened or what comes next. But I can’t be half in, half out with you.”
You don’t respond right away. Your hand finds his, lacing your fingers together, grounding him. Grounding yourself. “I’m good right here.”
He makes a sound, somewhere stuck between relief and desperation. His lips find yours again, softer this time, needy.
Chan presses into you, pinning you against the arm of the couch. Your arms loop around his neck, pulling him in tighter. His mouth is hungry and warm, tongue brushing against yours as he drinks you in. It’s different now. Still tender, but deeper. Slower. Lingering. Like he’s learning the shape of your mouth, committing the taste of you to memory. His hands slide down, framing your waist like you’re fragile, like he’s still giving you the chance to stop him.
Instead, you curl your fingers into the collar of his shirt, pulling him down with you as you shift backward, sinking into the cushions. He follows, a soft groan escaping him when your hips press up, a whisper of friction that ignites something low and molten between you.
“Bedroom,” he rasps against your neck, kissing a path just under your jaw. “Not here. Not the couch.”
You nod, breathless, letting him pull you up to your feet. His hands are secure and careful, his mouth returning to yours even before you take a single step. The walk to his bedroom is a blue, a mess of heated kisses and tangled feet. By the time he nudges the door open and manages to get you onto his bed, you’re already trembling with need for him.
He pauses once, hovering above you in the amber light of his room, his chest rising and falling as he pants.
“You sure?” His voice is rough.
You reach up, threading your fingers through his hair. “Come here.”
His mouth is on yours again, hungry now, unrestrained. Clothes are pulled away in slow, dragging touches, and brushing over skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake, despite the warmth of his palms. Your eyes alight on the ink on his arms, fingers tracing delicately. There’s a mountain range covering the circumference of his forearm, all black ink and white highlights.
“Pretty.”
“Steadfast is the mountain,” he answers. It sounds practiced. A mantra.
He straightens, standing at the foot of the bed, lit only by the low lamp in the corner of the room. The shadows fall just right across his cheekbones, but it’s the smile on his face that steals your breath. That crooked, boyish grin you find so fucking charming.
Without a word, he reaches forward and grabs your ankle, pulling you toward him with one smooth tug. You yelp, half-laughing, but he just raises a brow, clearly pleased with himself as your legs dangle a little off the bed. His fingers curl around your ankle, and he brings it to rest on his shoulder, pressing a kiss there, light, deliberate. The heat of his mouth lingers longer than it should.
“So pretty,” he murmurs.
His mouth starts moving again, this time lower. A trail of kisses down your calf, his lips brushing each inch with slow reverence, only interrupted by a sudden, playful nip to the meat of your leg. It makes your leg twitch. Makes your stomach flip.
You bit your lip, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. His mouth leaves fire in its path, makes you tremble. It feels good, his breath skating across your skin, his touch reverant, like you’re something to be cherished.
Chan sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed, settling between your legs like he belongs there. The carpet muffles the sound of him shifting forward as he slides your leg over his shoulder, resting your calf against his back. When you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, your breath catches.
Gone is the playful boy from the convenience store. In his place is pure hunger. Adoration. Focus.
His palms slide along the curves of your things, slow and meticulous, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His thumbs draw tiny circles near your knees, then move inward, kneading softly, coaxing you open. His hands feel too good, making your eyelids flutter.
You can’t help the sigh that escapes you. “Feels good.”
He hums in response but says nothing else. Instead, he dips his head down and kisses your thigh, then the other, then the space between, mouthing over your already damp underwear. You curse, head falling back heavily as Chan’s tongue laves over the fabric, soaking it with a mix of spit and your arousal.
Hooking his fingers in the sides of your underwear, he pulls them slowly down. He tosses them somewhere behind him and presses your legs apart, hands firm, eyes dropping to take in the sight of you, wet, aching and already trembling for him. He groans under this breath.
“Fuck.”
You bite your lip. Your heart’s hammering. The room pulses with tension.
And then he leans forward, and his tongue meets you, slow and deliberate. The first stroke is long, flat, dragging through your folds like he’s savoring you. You moan softly, your fingers fisting the sheets. He doesn’t stop, tongue exploring, teasing, avoiding your clit just enough to make you whimper.
“Chan,” you whimper, voice no louder than a whisper.
“Good girl,” he mutters, giving your cunt a long lick. “Say my name just like that.”
You do. He groans, diving back in, tongue circling your clit now, the pressure just right. Every slow, slick stroke sends heat coiling in your stomach. You can’t think. Can’t breathe. All you can do is feel.
His warm hands ground you, one gripping your thigh, the other stroking slow, soothing patterns into your hip. It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect. You’re melting and coming undone in his hands, and he’s barely started.
A breathy whine leaves your mouth when Chan starts to eat you out properly. You drop down to the bed, unable to keep yourself propped up. A hand shoots to his hair, tangling your fingers in the silky threads as you tug. He grunts in appreciation, his tongue rolling up and down your slick pussy.
When he fastens his mouth on your cunt and gives a gentle suck, you nearly die. It feels so good, your thighs shaking around his thread. He hums, satisfied, tongue prodding your entrance teasingly before dragging up to circle your clit lazily.
“Tastes so good,” he mutters, more to himself than you. He lets a glob of spit drip onto your clit, his tongue chasing it. “Fuck.”
“Shit,” you squeak, feeling your orgasm loom closer. “I’m gonna- fuck.”
“Good.”
He buries his face in deeper, picking up pace. You drip into his mouth and he swallows it down, not shy about the way his mouth sucks at you, loud, wet, lewd. You’re shaking underneath him, barely able to breathe, his tongue sliding back and forth over your throbbing clit.
Chan dips his head low, suctioning his mouth to you, sucking harshly from entrance to clit. It sends you slamming into your orgasm, thighs twitching around his head, body shaking, back spasming. He continues to mouth at you, tongue circling your entrance, catching every drop of you.
When he’s done, he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses on your inner thighs, marking you with spit and cum. You don’t care, and you definitely don’t care when he hovers back over you, mouth shining in the orange light with your arousal.
Lifting your head, you crash your mouth into his, tasting yourself on his tongue, tangy and heady. He groans, letting you consume him as the two of you shuffle up the bed. His skin hot against yours, stomach jumping underneath your touch as your nails scrape down his front to press firmly against his sweatpants.
Chan lets out a needy moan. You grin, wicked and spurred by the sound. You squeeze him through the fabric, reducing him to a whining mess, his head dropping down to your shoulder as he pants, letting you give him the barest amount of friction.
His hips twitch into your hand, little jerks of motion as your hand shocks his system. You love the way sounds for you, love how he sounds throaty, voice broken, mouth desperate where he plants kisses on your neck.
“Let me taste you,” you murmur, pulling at the band of his sweatpants. “Please.”
Chan peels off of you and shuffles up the bed. You blink at him, stars in your eyes, watching with swollen lips and your mouth parted as he knees next to you. He tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and peels them down, revealing his thick, heavy cock. It bobs, dark tip swollen and beading with precum.
Your mouth waters. You remain laying on the bed, batting your eyelashes at him as you reach for him. He’s hard in your hand, warm to the touch. He pants heavily as you stroke his velvety shaft, his head falling back a little, throat exposed, eyes fluttering shut.
Chan is beautiful like this, on his knees, hands fisted against his thigh as your hand pumps him leisurely. Your hand rounds the top of his cock, thumb brushing across the sensitive tip, smearing his precum down his shaft. Then you’re rolling on your side, guiding him toward your mouth and he shifts, shuffling to accommodate the space.
“Fuck,” he hisses, air slicing between his teeth.
Your lips close around Chan, the familiar weight of him settling on your tongue. You trace the underside of his shaft, slow and deliberate, feeling the warmth of his skin. His breath hitches, a quiet tremor running through him as you draw him in, your movements steady, unhurried.
You pull back, a thin thread of saliva glinting briefly before it snaps. Lying back, you meet his gaze and murmur, “Use my mouth.”
“You’re gonna kill me,” he heaves.
Still, he complies. He shifts closer, one hand steadying himself as he looks down at you, eyes dark with want. You part your lips, tongue extended, an open invitation. He shakes his head, almost disbelieving, and brushes the tip of himself against your tongue.
You give him a single, wet lick and he’s cursing again, laughing at the way you make him fall apart. This time, he sinks into your mouth carefully. You’re mindful of your teeth, suctioning your cheeks as he slides
in. It’s a challenge for him, every inch making his cock twitch.
Still, he complies. He shifts closer, one hand steadying himself as he looks down at you, eyes dark with want. You part your lips, tongue extended, an open invitation. He shakes his head, almost disbelieving, and brushes the tip of himself against your tongue.
His free hand drifts downward, fingers grazing your thigh before slipping between your legs. He groans at the wet mess he finds there, fingers slipping against your clit. You hum around him, hips twitching as you spark with pleasure. The dual sensation, his slow thrusts in your mouth, his fingers working your cunt, sets your nerves alight, a soft moan vibrating against him as he presses deeper into both your mouth.
Chan drags his fingers down, pressing them to your entrance. You nod, mouth full of cock, desperate for his fingers.
“Want my fingers?” You hum, looking up at him with a watery lash line. “Good fuckin’ girl.”
His fingers grow more deliberate, parting you with a gentle insistence, exploring your slick heat. He curls them just right, finding that spot that makes your hips buck involuntarily. Your muffled gasp around him only spurs him on, his touch steady but relentless.
Each stroke is precise, his thumb brushing against your clit in tandem, building a rhythm that matches the slow rock of his hips. Your body tenses, thighs trembling as he pushes you closer to the edge, his fingers slick and unyielding, drawing out every shudder and pulse while you struggle to keep your focus on the weight of him in your mouth.
Chan pulls out of your mouth. You protest but he shuffles down the bed and hushes you with a kiss. “I’m not cumming in your mouth.” You pout and he laughs, fingers working your cunt. “Think you can take me?”
“Please.”
He surprises you by laying next to you, reaching over and grabbing you and rolling you on him. Your knees settle on either side of his waist, your chest pressed against his. He grins down at you, hands skimming down your sides to your waist where he squeezes before continuing to your ass, dragging his nails across your skin.
“Don’t tease me,” you whine, rolling your pussy against his wet shaft.
“You don’t tease me!”
“No fun.”
Reaching between you, Chan strokes himself, spreading slick down his shaft. You lift your hips just a little, letting him press his tip against your entrance before you sink down on him slowly. You moan in tandem, his cock stretching you to the fullest. Inch by inch, you take him, until he’s fully sheathed, your body flush against his, breaths ragged.
The fullness is overwhelming, Chan buried deep, your chest pressed to his. For a moment, you stay still, breaths intertwining, lips brushing but not quite kissing. It’s raw, close, the heat of him grounding you.
His hands find your thighs, gripping firmly as he begins to move you, lifting you along his length before pulling you back down. His hips rise to meet you, a steady rhythm that sends sparks through your core. You gasp, a shiver racing through you, and you match his pace, fingers curling into the hair at the base of his neck. Your knees dig into the mattress, giving you leverage to rock against him, each motion drawing a soft groan from his lips.
Chan’s thrusts deepen, deliberate, each one stoking the heat coiling low in your belly. You lean forward, lips grazing his jaw, his pulse thrumming beneath your touch. His grip tightens, one hand sliding to your hip, guiding you faster, harder.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice strained. “Just like that.”
His words send a jolt through you, your walls clenching around him, earning a low growl. You’re close too, the pressure building with every thrust, every brush of his cock against that perfect spot inside you.
A hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit, circling with just the right pressure. Your hips stutter, a whine escaping as the sensation pushes you to the edge. You gasp, digging your nails into the back of his neck. He doesn’t let up, his thrusts relentless, jostling you, fingers working you until your vision blurs.
It hits you first, a wave crashing over you as you tighten around him, coming undone. Your moans are broken, hips jerking as you ride your high, thighs burning, trembling against him. The way you throb around him sends him over the edge. With a choked groan, he thrusts deep a final time, spilling inside you, heels digging into the mattress.
You remain tangled limbs, you on his chest, both of you panting and slick with sweat. His arms wrap around you, loose but warm. As your heartbeats slow together, his hand begins to trace patterns up and down your spine.
After a while, Chan shifts beneath you. He leans back, looking at you. You smile, resting your chin on his chest. You’re so close you can count each one of his silk eyelashes.
“So… you’re staying, yeah?” His voice is small when he asks. Hesitant. “I don’t mean just until you’re feeling better. I mean that I want you here. With me. We can figure out what’s next. I just…”
“I’ll stay,” you whisper. Then grin, quoting Romeo and Juliet when you murmur, “For parting is such sweet sorrow.”
That gets a grin out of him. “I have lots of books for you to read.”
“I’ve noticed. You have… more books than I thought possible.”
“They’re yours. Anything of mine belongs to you.”
Your hand slides up his chest, resting over his beating heart. “I just need this.”
“You have that. You’ve had that since the first night I walked into that store and you recommended cherry sours.” He pauses. “You know that store is not remotely on my way home, right?”
“What?”
He grins. “I go out of my way every week to go there. Just to see you. It made me happy.”
Your heart thrums in time with his. “Me too.”
“Thank you,” he murmurs as you rest your face in his neck, snuggling closer. “For offering those cherry sours that night. For staying.”
You press a kiss to his collarbone, unable to articulate just how thankful you are for him, despite everything.
-
Angel stands in front of you, her arms crossed as she watches you with an intensity that makes you want to run. Her arms are corded muscle, winding with black ink. She has an image of an angel falling down her forearm, the feathers drifting upward toward a starry sky. Most members of the Syndicate are tattooed, Chan included.
Your eyes drift over to him, drinking him in. He’s squaring off with Soonyoung a few mats over, sweating through his tank top, arms up. His tattoos flex as he throws a jab, glistening under the neon lights and sweat.
“Come on,” Angel instructs, tapping her foot impatiently. “Eyes here, not on your sweaty rat of a boyfriend.”
You shift awkwardly. “I don’t know how I am ever going to be able to throw a punch like that. You make it look easy.”
“I’ve been hitting people since I was ten. I punched the Tower in the stomach when we were kids once.” Your eyes go round and she grins, all teeth. “Watch me.”
She changes her stance, twisting her arm as she slowly goes through the motion of an exaggerated jab. “Always follow through. You need to punch through something, not at it.”
You try to replicate the movement. The move is clumsy and Angel winces. “Try again.”
Before you can try again, a loud thud echoes through the gym. You glance over to see Soonyoung in the background, pinning Chan down to the mat. Chan is stomach down - you have no idea how that happened - growling and trying to throw Soonyoung off of him.
Soonyoung is grinning, clearly enjoying every moment of it. “Nice try, Chariot.”
“A bit of advice.” Angel’s voice brings you back to the present. “Don’t be stupid like your boyfriend and challenge the Sentinel every morning. He gets his ass beat most days.” She gestures to your hands. “Try again. Hit me like you mean it.”
Soonyoung helps Chan to his feet. Claps him on the back. There’s so much love in these walls, even when throwing punches and trading blows. You look at Angel and make a fist, retaking your stance.
description:
Part of the Beyond The Grid series.
Haechan, bold, aggressive and unrelenting, is back after a narrowly missed opportunity to become the world champion in 2024. This time, he's set his sight on making it all the way to the top. You, as his newly appointed PR representative, are assigned with the task of keeping up with a world of high stakes, unpredictable twists and well, him.
warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn, honestly quite f1 heavy
w/c: part 1 - 17.8k
part 2 - 15.8k
glossary taglist
a/n: its here after so long cries. I loved writing this so much!! it's heavy on the f1 technicalities and races and stuff so I hope I've done justice to that. So excited for this season to start (not a red bull fan so in no way am I manifesting max 5th but !!! haechan <3). The number of tabs and informatory articles and vids I watched to make this as authentic and real as possible will haunt me but I would not have it any other way. This is for all my f1 + kpop fans, but to those who are only a part of one, hopefully you will fall in love with the other. The glossary, I think, will help a lot for those who don't watch f1 so I'd suggest keeping that tab open as you read this. I truly hope you guys love this as much as I do! comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3 (if you want to be notified for pt 2, i don't have a taglist yet so u can just write a comment/dm/ask!)
BAHRAIN, PRE-SEASON TESTING, DAY-1
February 26th
Well, that Mercedes is fast on the straights, Haechan thinks as he swoops into the slipstream. The heat is already getting to him. He’s sure he had asked for the evening time slot. Maybe he’ll talk with his engineer about this as soon as he gets out of this godforsaken car. To be fair, it isn’t godforsaken, not really. In fact he has an inkling that it’s far from that as he watches his delta on the screen blink green— faster than his last lap— but nowhere near the times posted by Mercedes and Ferrari.
“Am I good to overtake?” Haechan speaks into his radio.
“Let’s take it easy. No need to exert too much Haechan. Sector 1 and 2 look good, let’s shave a tenth off in sector 3 and we’ll box to check the metrics.”
Three laps later and fifteen minutes to lunch, the roar of the engine grows louder as the RB21 pulls off the main straight and into the pit lane. He comes to a stop and the mechanics swarm the car, taking off its wheels and pushing it into the garage. Haechan climbs out of the cockpit removing his navy blue helmet and balaclava, hair ruffled up. You think of walking over to him. You really need to introduce yourself and inform him about the media before he heads over to lunch, but for the moment you stay back, eyeing him.
He looks pissed and it’s definitely the sandbagging. That’ll be one question the journalists will definitely ask and Haechan cannot respond in the way you think he will now. Helmet still in hand he walks over to the pitwall to discuss with his engineers. You look around his side of the garage and everyone looks drained. It’s been a long day and Haechan has had quite a lot of feedback on the car, which is good, you suppose. But the team is tired and it’s obvious that they long for the break before the grind starts again with his teammate.
Haechan and his senior race engineer walk back into the garage and you overhear a part of their conversation as you pick up your work phone and your small notepad before trailing slightly behind them.
“At least Mercedes remembers how to build a car again,” His engineer tries to lighten him up, “Don’t worry, our simulations predict our raw times will be faster anyways.”
Haechan mutters something and finally sets his helmet down on a desk next to his car. You take this moment to walk up to him.
“Hello. It’s time to go to the media pen.” You smile slightly as he turns around to look at you for a second before nodding and following you out.
“The media will definitely ask about the comparatively slow pace. You should probably-”
“I mean, why would they even ask about pace during testing, really?” He interjects, and you realize the bite of irritation is still present.
“Look, they’re not looking for the truth, they’re just looking for attention grabbing headlines. You don’t have to give them this energy. Play it cool please, it really matters what you say in there.”
Now you think he’s annoyed with you as well, as he finally tilts his head to look at you, “So what do I say?”
“You’re supposed to look like you know something they don’t. Keep it simple, confident, and let them wonder. Say something like…” You glance at your notes and repeat your carefully crafted line: “‘Testing is about data, not lap times. We’re happy with the direction we’re heading in, the team is constantly making improvements, and the real test will be race day.’”
You come to a halt outside the pen and stare at him. For a moment he seems to want to push back, but to your good luck he sighs, “All right, I’ll play along this once. Get your mic ready Ms….” He trails off , already ahead of you, “Wait, who are you again?” Haechan looks over his shoulder and you shake your head.
You exhale, “Your new PR rep.” But he’s already gone and you scramble for your phone to record him as you push past others to make your way to the journalist he’s talking to.
God may the whole season not be this way.
AUSTRALIA, ALBERT PARK GRAND PRIX CIRCUIT
Thursday, Media day
March 13th
It’s a pleasant day, Haechan thinks as he steps out of his motorhome. A little too early in the morning but pleasant nonetheless. Johnny, his personal trainer, closes the door behind him, shutting out the chilly air from the air conditioning inside.
“So, what’s the plan for today?” Johnny whistles, swinging an arm around Haechan’s shoulders.
Haechan shrugs, “Same old, to the hospitality and then I think I have a meeting with the engineers before media duties start.”
Johnny watches as Haechan taps his ID against the scanner at the entrance, the soft beep barely audible over the sudden clicks of cameras. A few photographers are stationed near the barricades, lenses focused on the driver as he enters the paddock. He watches as Haechan subtly straightens his back, unconsciously adjusting the collar of his polo.
“Smile a little man,” Johnny teases, “Don’t want them thinking you already regret your choices.”
Haechan scoffs, shaking his head but it works as the corners of his lips lift up slightly. “Would be surprised if they haven’t already decided that, seeing our testing results.”
“Oh yeah, about that. I heard you’ve got a new P.R manager now. Seems like the team’s going about a different plan for this season eh?”
“Can’t say I like it very much,” He sighs, “And yeah, I met her during testing. Think I have a meeting with her team as well. God help me escape from the bullshit I’m about to say in the press con today.”
“She’s that bad?” Johnny raises his brows.
“No, I mean. The team strategies aren’t up to her, are they?” Haechan breathes out as they make their way to the Red Bull hospitality centre. Climbing up the stairs, he notices the Mercedes hospitality beside theirs, Kim Doyoung standing outside conversing with his manager. He catches Haechan’s gaze and waves making Haechan walk over to him. Johnny waits outside, pulling out his phone to make sure Haechan’s practice sessions are scheduled timely for the weekend.
Haechan jogs back over in a minute or two. Johnny holds the door open when the younger speaks again, “It’s just that, I know the car is quicker than we expected and a lot better than last year but at the same time, I haven’t driven at my full potential yet and it’s giving me a hard time seeing where I stand.”
Johnny can’t do anything but nod in sympathy.
“And honestly? Doyoung seems quite confident. He’s more laid-back than usual, you know? Was joking around with me. It’s been a while since I’ve seen their team like that.”
“Well,” Johnny laughs, softly pushing him into his meeting room, “Good for him, he hasn’t had a car worthy of his potential for a good few seasons, has he?”
Haechan hums, slightly unconvinced and cautious before he shakes himself out of it, “Where will you be until I get out?” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie as he turns around to face Johnny.
“I don’t know. I was thinking of making new friends. Maybe that new PR lady of yours if she’s around.”
—
“Now, coming to you Haechan. Last season was quite a close one, I mean, you managed to keep the fight up till the last 4 races. At a point I’m sure we all thought we’d see a new world champion in 2024. How do you suppose this season will turn out? Do you think that you have a car that can challenge for the drivers championship again? Where do you think the improvements have been made compared to last year?”
“Well, improvements have been made everywhere… That’s the aim, is it not? Last year, towards the end it got a bit hard. We had issues with the floor and made a few strategic mistakes. But I think over the winter break, the team’s been working really hard and we’re confident that we can put up the fight this season too.”
“You have a new teammate this season, Lee Jeno. How will the team dynamics work out between you two? Do you think that, apart from other teams, your teammate could be your biggest opponent?”
“Yeah, Jeno’s done a great job at VCARB so it’s nice to see him here now. I mean, we’re both here to push the team forward. At the end of the day, we both want the same thing. If he’s my biggest opponent then that just means we’re doing something right.” Haechan laughs.
As the moderator moves on, Haechan zones out, fingers unconsciously tracing the outline of the two bulls on the can in his hand. He’s pulled back in when he's mentioned in one of Mark's questions.
“Towards mid season last year it was almost a three way championship fight. It was quite exciting to see Haechan and you pit against each other. After all, we've been seeing the two of you compete with each other in all the junior series too. How did it feel to reach that high rung with a friend?”
“We spoke about it during that time, actually.” Mark grins, “We've basically grown up competing with each other but to do it in F1 really felt like we were close to making it. I look forward to it this year too.”
“We should bet on it!” Haechan winks at Mark making the other drivers and the reporters chuckle, “It's about time one of us gets used to losing, you don't think?”
Walking out of the press room, Haechan is slightly surprised when you appear right beside him.
“How'd I do?”
“Not bad,” you answer absentmindedly, scrolling through your notes, “The question about Jeno, you handled very well. The one about Mark, though? I think it's a very easy opportunity for these journalists to twist your words.”
“I was just joking, he knows that.”
You hum, “He does, but really, these people are out for drama and you just gave them a nice headline.”
Haechan scoffs, “They should thank me then, don't you think? First media day of the year and it's probably the most interesting thing they've heard.”
He turns towards you when you laugh. “See! you do think that I'm funny.”
“I met your trainer this morning, by the way. Don't know why he suddenly came up to me. But you have some blind fold challenge to do for the F1 youtube channel and he's told me to tell you to be careful. Do not bump into anything, please. And try to be yourself there, I guess.”
“Woah, I've never had a PR person tell me that before. You're kind of nice, ____.”
“And you remember my name. We’re both making progress, I suppose.” You've come outside now and there are significantly more photographers than there were when you first came.
Haechan, slightly ahead of you, stops and turns around, walking backwards. “Hey! That was once and you didn't even introduce yourself to me.”
“Didn't have the time,” You shrug, “All the best. The challenge is being filmed near Alpine’s hospitality. You're doing it with Lee Chan. I have to head back to the hospitality for a second but I'll be there by the time you're done.”
—
Sunday, Race Day
March 16th
The red bull garage looks quite empty without the cars and the mechanics. The pit walls are a bit too high for you to see from the garage but you’re sure they must be setting the car up on track. This isn’t your first gig in the PR industry, but it’s your first time in this sport and you can’t help but observe the remaining strategists and engineers in awe as they move around with calculated aim. There’s still about 15 minutes until the race begins but the air crackles with excitement and expectations.
You hear clattering behind you and panic for a second. You did make sure to stand in a corner where you wouldn’t be in the way of anyone’s job. But upon turning, you notice that it’s Haechan who accidentally drops his phone.
You still as he catches your eye. What are you supposed to do at moments like this? You don’t have any important information to tell him, but you feel like you’re meant to be saying something. Would he want you to speak to him at such a crucial time? You stride over anyways.
Haechan slides his headphones off when he sees you approaching.
“Hey. Aren’t you supposed to be outside for the national anthem soon?” You quip.
He checks the time on his lockscreen and grimaces, “Well, yeah, shit. Don’t want to get fined on the first race, do I?”
You purse your lips before nodding. He takes his headphones off and thrusts them in your hands. You stare back at him, confused.
“Give them to Johnny when he gets here, please. My phone too. He’ll be here in a few minutes, I suppose. I need to go.” He points at the garage door. You nod again, slowly, and he does too before inching towards the pitlane.
“Hey!” You yell as he’s almost out the door, making him turn around, “Win this thing, yeah? I’d rather hear questions about that than listen to another round of ‘holding back’ narratives.” You think you might pray for him, although you doubt he needs it.
Haechan simply winks.
—
When the helmet goes on and the overalls zip up, Haechan becomes an entirely different person. The transformation is almost immediate — he’s focused, determined. On the screen inside the garage, you’re a little stunned at how his eyes, the only visible part of him, are incredibly hard and intense. His gloved hand pushes the visor down and he steps into his car. The crew around him is finalizing the last of their car checks and as they move away and back into the pitlane, the crowd almost quietens for a moment.
“Radio check.” Haechan hears through his earpiece and the final step is complete. Like clockwork, he feels his mind clearing up, revising last minute strategy. He fires up his engine, hears the muffled roar of the others around him.
“Loud and clear,” He responds. The green lights come on near the starting line.
“Formation lap begins.”
The next two minutes go by in a flash, and before he knows it, Haechan lines up to the second grid position. To his right and slightly ahead at P1 is Choi Seungcheol’s Ferrari. Behind and next to him are the Mercs of Joshua Hong and Kim Doyoung. He knows that Seungcheol is already being considered for the season’s favourite before it even starts. With the insane qualifying lap that he put up yesterday to the driver’s championship wins from the last four seasons, it’s obvious that he’s the one Haechan should be aiming for.
The grid falls silent as the last car positions itself. Haechan’s hands tighten around his steering wheel. The first red light flicks on.
One…two…three…four…five.
He's always thought that the following two seconds before the start are the most cruel and crucial. The final preparation.
“And it's lights out for the first time in 2025, here at Albert Park circuit! Seungcheol successfully manages to keep his lead, heading into the first turn there, and OH! Haechan comes close but it is not quite enough as he slips back into 2nd position.” The commentator begins.
In the garage, the team, you notice, has already set up the tires for both drivers. The mechanics have set up chairs and are beginning to settle down, helmets on and ready for the show. You inch a little closer to the screen, eyes flying to the pitwall once to look at Haechan's race engineer already beginning to talk and check in with him.
You don't know the specifics of what goes on behind the scenes, honestly. So you can only imagine what goes on at the pitwall.
Lap 15 comes around in no time and you hear the other cars pitting to change their tyres. Looking at the screen, you realize the Ferrari and Haechan are still out, within a second of each other but a good 5 seconds ahead of Doyoung’s Mercedes and Jeno’s red bull. The mechanics have been watching the fight between Doyoung and Jeno for third place, but they get up now and rush over to where the tyres have been kept, pulling them out and preparing themselves for a pitstop, Haechan’s, you assume.
By lap 37, everything seems to be going fine for you. There hasn’t been anything notable and you’re glad for it. Haechan and Seungcheol, known for being aggressive drivers, are surprisingly keeping in clean, which means less awkward questions for Haechan to deal with. It’s only the beginning of the season, you think. People won’t question him too much if he doesn’t win. Right now, you know there isn’t much that can happen to prevent him from getting on the podium.
By lap 37, things are not going fine for Haechan. He was supposed to get ahead of the Ferrari in the first ten laps, but God, Seungcheol is making it hard. Three times now, he’s tried to overtake him on turn 13 but every single time he comes up short.
“How are the tires feeling, Haechan?” His engineer asks.
“Fine, I think I can go for a few more laps.” He’s approaching turn 13 again, “What’s the gap ahead?”
“0.96s, DRS has been enabled.”
Haechan decides against using DRS and instead goes off the race line, making the Ferrari move outwards to block him. He fakes out, hoping to catch the inside of the turn, but it’s tight and Seungcheol is quicker in blocking him again.
For a split second, Haechan feels the rear end of the car shifting and he instantly steers in the opposite direction to bring it back under control.
As they approach the pit entry, a marshal holds out a lap board. 20 more laps to go. With the way the Ferrari is going, Haechan figures he should probably pit before for the undercut . But just as he thinks that, he sees Seungcheol swerving into the pitlane. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Seungcheol's in the pits, when do you think you’ll come in?” His engineer’s voice cuts him off.
“What tyres is he on?”
“He’s going on a pair of mediums. It might be close at the exit, watch out.” Haechan looks into his rear view mirror and sees the Ferrari exiting the pitlane. Haechan leads the race now, but Seunghcheol is right on his tail, not more than a second behind.
Haechan adjusts his grip on the steering wheel as he nears turn 3. Don’t want to lose the position as soon as we get it, do we Haechan?
“Taking the inside line is a bit of a risk, Ferrari 0.7 behind you.”
Turn 4 is close. Too close. If he gives Seungcheol the outside line now, it’s over. All he’s left with now, is coming up with a good defence.
The RB21 is really quick in the corners, the audience realises as he accelerates even while approaching a turn, trying to maximise the gap before the heavy braking. Haechan slams the brakes at the last moment possible. The Ferrari is close now, almost at par with his rear wheels. For a moment, it feels like he’s got him now, but Haechan gets on the throttle early, trusting the Red Bull’s grip to carry him through. Inside line, now.
He asks for the gap again. It’s too small, far too small for his comfort but it isn’t like he’s left with any choices. On turn 4, again the Ferrari gains on him.
You think it's a sight to see, honestly. Two cars, almost parallel to each other, who’ll come out as the winner? You hope they don’t touch, that nothing bad happens.
Haechan thinks that he’s- Fuck there’s no time for thinking really, PUSH. His legs are starting to hurt from all the accelerating and braking but he grunts through jaw clenched tight beneath his helmet. He doesn’t have time to think about fatigue, about the burn creeping up his calves. Seungcheol is right there, matching him move for move, waiting for the slightest opening.
Turn 5 is fast. Barely a turn at all if you’re brave enough. Haechan keeps his foot planted, resisting the instinct to lift, trusting the downforce to hold him steady. The car twitches slightly under him, tires screaming against the asphalt, but he holds firm.
Seungcheol does the same.
Shit.
“Gap?”
“0.4. He’s still in DRS range.”
Of course he is.
The DRS detection line is approaching fast. If Seungcheol stays within a second, he’ll have a straight-line speed advantage down the next stretch. Haechan makes a split-second decision—move slightly off the racing line, force the Ferrari into dirty air, disrupt his momentum.
It works. Seungcheol hesitates for just a fraction of a second, and that’s all Haechan needs.
He launches out of Turn 6, flat-out now, heart hammering as he glances at his mirrors. The Ferrari is still there, still menacingly close, but Haechan has bought himself a few more meters of breathing room.
“Choi has a 5 second time penalty for speeding in the pitlane. Well done, gap is 0.8.”
Haechan almost sighs in relief. A five second penalty is great — if he manages to keep him behind the entire time — that is.
“Where is Jeno?” He asks, maybe there could be a Red Bull 1-2 for the first race of the season, after all.
“Jeno is 3.4 behind you.” Holy shit, it could actually happen.
The next 6 laps are uneventful, but Haechan’s thinking hard now. He’s just lapped a Sauber and there’s going to be more cars in front now, less clean air.
“Who has the fastest lap?”
“It’s Choi, he did a 1.24.”
“I’m coming in now, put me on softs.”
This time you turn your head away from the screen and stretch your neck to see outside. You can’t see him, not with the twenty something mechanics surrounding his car, but the pit stop is quick, so quick. One moment he’s here, the next he’s not. The screen shows you he’s on the softs. There are ten more laps to go. It’s looking great.
“Choi is in the pits to serve his penalty.”
Haechan’s a bit confused when he hears this. Why risk losing more positions. But he doesn’t have the time to worry about Ferrari’s strategies when the damn Aston Martin in front of him isn’t giving way. He looks to the side to see the blue flags flashing, so really-
“What the fuck is he doing?” Haechan complains over the radio, voice sharp with frustration. The Aston Martin should’ve moved by now, but it’s still hugging the racing line, forcing him to adjust his approach into turn 5.
“Blue flags are out. He needs to move,” his race engineer reassures him, but Haechan can hear the slight edge in his voice too.
“I know he needs to move—”
The Aston finally veers slightly right, but not enough. Haechan has to lift off the throttle to avoid contact, losing precious tenths in the process.
“Fucking finally,” he mutters as he sweeps past, but the damage is done.
“Gap to Choi?”
“4.2. You lost a few tenths there.”
He exhales sharply. It could be worse.
Nine laps to go. His tires feel good, grippier. The car is responding well, but he needs to make up time.
He flicks the mode switch on his steering wheel. A little more power.
“Going for the fastest lap,” he announces, fingers tightening over the wheel.
He barely hears his engineer’s response as he throws the car into turn 9, carrying more speed than before. The speedometer climbs—290, 295, 300 km/h—before he slams the brakes hard into turn 11, trusting the downforce to do its job.
Less than a minute from then, you see Haechan’s name on the screen flash purple. Fastest lap 1.23.056
The next two laps go by in a blur, his focus razor-sharp. Each turn, each braking zone - perfect. His engineer is giving him updates, but he barely registers them.
Then—
“Yellow flag, turn 6. Stay sharp.”
Haechan’s heartbeat spikes.
“What happened?”
“Looks like a Williams spun out. Shouldn’t be a safety car.”
He presses his lips together. Good. A safety car would ruin everything.
Five laps to go.
His eyes flick to the steering wheel display. His lap time delta is in the green. He can get the fastest lap again.
“Mode push?”
“Not required. You already have the fastest lap.”
He ignores his engineer.
Into turn 9, he keeps his foot flat on the throttle. The RB21 flies. He brakes late into turn 11, the car dancing on the edge of grip, but it sticks. His heart pounds as he floors it again.
Purple sector two.
With three more laps to go, he’s stopped seeing the Ferrari in his mirror, instead, now it’s the other Red Bull.
“Gap to Jeno?” He’s a little excited now. It’s been a while since he’s had to compete with a teammate.
“1.4. Keep it clean, please.”
So Jeno’s out of DRS. Haechan isn’t too worried. His tyres still feel great and Jeno’s tyres won’t be doing too good as he’s back on the hards. But just to be safe, just to get that gap, he goes a little faster.
Back in the garage, the Red Bull team are at the edge of their seats. The first race of the season and both their drivers are on the podium. You think everyone’s hoping they don’t crash into each other, mess up on the last few laps.
On track, Haechan hears his engineer through his earpiece, interrupting a few seconds of silence, “Fastest sector 1. You’re doing good. Gap to Jeno is 3.2.
He doesn’t respond. There’s no room for distractions now. Just focus.
He can see the line in the distance. The finish line.
“Two laps left. You’re 3.0 ahead of Jeno.”
The pressure’s mounting, but Haechan blocks it out. There’s no way he’s letting the lead slip now. He can almost feel the podium beneath his feet, the thrill of a victory, the rush that’s been missing since last season.
“Careful with the rear. Stay focused.” His engineer’s voice is calm, but it’s clear he’s watching closely. The car’s rear is loose, and Haechan can feel it through his grip, but he steadies himself, resisting the urge to back off.
The final lap.
Haechan’s heartbeat echoes in his ears as he sees the final lap board waved. He’s so close now. He can almost taste the champagne.
Haechan is cruising through, and you can’t see his car on screen anymore. You suppose they’ll show him again when he nears the finish line but right now, Seunghcheol isn’t far from Jeno. And with his older tyres, Jeno seems to be struggling. You aren’t really concerned. If this lap goes well, which it definitely will, your job for tonight might just be over. There won’t be questions that are too awkward, maybe other than the slightly rude remark Haechan made behind the Aston. But it was the Aston’s fault, so he won’t be on the receiving end of criticism.
You’re snapped from your momentary distraction when you see the mechanics cheering, jumping off their stairs and running to the pit wall. You smile, slowly moving a bit closer. They’re holding onto the grills as Haechan zooms past the chequered flag.
Must be great to watch both their driver’s finish well, You think as you back off. You’re going to need your ID pass for the media pen and you’ve left it in the hospitality. You think you might have to brush up some of the lines you’ve written down too. You won’t have much time before the post-race conference.
Haechan can hear the roar of the crowd as he crosses the finish line. He eases off the throttle, the adrenaline still coursing through him as he begins his cool-down lap. He lets out a little laugh, hearing the congratulations through the radio. First race, first win of the season. It feels great.
Behind him, he sees Jeno’s car and slows down a little more to let him catch up. Through the radio he can hear the cheers erupting in the garage. He looks to his right and shoots a thumbs up to Jeno, who returns the gesture.
The pit crew awaits. The podium awaits. He’s back.
JAPAN, SUZUKA INTERNATIONAL RACING COURSE
Tuesday
April 1st
Tucked away on a quiet street, the ramen shop is smaller than you expected. You hesitate at the entrance, glancing at your phone to double-check the address before stepping inside. The air is thick with the scent of broth and garlic, warmth settling over you as you take in the cramped space.
The restaurant, if you could call it one, is so small that it only houses about four two-seater tables. The person at the counter asks you if you'd be alright with sharing a table with someone and you agree. She leads you to a man in a bucket hat and a leather jacket, head bent as he scrolls on his phone and when she asks him if he'd be alright with it, he looks up. And God, are you surprised?
“Haechan?”
He stares at you for a moment, mouth hanging open before he nods at the waitress and gestures to you to sit down. You're still a bit confused as you shrug off your coat and drape it across the back of your chair. You tell the waitress your order before finally turning to Haechan who smiles politely, albeit a little flustered.
You exhale loudly, “Well, it is a bit awkward outside of work, isn't it?”
Haechan agrees and laughs softly, “How come you're here though?”
“I had a friend recommend it to me. She's been here before a few times and said she really liked it,” You scrunch your nose, “What about you? It doesn't really seem like the place where you'd bump into an F1 driver, eh?”
“Me too. I mean, a friend recommended it to me the first time I visited Suzuka and I've been coming here ever since.”
You hum in response, letting your gaze wander around the tiny shop. Every table is occupied, pairs of diners hunched over steaming bowls, the quiet murmur of conversation blending with the occasional clatter of chopsticks against ceramic. The air is thick with the rich, savory scent of garlic and simmering broth, making your stomach stir in anticipation. Across from the open kitchen, two small windows are propped ajar, letting in a crisp evening breeze that carries the faint sounds of the street outside.
Haechan watches you take it all in. It feels a little weird to not have you talking to him all the time about his schedule or about what he has to say about certain things. It's also weird to see you not on a call, talking to the media or press. He's never observed you, really, and it's only now that he realizes you might be around his age.
His order comes first and you ‘ooh’ at the way steam rises off the soup in the bowl. Haechan turns to take off his jacket. His left hand is out and as he struggles a little to get the right one out, he meets your eyes and you both look away, slightly embarrassed.
“Forgive me for being a spoilsport, but are you really allowed to be eating ramen?” You ask, narrowing your eyes at him.
Haechan is in the middle of taking his third bite as he stoops, holding his chopsticks mid-air, “I'm…not.” He tilts his head before eating.
You raise an eyebrow.
“You know, I think… in order to do your job, which includes protecting my reputation, you should probably not spill about this encounter to Johnny.”
You scoff, shaking your head at him, making him smile before going back to his bowl.
“Did you first come here when you debuted?” You ask after a minute or two of silence.
Haechan nods, “The first time I came, my friend actually brought me here because I was feeling quite depressed after the race,” He chuckles to himself.
“I remember,” you say, “You crashed on the last lap, didn't you? It would've been the first podium of your career if you hadn't.”
You can see the astonishment in his eyes as you continue, “If you ask me, it was an insane thing to do, almost get on the podium while driving an alpha tauri.”
“How do you remember that?”
“Well- I don't exactly remember it, but I had to look you up thoroughly before I started my job, you know?” You joke.
“Hmm,” He plays along, “What else do you know about me, miss PR?”
You lean in a little, like you're about to tell him a secret, “Reports say you have a dog back at home that does not like you. At all.”
Haechan blinks, caught off guard, “Hold on- What?”
You nod solemnly, slumping back into your chair, “Apparently, he ignores you when you come home and only listens to your mum. And uses you for treats. That’s a real betrayal if you ask me. I’ll get the article down as soon as I can. We can’t have you looking like someone who dogs hate,” You think out loud to yourself, suppressing a grin, “No, that would be real bad media attention.”
Haechan groans, setting his chopsticks down, “I can’t believe that made it onto your research.”
“What can I say? I’m quite thorough with my work.”
He shakes his head, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips. “For the record, he does like me. He just… has a weird way of showing it.”
“Sure,” You shrug, eyes drifting towards the bowl the waitress sets down in front of you. “Ohh, that looks so good.”
The two of you settle into silence as Haechan focuses on finishing his bowl while you only begin digging into yours. It’s different from when he sees you in the paddock. Usually, you’re always behind him or beside him, holding out your phone to record what he says or always note taking and calling the media. You’re the epitome of a professional, so he thinks that right now, you’re different too. Much more relaxed and less uptight about everything. He’s gotten a bit used to seeing you all polished, always in control, moving from one task to another but here, you’re just.. you?
The thought lingers for a second before he pushes it away. He glances at you and almost laughs at the way you’re trying to push your bangs away while holding your chopsticks. You look up and mumble a small ‘what?’.
“Are you always like this?”
“Hey!” You sound a little offended, “I can have a lot of fun outside of work, how would you know?”
“Well, I can imagine.” Haechan laughs, “Off work, professionalism out the door, am I right?”
“Yes, yes, you are. I don’t really care who you are right now,” You sigh before noticing that he’s done with his food, “Aren’t you going to leave?”
Haechan hesitates, “Nah, it’s getting late. I’ll leave with you. Aren’t we headed to the same place anyways?”
You nod slowly, “Don’t you have anywhere else to go? I don’t want to hold you back.”
“I come here every year. After a point there’s not going to be much to see. Unless of course, you have plans to go somewhere.”
“Not that I know of,” You purse your lips, “By the way, I heard you landed here yesterday. How come you’re so early?”
“I flew to Seoul from China and stayed there for a week, but my family are going on vacation this week so I thought, why not come visit one of my friends here, who’d want to see me instead of lazing around at home like the pathetic, uninvited, firstborn son that I am.” He dramatically sighs.
You breathe out a laugh, “You’d probably like to have a home grand prix, wouldn’t you?”
“Obviously,” Haechan rests his elbows on the table, looking out of the window, “If you win, that is. Otherwise it's honestly a shit load of pressure. There’s always going to be the stress of underperforming in front of your home crowd. But the support would be nice. It’s great in Austria too, you know, as Red Bull’s home race but that’s what makes it so important. Doing well in front of a home crowd is like the best feeling in the world.”
You nod thoughtfully, absorbing his words as you continue eating. “I get that,” you say. “The crowd’s energy level is just different, I suppose.”
Haechan leans back in his chair, looking relaxed now that the weight of the conversation has lightened. “Exactly. It’s like they’re all there for you. Even when everything’s falling apart on the track, their support is like fuel. You could be in the middle of a mess and they’ll still cheer for you like you’re winning.”
You smile at the way he says it, not expecting him to be so genuine about it. “Must feel nice to have that.”
He shrugs but there’s a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I guess. It’s also a lot to live up to.”
Haechan is in the middle of telling you about his first race in Monaco when the waitress who was serving you walks up to you two.
Sheepishly, she asks, “Excuse me, I hope you guys enjoyed your meal, but we’ve got a bit of a line outside. If you’re done, would you mind giving up your seats? I’m so sorry!”
You and Haechan look at each other in embarrassed surprise, and quickly get up, gathering your coats and belongings. You thank the girl (who meekly apologizes again) and hurry out of the shop.
Outside, in a slightly chilly street, Haechan emerges from behind you and stares at you for a second before bursting into laughter. You, still in your flustered state, take a few moments before joining him.
“I’ve never,” He manages in between, “been asked to get out of a restaurant, that too, so politely!”
“I don’t think she recognized you, actually,” You grin, “If she had, then you’d force me to work a bit overtime. Imagine me having to call up journalists and tell them, ‘No guys, Haechan is a very considerate person, it happens to the best of us. He was incredibly sorry.’”
He shudders before tilting his head in the direction of his hotel. “Let’s go?”
“Mister millionaire, I need to go in the other direction.”
Haechan’s lips form an ‘o’ before he nods, “Well, see you on Thursday then!”
You sigh, “You bet. Please show up early, you have a lot of things to do.”
AUSTRIA, RED BULL RING
Thursday, Media day
June 26th
Haechan doesn’t really mind these games. In fact, he prefers them to the ones that he does with Jeno. No offence to him really, but he thinks Jeno’s a bit unfunny. When he says bye to you before entering the filming room, he’s more than happy to see the VCARB guys. Vernon’s humor is quite deadpan, which Haechan can’t say he understands most of the time, but he has a hilarious laugh, like a flock of geese and Haechan laughs more because of that. And Chenle. Haechan cannot get started with this guy. He once trained Chenle when he was still in F2 and in that one week, he’d found another slightly louder version of himself, albeit a little less sarcastic and more innocent.
Haechan is however surprised to see the reserve drivers and the F1 academy drivers. Had you forgotten to mention it, or was he not paying attention? Well, shit. He thinks. He was going to give it his all, get into his competitive spirit but now he’s got to put up his experienced senior face. He greets them before sitting down with Chenle. They wait for the camera team to set up the room before they’re divided into teams.
Chenle and Haechan are put in the same team, but Jeno complains, saying that they’d both be too strong together. So with a dramatic sigh, Haechan lets him go, taking Vernon with him. As the admin sets up the question placards, Haechan looks back at his team and is satisfied. He’s got Vernon, who might(?) be good at games. Sion, their reserve driver is on his team and another driver from the F1 Academy. She looks smart, Haechan thinks as he turns back around.
“Alright, guys,” the challenge host says, pulling the group’s attention back to the screen. “For the first game, we’ll be testing your knowledge of your fellow drivers. We’ve got a series of close-up images of drivers’ eyes. Your task is simple: guess which driver each pair of eyes belongs to. Are you ready?”
The group cheers out in response. The first photo flashes on the screen.
Haechan has his hand near the buzzer already, but he hesitates. The other team hits theirs.
“Jisung?” Chenle’s a bit unsure too.
“1 point to team 2,” The host nods, surprising everyone.
“How did you guess that?” Jeno stares, making the younger one shrug, “I don’t know, the thin eyebrows?”
The next one comes up and Haechan instantly answers, “That’s Mark. Like. For. Sure.”
buzz. “Kim Doyoung.”
The rounds continue with some lighthearted bickering. Jeno's team gets a couple of points here and there, but Haechan’s team remains in the lead. The last challenge turns out to be ‘Guess who said this.’ Haechan’s a bit stumped, he doesn’t know these too well and he doesn’t think the younger drivers do either. Vernon nods confidently, though, so maybe they could win this thing.
“Okay,” The host sighs, “Starting off easy.”
“I’m going to touch Doyoung’s rear wing.”
Sion hits the buzzer before Haechan can, surprising him. “That was Haechan, right?”
Haechan nods, impressed as the host increases their points.
“The engine feels good, much slower than before. Amazing.” It brings a laugh out of everyone before the F1A driver from Jeno’s team answers, “Alonso.”
“Okay, last question guys,” The host announces, “Assuming team 1 can finish this off, that is.”
“Is there even a point for that?”
“I’ve heard this before,” Haechan hears Chenle mumble from the other side. He looks at his team, shrugging to say that he does not know the answer sadly.
Vernon seems to be lost in thought, “This one’s old, it was either Hamilton or Seungcheol. Shit, I can’t remember which one though.” The room is weirdly silent and Vernon seems to notice, lowering his voice, “It was after a disappointing race… probably a p10 or p11 finish. Doesn’t it seem like something Seungcheol would say?”
“You would know,” Haechan encourages, “Go for it.”
Vernon presses the buzzer. The host waits.
“It’s Choi Seungcheol, isn’t it?”
“Are you asking me?” The host jokes.
Vernon shakes his head, “No. It’s Seungcheol.”
“And you are right!” The host smiles, making Haechan’s team erupt into cheers.
After wrapping up the shoot, the entire Red Bull family gathers outside the hospitality to take a group photo. Haechan remembers this weekend has the F2 and F1A races too and wishes the junior drivers good luck before heading back into the hospitality.
Haechan doesn't think you'll be in any of the meeting rooms, nor does he think you've headed back to the hotel. You're usually there next to him after all his schedules end, so he's perplexed to find you absent. He doesn't need to look for you, really, because his media activities for the day are over which means you've got no business with him for today. He should head over to the garage, see what the engineers are doing, poke around there, but instead he finds himself walking into the cafeteria.
Haechan is relieved to see you there, getting back to your seat with a cup of espresso in your hand while the other holds onto your phone as you speak. He's sure you'll end up spilling your coffee and jogs towards you, taking the cup from your hands.
You look at him quizzically before returning to your conversation, “Yes, I understand it's your job but you need to understand, this is my job too. Your headline was just purely misleading. I mean, all he said was that the other driver was being slow and hindering everyone else. Really, there's nothing going on that is as malicious as you make it seem!” You pull the chair harshly before sitting down.
Haechan just stands there with your coffee still in hand, not sure what to do.
“Yes, yes. I'm not asking you to take it down, just edit it a little better. You can't twist words like that, you know? Even if it is your job, Sir.” You grit out before smiling like the journalist can see you, “Yes, we appreciate it. Thank you and have a great day.”
You think about slamming your phone down. But there are others in the cafeteria, so you control yourself. Reminding yourself to unclench your jaw, you look around for your coffee before you see Haechan standing next to you, staring like a kid that's been yelled at.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” You sigh before taking the cup from him, “Aren't you supposed to be back at the motorhome? I'm done, so you can escape from me for at least the remaining half of the day.” You try to joke, but he looks at you like a kicked puppy.
“Hey, I'm sorry for… whatever conversation you just had. I'll try to control what I say, I guess.”
“No it's—” Your frustration that was slithering away creeps back again, “Why would you apologize? You're allowed to say such simple stuff without being used for clout and stupid headlines.”
He stays silent, and you wonder if you came off too harshly. So you try to talk a little more, make him feel a bit more comfortable, and show him that you are not mad. Where did all your professionalism go? We're still at work.
“Honestly, a lot of sports blogs do this. Most of the time it's not an issue. But this guy, this is the fourth time I'm calling him to take it down. He's so stubborn about it and the worst part is his columns have absolutely no ounce of any truth in them.”
Haechan sighs, “Thank you.”
You shrug, eyeing him, “It's just my job. How did your challenge go?”
He perks up at the mention of the games, “My team won,” Haechan grins, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
“Really, Haechan, why are you still here?” You shake your head, but you're smiling a little, so Haechan considers it a win too.
He’s thinking of a valid answer to give you, because in reality he doesn't know either, when he sees Johnny walking in. “I was just waiting for Johnny. We have a training session. What are you going to do, since I'm done for the day?” He abruptly stands up.
You get up along with him, downing the remnants of your espresso, “I have other stuff to do. I need to go over that interview that you gave in the morning before it's sent over for publishing and I need to look up a few journalists that may show up tomorrow or on race day and…” You wonder why you're telling him all this, “I have a lot of things to do, Haechan. Have fun at training, I'll see you tomorrow after the practice sessions.”
—
Friday, post FP2
June 27th
The walk to the media pen is quieter than usual. Haechan’s strides are long and fast, and there’s a stiffness to him that you can’t ignore. His hands are tucked into his pockets and his gaze flicks down to the ground every now and then.
He hasn’t said much since stepping out of the car. You were silent as he listened to the debrief, as he nodded along, as he left without saying much, and you are silent now too as the two of you walk up to a sky sports interviewer.
Jeno is already up first, finishing off his interview. He sounds relaxed and confident.
"Yeah, I think the car felt great today. We found a good rhythm early on, and I’m happy with where we’re at, heading into tomorrow. Obviously, there's still a lot of work to do, but the team’s done an amazing job."
Haechan exhales sharply, looking away as you gesture for him to step forward.
“Remember, it’s just Friday. Just practice.” You murmur to him. He gives you the slightest nod before facing the reporter. The first question comes immediately.
“Haechan, you were second fastest in today’s practice, but it looked like you were struggling a little more than your teammate. What happened?”
He takes a beat to answer, “Yeah, I think- well, obviously, Jeno’s had a great session and it’s looking good for the team this weekend. For me, I think there’s a lot more pace left on the table, hopefully we’ll look at the data and try to put it all together for tomorrow.”
“The McLarens seemed to be struggling with their pace in both practice sessions today. Do you think your situation might be similar?”
Again, a pause. “I wouldn’t say it’s a huge concern. The tyre degradation did seem a little unpredictable today, so I was having to manage more than I would’ve liked to. It’s not ideal, but there’s time to fix it before qualifying and the race itself.”
“Last question, Haechan. Do you think with Jeno topping both sessions today, does this shift the dynamic inside the team at all? Is there an added pressure that you feel, heading into this home grand prix.”
The question lingers in the air for a second longer than it should have. Haechan’s expression doesn’t change much, but you see it — the brief twitch in his eyebrow.
“I mean, from the team perspective, it’s great for us. It’s the home race for the team and both of us are hopefully going to be up front. Obviously, both of us want to be ahead of each other. Today just wasn’t quite there for me, but we’ll see where we are tomorrow.”
He chooses his words carefully, in a way that doesn’t feel like himself. A part of yourself is proud, this was a good response, answering without really answering. But he’s clearly upset.
The interviewer thanks him, wrapping it up before Jaehyun steps up behind him. As Haechan steps back from the mic, you fall into step behind him. You have to go back to the hospitality to gather your things before you can head to your hotel, but it doesn’t feel right to leave Haechan right now. You have a feeling he has something to say.
When you’re out of the media pen, you realize it’s starting to drizzle. That can’t be too good, you suppose. A rainless weekend would be more ideal, more safer. Hopefully this weather won’t continue into tomorrow and the day after. But it’s not just the chilly weather that makes the air heavier.
“Good answers,” You say, trying to look at his downturned face.
He doesn’t reply immediately, glancing at his hands, flexing them before tucking them into his pockets again. When he does reply, Haechan’s voice comes out quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
“If I told you something, would you keep it to yourself? Not give it over or use it to— I don’t know— make me seem more humane or something when people write articles that I don’t seem to care about anything.”
You’re taken aback. It hurts you a little, but what he says is valid. Has someone done that to him before?
“I would,” You nod, “Keep it to myself, I mean.”
He kicks at the pavement, “Jeno was really quick today and it’s bothering me more than Ferrari’s pace.” That much is obvious, but it settles down on his chest in a way that he can’t shake off.
You hum in acknowledgement. This is what’s sitting with him. Not being second itself, but the gap. The fact that for the first time this season, it’s someone in the same car, who is ahead of him. You think of that night in Suzuka. All this at their team’s home race too. Of course he’s bothered.
“Tomorrow’s another day.” You remind him.
“Yes, but-”
“And if tomorrow also isn’t your day, then you have the race itself.”
He exhales, unlocking his phone to study the FP2 times once more before locking it. “How are you getting back to your hotel, by the way?”
“I think the shuttle might have already left, so maybe a taxi. I still have to go back to the hospitality.”
“The rain’s going to get heavier,” He sighs, “You might not be able to catch one.”
“I’ll wait it out,” You shrug, “You’re not heading to your motorhome?”
“I was, but if you’re waiting it out, might as well do the same.”
You glance at him, unsure, “You don’t have to.” But you find yourself thinking that you wouldn’t mind if he does. Guess he does grow on you.
“I know.” His response is simple. He doesn’t meet your eyes and for a moment looks up at the darkening skies above, the wind is picking up, carrying the smell of damp asphalt. Haechan feels nauseous. What if the conditions are the same? You’re already struggling with the pace, Haechan. What if you fuck it up in the one race that matters the most to everyone?
The two of you are a little wet by the time you walk into the hospitality cafeteria. The paddock is quieter now, with most of the day's work being over. A few mechanics remain in the garage, chatting in low voices as they finish up for the day. Inside, the warmth is immediate and you almost sigh out of relief. The hum of the coffee machine and the gentle clattering of dishes as the kitchen staff clean up make the whole place seem too peaceful for a race weekend. You wipe away the drops of water on your team jacket at the entrance before turning to look at Haechan. He doesn’t seem to know what to do when he’s not running from meeting to garage to training to meeting at all times.
“You can go ask a staff for something to eat, if you want. You must be hungry, no?”
He shakes his head, “I think I’ll just have a coffee.”
You shrug, “Help yourself, I need to go up to grab my things.”
Haechan doesn’t move right away, staring at the coffee machine for a long moment as if unsure what to do. Then, with a soft sigh, he pulls his hands from his pockets and walks over to the counter. He’s not really looking at anything—and you’re hit with the realization that he might be trying to not be alone with his thoughts right now.
“I won’t be long,” you add, feeling the need to fill the quiet.
Haechan doesn’t look up, but you see the tension in his shoulders dissipate a little as he nods. “Take your time.”
—
Sunday, Race Day
June 29th
If Haechan was irritated by the P3 qualifying last night, he’s beyond upset now. But there’s no time and he really needs to get out of his misery and get his head back in the game before the race begins, which is any moment now. He breathes out heavily, trying to calm himself down as the first red light turns on. It could’ve been worse. It’s only two people that you need to overtake. Use the corner.
At lights out, Haechan’s whole body tenses. His car surges forward, but his reaction time isn’t quicker than Jeno and Doyoung so he remains in third place. His focus sharpens as he begins to climb the gears. He’s pushing for the next position and turn 1 is his easiest chance. Even if the gap between Doyoung and him widens after the turn, he can close it on the straight.
Haechan is usually quite aware of his surroundings. Usually while going into turns his eyes are always flitting between his two mirrors. But today, he looks ahead. He knows Jaehyun is there, tucked right behind him, but what he doesn’t expect is for Jaehyun to turn so late.
The hit comes hard. A sudden, violent shove to the rear end of his car, that sends a shock through his entire body.
Haechan’s heart races as his hands instinctively grip the wheel tighter, trying to regain control, but the car is sliding, spinning off track. His vision blurs.
As Haechan and Jaehyun’s car spin, the former going off the track, the Red Bull garage erupts in shock. Jaehyun’s Ferrari straightens out and rejoins the race, but Haechan remains there. It feels like forever to you as you ball up your fists. Come on, move!
The engineers are already analyzing the damage, but you know what’s coming next—the media frenzy. Your mind kicks into overdrive, fingers hovering over your notes. If he’s out of the race, you need to prep statements. If he’s still in it, you need to track every lap.
A voice crackles through the team radio.
“Haechan, are you alright?”
A beat. Then, a burst of static, an exhale.
“I’m fine.”
Haechan swerves his car into the right direction and re-enters the track. You release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The mechanics shout out their encouragement.
He’s still in it, at least. You know what’s next for you— a new narrative to prepare.
As for Haechan, he has one hell of a comeback to make.
“What position am I in?” Haechan asks, even though he knows the answer. He sees the Williams in front of him but he needs to hear it.
“P20. There’s no damage to the car. Please push.”
P20. Dead last.
The words make his jaw clench. Haechan flicks his engine mode and slams his foot on the throttle. Ahead, the Williams is too slow, too cautious. He’s past it before the lap is even done.
P19.
Next, the Haas. He catches it on the straight, ducks behind into its slipstream and overtakes it at the next turn.
P18.
In sector 2, he reaches the VCARBs, caught in their own battle. Haechan takes advantage of their hesitation into turn 3 and dives down the inside. It’s risky and close but he does it, two cars in one move.
P16.
Every move is by instinct now. An Alpine, another Sauber and Haas. One by one he picks them off.
He outbrakes the second Williams into turn 3.
P12.
You look up from your laptop, hastily recording all his overtakes. He’s got the fastest lap now, and it’s his fourth time doing it. You’re worried, definitely, but awe masks it momentarily as you watch Haechan set purple sectors everywhere. Within five laps he’s made it to 12th place. It’s not in the points, yes. But he’s capable and you know it. It’s only a matter of time before he nears the top and time— he has a lot of it.
P10 comes a little easily too. Na Jaemin, seemingly struggling with his engine in the Aston gives Haechan the way and Park Jisung in the first McLaren, who is way off his game this season— seeing how he’s outside of the points— is not the hardest person to overtake.
A much needed pit stop by lap 47 halts his progress and leaves Haechan stuck in at P10. Ahead of him, the second Alpine pits handing him the P9. On the straight, he comes into DRS range and overtakes Lee Chan’s Aston Martin.
By lap 58, Haechan is up into P7. This is where it starts to get hard.
The gap ahead to Seungcheol in P6 is a little over 4 seconds. It’s nothing impossible, but Haechan can feel the pressure build up now. There’s been a rhythm to his driving up until now. He’s been pushing and edging and taking advantage of every silly mistake someone makes. But Seungcheol, even in his current form, is no slouch and neither is his car. The Ferrari holds its place through the corners and the last thing Haechan wants is to waste time.
He closes in quickly, making it a matter of when and not if he can overtake Seungcheol. When they come into the straight at the beginning of lap 59, Haechan is right behind the Ferrari, DRS open and ready to pounce. He pulls out and presses the throttle hard, determined to make it out in front before the first turn. Seungcheol, surprisingly, doesn't put up much of a fight.
“Haechan, that is P6. Incredible work, mate. Car ahead is Jaehyun.”
You’re back in the hospitality by now. Haechan’s name has been climbing up the list consistently and his speed is incredible. But you can’t afford to celebrate yet. It’s a home race and one car is still not on the podium. Red Bull expects more than just a decent result. They want to win this and you know the sponsors are watching every move. Your phone buzzes—a quick reminder that the press conference is scheduled in thirty five minutes. Regardless of how the race turns out, he needs to be ready to answer questions.
Coming into lap 71, the last lap, Haechan is beyond frustrated. Jaehyun has been holding steady for the entire race, but so has he. It’s been a long fight, and he is not giving it up to settle behind the person who fucked it up for him, really.
The gap between them is small and with only a few corners left, Haechan watches Jaehyun’s line like a hawk. The Ferrari takes a defensive stance, but on turn 9, Jaehyun takes a slightly wider exit than normal, and it’s the crack Haechan’s been waiting for. He dives down the inside, braking late but with precision, getting alongside Jaehyun through the turn. Jaehyun can’t fight back.
Haechan forces him wide into the last turn.
P5.
—
Post Race, Driver’s room.
You walk down the hallway towards Haechan’s room. The paddock buzzes with the press and most of the mechanics and engineers are out celebrating Jeno’s win in front of the garage. You and Haechan are going to be late for the media if he hasn’t freshened up by now.
“Haechan, I’m coming in,” You inform, knocking twice. He doesn’t answer.
The door is open anyways, so you push it, tucking your phone into your pocket before you truly realize the sight in front of you.
Haechan’s freshened up, alright. He’s showered and is in his normal clothes, towel hanging from his neck as he looks out of the window.
“Are you,” you pause, “coming to the media pen like this?”
You regret even asking, because you think you know his answer, and God, no. No no no, don’t say it. Please come to the pen.
“I’m not going today, sorry Miss PR.” Haechan shrugs, his voice low, flat and lacking the charm he usually has.
Your stomach drops, “Haechan… Haechan, you know you have to. It's part of the job.”
He doesn’t turn to look at you, doesn’t speak. His clothes look comfortable but you can see his tensed arms and spine despite them. He wears his disappointment like a heavy cloak, heaving him down.
"Look, I get it. I know you're upset," you say, your voice softer now, "but this is about more than just you. It's about the team, the sponsors, everything. I need you to come with me. We’ll get through it, and then you can walk away. I promise."
When he doesn’t respond immediately, you’re taken over by the insane urge to slap yourself. Not what we wanted to say!
You enter the room fully, the door clicking softly behind you.
“If it gets you into trouble, I’ll talk to them later. I can’t do this right now.” Haechan’s voice wavers slightly.
You hesitate, but only for a moment.
"Why are you always trying to hold it together?" you ask, crossing the room towards him. "You don’t have to be perfect all the time, Haechan. You don’t have to just swallow it down and keep going like nothing’s wrong."
He scoffs, “That’s very ironic of you to say. You’re literally my PR manager. Isn’t it your job to make me look like the perfect person all the time?” He bites back, harsher than you expect.
You stop in your tracks, taken aback. He’s never lashed out at you like that before and all you can do is just stand there and let his words hang in the air between you two.
“Okay,” You slump back, walking over to the couch and sitting down. “Fine. I’ll tell them you’re not coming.”
Haechan finally looks at you, a little surprised. You think he was expecting you to fight back more. You expected yourself to fight back more.
“But Haechan, my job isn’t to make you look perfect. It’s to help you handle all the shit that comes with your job without you having to worry too much about people attacking you for reasons that don’t even matter most of the time.”
He seems to realize the weight of your words as he comes to sit beside you.
“Today did not go the way you wanted it to, and I may never understand what is on your mind or what you go through every time.” You exhale, “But if you want me to listen, I will.”
Haechan sits quietly beside you, his fingers drumming lightly on his knee, eyes focused on the floor. The faint sound of the paddock celebrations filters through the walls, but it feels distant and irrelevant.
After what feels like an eternity, Haechan speaks. "I just... I don’t know anymore," he admits, his gaze drifting toward the window. "It feels like I’m fighting so damn hard, and for what? A P5? I was supposed to do better. I feel like I’ve let everyone down... And Jaehyun’s starting to catch up with me in the driver standings. He’s close, you know? Really close. And now my teammate’s done better than me at our home race and it wouldn’t have been too much of a problem if I was on that damn podium too.”
“I don’t think you’ve let anybody down. Today’s race doesn’t discount everything else that you have won for the team this season. It may be hard for you to believe right now, but trust me. What matters is that you move on from this. Everyone has their lows. It’s just one race, Haechan.”
“But it’s… it’s the team’s home race.” He exhales.
“Fuck the home race, then.” You shake your head, “Everyone believes in you, Haechan. Your mechanics, your engineers, Johnny, me. This is just one race out of 24. You can do this.”
Haechan looks at you then, his expression still clouded with frustration but you can tell your words got through.
"Thanks," he murmurs, and it’s almost a whisper, but you catch it.
You nod, offering a small smile. It’s not out of relief or pity, but understanding.
“I’ll take care of the media stuff,” you say, rising to your feet. “I’ll smooth things over. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
Haechan doesn’t respond right away, but as you reach the door, you hear him speak again, quieter this time.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you.”
You tilt your head slightly, watching him. “You think that’s the worst I’ve dealt with?”
Haechan lets out a small, tired laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Probably not.”
You smile, finally turning to leave. “Didn’t think so.”
“I mean it though. I shouldn’t have proj—”
You raise a finger making him stop, “It’s okay, I know. Get some rest, Haechan.”
UNITED KINGDOM, SILVERSTONE CIRCUIT
Tuesday
July 2nd
Lee Haechan (RB) :
Hey… Are you in the UK rn?
This may be wayyy out of line but
Johnny kind of dared me to go to this baking workshop thing like LONG ago and um he agreed to come with me.
But he’s got some sort of emergency, so he’s in the states rn and um so he can’t make it…
So I was wondering if you wanted to LOL!
[18:26]
You:
well, it would be a waste of money if you didn’t go, wouldn’t it?
[20:25]
Lee Haechan (RB) :
Whew almost thought you wouldn’t reply
Does that mean you’ll come?
[20:26]
—
Wednesday
“Hey, you’re right on time.” Haechan greets as you walk over to the pergola he’s under, “The instructor just left to get the ingredients, but this place is huge so she might take like 10 to come back.”
“Huge it is,” You agree, putting your purse down and sitting beside him.
The pergola you two sit under is just one of the many you saw on your way here. Tucked into its own corner, its beams entwined with vines and fairy lights that haven’t flickered on yet. The garden (it’s bigger, but you don’t know the appropriate term for it) seems to be divided by tall, clean-trimmed hedges, giving the entire place a maze-like look. Surprisingly, it’s a sunny day and this is the perfect place to be out. A gentle breeze ruffles the leaves overhead.
From behind the hedge to your right, bursts of laughter and chatter spill over, from a larger group, you assume. You hear the clinking of utensils against mixing bowls and turn to Haechan.
He’s already looking at you, leant back, arms stretched over the bench’s backrest. For a moment, he holds your gaze before looking away, eyes sweeping over the surroundings. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”
You hum, “Makes me wonder why Johnny would dare you to come here. Do you know what we’re going to be making?”
Haechan eyes you a little sheepishly, “Well, to be honest, you were a little bit late and I had to choose for us.”
You roll your eyes, “Okay, but this was like almost an hour away.”
“I did offer to pick you up,” He mumbles.
“Yeah,” You nod, “But you’re probably staying at the headquarters which is literally on the other side of the city. Didn’t want to make you drive too much.”
“You’re kind of… too nice to me.” Haechan grins, getting up as the instructor comes back, “It’s great! My friends usually don’t pass up on a chance to make me suffer.”
You laugh, shaking your head, “Well aren’t you glad I’m here then.”
“Oh,” He starts, but you interject him.
“Thank you for coming, I know. You’ve said it about four times already.”
“Well, I feel a little bad.”
“Don’t be, I’m sure I’ll have fun too. I’ll let you know, I might be nice to you now but I’m a little mean when it comes to tasting.” You grin.
The instructor sets the menu in front of you and your grin only widens. “I love strawberries, apple pie and churros. You didn’t make bad choices after all.”
Haechan laughs softly before handing you your apron, “Thank god.”
The instructor gives you two the basic rundown and gives you a small pager to page her over if required before leaving you two to it. As she starts walking away, Haechan starts flipping through the cookbook, opening up to the first recipe.
“I think we should make the churros in the end. Should we start with the pie first? It’ll take time to bake.”
You nod, wrapping the apron’s waistband around you, “Have you ever made apple filling before?”
“No, but I’m good at like bread and pasta and stuff so I think I’ll be fine with the dough? Unless you want to-”
“We make a great team, because I’m bad at that stuff,” You throw a thumbs up at him, moving over to the other side of the table where the apple basket is.
Haechan laughs as he picks out all the ingredients he needs, “Should we make a little extra of everything so that we can take some home?”
You pause, “Sure, but do you think the two of us would be able to down an entire pie?”
He shrugs, “If we don’t then it’s just more to take home. We could make an extra one and like half it? The tins aren’t too big. Hey, it says you need 4-5 apples for one pie so maybe take like 10?”
You thank him and start sectioning and measuring your spices before you get to the apple skinning when Haechan walks over to your side. You hum, wondering if he has any questions.
“You’d take way too much time to skin 10 apples on your own. The dough won’t take me too long.” Haechan quips, reaching in front of you for the peeler.
Halfway through peeling the apples, a thought passes through your mind when Haechan brings up Johnny. In shock, you drop your peeler onto the table before turning to look at him.
“Haechan,” You gasp, “Are you allowed to eat all this?”
Before he can answer, you’re already pacing up and down, the back of your wrist pressing against your forehead. If you’d remembered earlier, you could’ve convinced him to not go. Holy shit, you pause. You could be the reason Haechan’s weight is off this weekend.
Haechan lets you worry for a moment before piping up, “It’s only Wednesday. Johnny knows and he’ll be back before tomorrow evening so that we can have a workout session that’s a little more intense.” He tosses the cut apples into the pot.
“Still, should we cut down on something?” You stress, pushing him over to his dough making station.
“Nooo,” Haechan drags out, “It’s alright.”
“What if you don’t fit into your race suit?” You challenge as you slowly walk back to your pot that you’ve put all your apple slices in. The spices are already in there and all you have to do is turn the flame on.
Haechan sighs as he flicks the remnants of flour on his fingers at you, making you flinch, “Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours, come on.”
You still for a second, hoping the heat you feel creeping up your neck isn’t as obvious as it feels. Trying to play it off, you roll your eyes, “Whatever you say, I guess.”
Haechan doesn’t look up from his bowl but you can tell his smile widens. You shake your head, turning back to your apples that are beginning to cook slowly.
—
The pies rise steadily in the oven, the smell of cinnamon and apples clouding the air. You’re not sure if it’s because of the light inside. Leaning forward on your knees, you stare into the oven. The actual baking process is the worst according to you, but maybe you’re just a little impatient. You hear Haechan cluttering around with utensils before he stands next to you, shoulder brushing yours as he copies you.
“You know, I think we did a pretty good job. I tasted the cookie dough and it’s great too.” Haechan muses beside you, wiping his hands on a towel, “Well, I did. You just cut and measured stuff.”
You gasp, standing up straight to look at him, “Excuse me? Who prepared the filling?”
“What are you going to do with just filling? You need dough and honestly I think you’d be really bad at that.” Haechan scoffs but you see the playfulness in his eyes.
“You can’t have a pie without filling, and I made the strawberry compote too, come on!”
“You could!” Haechan defends, “It would just be a really thin, weird shaped cookie.”
You don’t know how to answer that and so you sigh in defeat. He’s moved on to scooping the strawberry shortcake cookie dough into the pan and you force your eyes to drift from the way his bangs fall into his eyes. It’s not like you’ve never noticed before, but there’s something about seeing Haechan at ease, lips pressed together in focus, brows knitted as he carefully shapes each cookie. It’s different from when he’s in his element on track. That determination and focus that he has are so different from now. Haechan’s sleeves are rolled up just enough to show his forearms and you have to mentally slap yourself from thinking about how they flexed while he kneaded the dough.
You’ve always known it, but he’s quite good looking, if you admit. The thought makes your heart stutter, and you blink rapidly, shaking yourself out of it. You’re here to bake, not… whatever this is.
“By the way,” You clear your throat, “did we use all the strawberries? I wanted to taste one.”
Haechan pauses, “Yep.” He pops the ‘p’. You hear the timer ring for the pies. “Guess you were too busy.”
“Seriously?” You mutter, a little dejected, “It’s fine. I’ll get the pies.”
“Oh, hey, take the mittens. Wait, I’ll bring them.” You hear Haechan call out as you open the oven handle. He appears by your side, holding out your mittens.
“Here,” He says, voice closer than you expect. You turn to thank him, and just as the words are about to leave your mouth, he swiftly plops something past your lips.
Your eyes widen in shock, taste buds suddenly flooded with flavour— sweet, a little tart and unmistakably strawberry.
Haechan grins, eyes swimming with amusement as you process what just happened. “Found it,” he says with a casualness that makes you want to throw the mittens at him.
You finish chewing, the initial surprise fading into a mix of exasperation and something else that makes your chest feel strangely tight. “You—”
“I knew you wanted one,” He shrugs, a self satisfied smirk plastered on his lips.
You narrow your eyes at him, crossing your arms. “You’re just so…”
“Not my fault you’re easy to surprise.”
You huff, shaking your head as you finally grab the mittens. “You’re lucky these pies smell too good for me to be mad at you right now.”
His laughter follows you as you open the oven, but you don’t miss the way his eyes linger on you for a moment longer. And you definitely don’t miss the way your heart stumbles again, just a little, before you shake it off and focus on not dropping the pies.
—
Saturday, Qualifying
July 3rd
“How’s the car feeling?” Johnny asks as he sets down Haechan’s plate in front of him.
“It’s fine,” Haechan grimaces at his food, making Johnny sigh, “Better than last week. So much better. The team made some updates.”
“Don’t make that face.” Johnny rolls his eyes, “I let you off for eating all those damn sweets. You reap what you sow.”
He expects Haechan to bite back, but all he gets in return is an absent minded hum. He looks up from his phone to see Haechan looking around the cafeteria and sighs inwardly.
“Who are you looking for?” Johnny questions, making Haechan snap his head back to him before poking at the quinoa on his plate.
“No one,” Haechan mumbles.
Johnny raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press him and goes back to his phone. The cafeteria buzzes with the usual lunchtime chatter. The mechanics and engineers too, seem to have come up for their lunch break before qualifying. Johnny looks up at Haechan for a second when he seems to realize that the driver usually eats lunch in his room, in order to focus and calm his mind.
Before he can question it, Haechan pipes up, “How’s your sister and her baby, by the way?”
“She’s fine. And my nephew? Oh god, he is so cute. Wait let me show you a photo,” Johnny gushes as he scrolls through his photos, “Thanks for letting me go, actually. I mean, I did you a favour too. Didn’t you take your PR girl with you?” He looks up to see Haechan distracted, eyes flicking around the room again.
“Ah,” Johnny sighs, shaking his head, “So that’s what’s on your mind?”
Haechan glances at him before stuffing a forkful of grilled chicken in his mouth, “What? Show me the photos.”
Johnny slides his phone over, still staring at him. “It makes sense really,” He says to himself, “You took her out when I cancelled. You don’t want to eat in your room anymore, you keep looking around for her.”
Haechan freezes, his fork already halfway to his mouth. He sets it down, trying to play the cool game, but Johnny knows Haechan and frankly with the way he’s scratching his neck right now while fervently scrolling through his photos, he already has his answer.
“Your nephew’s really cute.” Haechan says, a little too loudly, “I’d love to meet him one day.”
Johnny leans back in his chair, arms crossed and grins a little wider than what Haechan would’ve liked to see. “Anyways, where is she? Seems like you two have gotten close.”
“Well, she’s around me a lot and it’s been like what—five months—already. Of course we’d be friends,” Haechan rolls his eyes. He meant for it to come out very coolly, but he ends up sounding a bit defensive. “And I don’t know where she is. I don’t need to see her until after quali.”
“Mhm,” Johnny teases, “You don’t need to see her, but you want to. I get it.”
“Oh, shut up,” Haechan hisses, getting up from his seat, “You’re distracting me. I’m going to go back to my room. Throw out my plate for me, will you?”
“Are you sure I’m what’s distracting you?” Johnny calls out behind him, earning a few looks. He laughs while looking around, “Oh it’s nothing, he’s just a little worried about qualifying.”
—
Post qualifying
“Haechan, congratulations on pole position,” The reporter chirps, “If you could step up to the mic, please.”
“Thank you,” Haechan gives a small smile, waiting for the questions.
“The Red Bulls seemed very strong today and yesterday, you know, over the practice sessions and qualifying. Jeno qualified with a P3. Anything new about the car? Has anything changed since Austria?”
“Yeah, well, the team had already been working hard on bringing an update to the car so it’s been feeling good this weekend. Hopefully we can use it to give the team a 1-2 finish again.”
“You’ve been on the podium multiple times here in Silverstone, but you’ve never won before. What’s different this time and what do you think about your chances for tomorrow?”
“Silverstone has been slightly challenging for me in the past, but every year is different, right? The team has made some great progress with the car. I think personally, I feel more in tune than I did last weekend. This is our best shot yet. Of course it’ll be a tough battle, but I think we’ll be able to make the most out of it tomorrow.” Haechan nods, “Also, they do predict a little rain here, every year. Always makes it more exciting.”
The reporter laughs along with him, “Of course. Now my last question. You weren’t here last weekend, so I didn’t get to ask you.”
You can see Haechan stiffening up. You did talk to him about the possibility of reporters or journalists asking about Austria. Hopefully he remembers.
“In Austria, you had that incident with Jaehyun on lap one. With the title fight heating up between you two, how do you feel about something like that happening at such a critical point in the season? Does it change the way you approach racing with him, or was it just a racing incident?”
No matter how Haechan answers this, you know it’s going to stir up drama. It’s about time anyways, with the championship fight set up between the drivers and the teams. You lightly tug Haechan’s hand, hoping it’s out of frame or even just subtle enough. He notices.
“It was unfortunate. I had a lot to unpack after that race,” Haechan begins, “It was frustrating, especially since we both know how much is at stake. I mean, it’s tough out here… I think we’ve both had a fair share of things not going our way. But yeah, it’s a championship fight and I’m not here to back down. Keeping it clean is ideal of course, but I don’t mind some hard racing. It is a part of the game after all. We’ll see how the rest of the season plays out.”
“You did well,” You mutter to him as the two of you leave the media pen after a few more interviews.
“Oh thanks, I learnt from the best.” Haechan chuckles. You smile.
“No, I mean. Even in quali and everything.” You look up at him.
His lips are stretched in an easy smile and he looks more collected and composed today. You haven’t seen this type of confidence ooze off him in a while, so today, it makes you glad.
“I feel good too, honestly.” Haechan admits, “I think I got too into my head last time and it just never works out like that. I’ve done this so many times and just because there’s a championship win looming over my head does not mean I crumble under the pressure of it all.” He dramatically sighs.
“Well,” You quip, “Don’t be too confident. After all that you’ve said today, you’d make it really hard for you and me to answer if you didn’t win tomorrow.”
Haechan stops in his tracks, turning to you, “Are you telling me to win?”
“Would I tell you to lose?” You question, squinting at him.
“No, but are you telling me to win for you? So that you don’t have to deal with those articles?” He has a smirk on his face that one half of you, the more sane half wants to punch off.
“I didn’t say that. But if you happened to win, everyone would be pleased.” You shrug nonchalantly.
Haechan laughs, “Everyone includes you.”
“It does.” You sigh before fastening your pace and walking ahead of him. You don’t understand why he’s doing this, but it sucks. It sucks and you don’t think it's professional and- Shit your face is probably red right now.
“Hey! Hey, I’ll win it.” Haechan grins as he catches up to you, “For the team, and the championship, of course.”
You nod sternly, “Yes, exactly.”
“And,” He begins as you reach the entrance to where the motorhomes are parked, “For you. Thanks for walking me back!” He runs off before you can pretend to get mad at him. You roll your eyes, fanning your face as you walk away.
Around the same time, the next day, you walk away from the celebrations for a second, feeling your phone ping in your pocket. Perfect timing, really, because you’d rather not get champagne all over you.
Someone’s sent you an article. You click on the link.
Haechan dominates Silverstone for maiden win, Vows: ‘I’m not here to back down’. Ferrari falls short again as title hopes begin to falter.
You shake your head, turning towards the crowd formed in the centre of the garage as they attempt to douse the man of the hour in champagne. You watch as Haechan shrieks, trying to dodge his head mechanic who has another, completely filled bottle in his hands. His overalls are already soaked, and his hair sticks to his forehead as a result of Jeno pouring champagne over his head on the podium.
For a second, Haechan’s eyes search around until they land on you. When they do, his eyes widen ever so slightly and he beams. Teeth out, cheeks full and eyes almost closing.
You can’t help but smile back. Your heart skips a beat, multiple beats, you think. You hope no one notices the way your cheeks are burning up right now. You hope he doesn’t notice it. Looking away, you tuck your phone back in. You need to head back up, gather your things and head back home. You’d promised your family you’d visit and conveniently you have almost a week and a half off before you travel again.
To your (unknown) dismay, Haechan does notice.
ITALY, AUTODROMO NAZIONALE MONZA
Saturday, Qualifying
September 6th
Rumours around the paddock don’t start baselessly, so when you overhear news from Jaehyun’s PR manager, a senior of yours from college, it shocks you. Choi Seungcheol, Il Prescelto, the chosen one, Ferrari’s lion… talks of leaving?
Haechan is even more astonished when you accidentally let it slip in front of him.
“That’s…” He tilts his chin, thinking hard, “That’s not possible, is it? I mean, he’s been with them for so long. He’s got them those four drivers championships. There’s no way he’d leave.”
“I don’t know Haechan,” You sigh, dragging a hand across your face, “I wasn’t even supposed to tell you this. Listen, this is the last-”
“Last thing I need to worry about, I know.” He shakes his head as he slips on his racing shoes.
The two of you are in his dressing room, about fifteen minutes before qualifying starts. You’re not sure if you’re supposed to be here, but you find yourself pacing nervously while he adjusts his gear.
“I don’t even know why I’m saying this,” You bite your lip, trying to find the right words, “It’s just- She told me that there’s been a lot going on in their team, between the drivers, something, I don’t know.”
Haechan nods as he stands up and walks over to you, moving you out of the way by your waist to grab his helmet. Your brain short circuits for a moment before you wrangle it back into control. You’re trying to tell him something. Stop it. You can’t help the way your stomach somersaults at the smell of his cologne.
“Haechan,” Your voice is stern and it makes him stop, hand on his helmet on the shelf. It’s not an ideal position, at all. You can imagine what it would look like if someone walked into the room right now, one hand on the shelf, the other unconsciously on your waist. Haechan is too close to you. You clear your throat, swallowing as he moves away muttering an apology. There’s an air of disappointment and confusion surrounding you two and you know it. There are things unsaid and undone, but now is not the time.
“I think you’ve noticed already from the practice sessions but they’re fighting within themselves.” You sigh, hoping the shakiness in your voice isn’t too obvious.
“Yeah, the team told me in the briefing session. I thought it was just some silly teammate banter, though.”
“Hopefully it is. But just stay safe out there, okay?”
Haechan's heart warms at the concern in your voice.
“Always, I know. It's alright.”
“I'll see you after quali then. All the best,” You muster a small smile. You don't think he could go faster than your heart is beating right now, to be fair, but you hope he does.
Haechan hasn't told you this yet, but as he gets into his car in the garage, he thinks you already know his intentions. He needs to out qualify both the Ferraris today. Especially Jaehyun. Haechan is not one to leave favours unpaid and the only way he can return Jaehyun’s is by ruining his home race too. The fabled Italian grand prix, with the thousands of tifosi here. He’s not going to mess up Jaehyun’s race like the latter did in Austria, no. He’s better than that and besides, he needs a clean race, if not for himself, if not for the team, then for you. No, Haechan’s going to make sure he ruins it by winning.
His engineer gives him the green light to fire up the engine and leave the garage. As he swerves out into the pitlane, he almost scoffs into his radio. In front of him both the Ferraris leave their garage, blazing red and engines roaring.
If there is an issue between the two of them—like you said there might be— then as long as they don’t crash into him, maybe it’ll work out in his favour after all.
His engineer's voice crackles through the radio, “Haechan, all clear ahead. There’s not much traffic at the moment so let’s make this lap count.”
“Copy,” Haechan replies.
He accelerates into the first chicane, overtaking the Ferraris who still seem to be warming up. He’s always found the breaking zone at turn one a little tricky, but he powers through it into the second part of the chicane.
Exiting sector 1 into turn 4, Haechan hears on his radio, “That’s a purple sector 1. Keep going.”
The Red Bull flies through the straight in sector two, his speedometer reading a speed of 310 km/hr as the Parabolica, the temple of speed, looms ahead. It’s the final corner before the stretch to the finish line, the trickiest of them all.
His rear wheels fight for grip as he brakes late into the corner, dropping down a gear. Haechan keeps his foot steady, accelerating just as the car begins to straighten. The Parabolica is deceptive—too early on the throttle, and the back end kicks out. Too late, and he loses time.
“Purple sector 2.” His engineer informs him.
Haechan exhales as he approaches the finish line, keeping the car steady. The final moments of the lap feel like they take forever, but he thinks he’s hit all the marks. He crosses the line and steps off the throttle, slowing down due to an increase in the number of cars at the entrance.
“So?” He asks into the radio.
“Haechan, that is provisional pole for you. Well done mate, all purple sectors.”
Haechan grins, “Alright, heading back to the pits.”
He stays in until the end of Q3. It’s slightly surprising that no one has out-qualified him yet, but who is he to complain? Haechan sits on one of the seats at the pitwall, watching the others qualify. He doesn’t exactly feel threatened by any of their lap times but with 10 minutes remaining, Seungcheol sets a lap time that is only a second off of his. He gets back to the garage after seeing that, zipping his overalls and putting his helmet and balaclava back on, Haechan settles into his seat. The mechanics are on standby but Seungcheol comes back into the pits and the session ends with no one outdoing him. There’s a sense of confidence in Haechan as he climbs out of his seat again, taking off his helmet to high five some of his mechanics.
Pole in Monza. He’s ahead of both the Ferraris in their home ground. It’s a huge advantage for both championships. All he needs to do now is convert that pole into a win.
—
Sunday, Race Day
September 7th
The best thing about home races, Haechan muses, is the home crowd.
But they're not cheering for him, no. It's more of an encouragement for Seungcheol to go quicker. Outrun the bull that's coming for you. But Seungcheol is on the straight with old tires and Haechan is right on his tail with fresh hards on.
The overtaking opportunity shows itself easily. There's not much one can do on a straight with a car that has DRS enabled behind him.
Haechan can hear the disappointment in the crowd as he overtakes the Ferrari, the groans loud enough to penetrate through his helmet and the engine’s loud rumbling. He smirks, taking the lead of the race again. There’s nothing like disappointing the Tifosi.
Exiting the first chicane, in his mirrors, he sees both Ferrari’s close to each other. Almost too close. They’re fighting, red against red, sparks flying as they push their cars to the limit. There’s no teamwork in sight, no sense of strategy—only two drivers who refuse to yield.
Haechan knows that kind of desperation. The kind that you need when you’re trying to prove yourself to someone. It just seems like the wrong moment for this, though, with the constructors easily on the line.
Haechan’s engineer cuts through on the radio, “Ferraris fighting for P2 behind you. Keep your head down and focus.”
“Copy.” He replies, eyes flicking back his mirrors once again. Both of them are driving recklessly and he does not want to be around to get stuck in debris if they do end up crashing into each other.
In the garage, you watch Jaehyun lock up on screen as he dives into a turn, lunging for the overtake. Seungcheol defends hard, leaving barely any room. They almost touch again but come out the other side unscathed. The shot widens and you see Haechan already a good few seconds ahead of them. Relief courses through you as he keeps his pace steady, pulling away from the chaos behind him.
At the exit to turn 2, Jaehyun dives outside but Seungcheol moves to defend a split second too late. Jaehyun’s rear wheel hits the curb hard and sends his car into the air. You feel time slow down before gravity overtakes again and Jaehyun’s Ferrari crashes down on top of his teammate. Jaehyun’s rear wheel runs up against the cockpit of Seungcheol’s car as they drive off track and the commentary box goes wild, their voices frantic.
“Oh my word! Massive crash between the Ferraris! Are both the Scuderia cars OUT of their home race?” Even with earplugs on, you can hear the roar of the fans in the grandstands as the shock settles in.
The slow-motion replay shows Jaehyun’s car hanging in the air for a split second before slamming down on Seungcheol’s halo.
“Look at that! The halo is doing its job there, saving Seungcheol. But what a terrifying impact!”
The replay shifts to the aftermath—the two Ferraris tangled together, sliding helplessly into the gravel, debris scattered across the track.
“And it’s confirmed,” The commentator begins, “Both Ferraris are out of the race at Monza! Can you believe it? In front of the thousands of Tifosi here, it has been a nightmare of a weekend for Ferrari.”
“Is everyone alright?” Haechan asks his engineer. He’s seen the impact of the accident behind him. It couldn’t have been great.
“Uh yes, both drivers are safe. Red flag, Haechan. Please slow down and come back to the pits. They’ve ordered a restart.”
Once he's back in the garage, the tension is thick. The pit crew is busy, checking the car over one last time. Haechan leans back against the wall, the weight of what just happened pressing down on him. Two Ferraris out in a spectacular crash—he can't help but feel a mix of relief and unease. They were close to each other. It could've been him, too, if things had gone differently.
But his engineer walks up, data flashing on the screen in front of him and it grounds Haechan. The race isn’t over yet and he cannot afford to lose focus. With the restart, although he’ll still have the advantage, it could be an opportunity for anybody else. Especially Jeno, who’s now been promoted to P2 after both the Ferrari’s crash out.
“There’s no need for you and Jeno to battle it out,” He hears his strategist say. “Since Ferrari is out, it won’t affect your driver’s standing much, so focus on the constructors. You should try to win, of course, but keep it clean, please.”
Haechan nods. The restart is coming soon. He needs to get back into the car.
As he walks back to the desk near his car to pick up his helmet, he sees your figure, bent over your laptop, typing away. You're scanning through the data, probably double-checking something, or maybe working on a report for the team. He notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, how you’re so focused on your work. It's a stark contrast to the chaos of the garage around you, but it’s also strangely calming.
The weight of his helmet pulls him back into the present. He’s got a job to finish.
Just as he climbs back into his seat, he looks at you again, almost instinctively with no thought behind it. But for a brief moment you catch his gaze and give him a small nod, encouragement maybe. You can’t see his face, but he throws a small smile anyways. He’s alright and he’s safe, just like he promised.
Back on track, the restart is smooth. Haechan reacts quickly, gets off the start line nicely and has nothing but clean air ahead. There’s nothing that could go wrong now, and with that sentiment, he completes the last three laps remaining.
As he crosses the finish line, Jeno’s red bull right behind him, the silence from the crowd is deafening. Their disappointment is palpable, but Haechan frankly does not care. There is nothing like hearing a crowd go silent at their home ground and he’s proud to be the reason for it.
When he makes his way onto the podium a few minutes later, the boos echo in his ear. It’s nothing new, after all, this is what a non-Ferrari winner is subjected to here. It makes him smile a little. Haechan knows the score. They’re mad, but Red Bull and him are winning. So he waves at the crowd, keeping his composure. He’s not the favourite, but well, sucks for them.
—
Post Race
When Haechan steps out of the shower, the cool air of the room hits him, and he reaches for a towel, drying his face and neck before rubbing it over his hair. His damp curls fall in waves, still slightly messy from the helmet. There’s a lingering exhaustion in his bones, but he knows you’ll be here any second now to take him to the drivers press conference and he can’t be late to that.
He slips on the team’s jersey just as you knock on the door. “It’s open.” He answers loudly.
“Hey winner,” you say, stepping in just a little. “We’re running out of time. Are you ready?”
“Almost,” Haechan mumbles as he rubs his hair with his towel, “My hair just won't dry and I can't find another towel.”
You bite your lip as you look around. Ideally, there should be a hair dryer here but you can't see one in plain sight. “If you don't have a hair dryer then do you want me to go ask Jeno if he has one?”
“No, wait. I think I remember seeing one in the closet. Shit, I was just in a rush and didn't think about it.” Haechan shuffles around before pulling it out of his closet.
You watch him for a minute but as he fumbles around with it, you're starting to get a little impatient. The conference has probably already begun and while it's not uncommon for a driver to arrive a little late, you'd prefer the two of you to not be completely off time.
“Haechan, can you just sit down?” You sigh, taking the dryer from his hand and gently shoving him down.
Haechan, through his slight panic, registers that you're standing above him, between his legs, one hand gently pulling and ruffling his hair as you attempt to dry it as quickly as possible.
He thinks it's impossible how every once of exhaustion leaves his body, instead being replaced by the awareness of how close you are to him right now. It could be the heat from the hair dryer, or the air blowing onto his face but he knows the real reason why he feels frazzled is you.
Haechan's breaths come out slightly laboured. He's had a thousand moments where his heart beats at the speed of his car, but it's always been for a split second. When he loses control of his front or rear tyres, when he spins out, when he drifts a little too much, when another car gets too close to him. They end quickly though and he brings himself back into control.
But you. God, you stick him in this never ending cycle of losing his damn cool when you do things like these. And yeah, he tries to play it cool by coming off bold. But you catch him off guard multiple times. Haechan wonders if he's reading this situation right.
“They might ask you about Ferrari.” You interrupt his thoughts.
See! He thinks to himself. You do things like drying his fucking hair for him which he believes is completely unprofessional and not at all in your job description. He isn't complaining, no, never. But then you follow it up by suddenly becoming professional and it confuses the hell out of him. But Haechan can't say anything because he's a coward when it comes to actually telling you how he feels, so he nods and looks up at you as you turn off the dryer.
“Just be careful to not sound too cocky. You've earned a good advantage, but there's going to be a lot of Italian press and media and they won't really like it.” You stare him down and Haechan can only swallow and nod as he gets up to leave.
He thinks you'll follow him as he leaves but to his surprise, you stop him. You hate being late and he knows that. So he turns back to look at you quizzically.
You pause for a second not knowing how to do this before you decide to fuck it all and lean forward to give Haechan an awkward hug.
He freezes as your arms encircle his shoulder. Your mango and hibiscus perfume that he’s asked you about before has an addictive scent, filling his senses and sending his mind into overdrive.
“Good job today,” You mutter, “On winning, on staying safe, everything. I'm sure it'll all work out.”
Haechan is still speechless as you leave him, your face burning as you rush to leave the room.
He stares at you as you speed walk through the corridor, before stopping and motioning for him to come too. How the hell is he supposed to answer questions about the goddamn car after you pull something like that and make sure you're stuck in his head instead of the things he's supposed to say?
He takes a deep breath, willing his heart to slow down. It’s just a hug. A pat on the shoulder. Completely normal, right?
joshua hong has had the immense privilege of living 30 whole years without ever feeling so much as an ounce of jealousy. that is, until you come prancing into his picture-perfect life on your dumb burner account with evidence that his long-time girlfriend is cheating on him… with your boyfriend.
as he gets tangled up in your chaotic plan to get back at your adulterous partners, he begins to wonder if this growing discomfort in his chest was ever even heartbreak to begin with, or if it’s something entirely new to him—something that has the ability to eat him alive from the inside out.
♫ get him back! olivia rodrigo ⟡ hot girl bummer blackbear ⟡ lackin’ denise julia ⟡ mascara xg
part one: 9.4k words
pairing: joshua x fem!reader
cw: strong language, mentions of/implied sexual activity, reader is highly emotional and tbh kind of crazy maybe even toxic but idc bc i support women’s rights and wrongs <3
tags: strangers to partners-in-crime to partners PERIOD, joshua pov, pining, he fell first AND harder oops, he’s also so incredibly whipped from the jump, a few smau bits but mostly writing, no smut, inspired by get him back! by miss rodrigo, basically john tucker must die except joshua is sophia bush hehe iykyk
a/n: as stated in the teaser, this was a request for jealous!shua, though you should consider joshua’s affair with jealousy a slow burn in this one haha. if you read the teaser, i suggest you do not skip the parts you recognize here because i did cut some stuff out for the sake of length when i posted the preview! okay enough blabbing, enjoy!
dividers by cafekitsune!
cover by yours truly!
prologue
the first message from you came in the middle of the night, as if the idea of reaching out to joshua had kept you up and tortured you mercilessly until you just couldn’t physically take it anymore. in retrospect, the thought of that is silly to him considering your first and only message was ridiculous and absolutely ineffective for what you were trying to do. but it makes him smile anyway. you’re just… so you.
of course, there was also the fact that joshua had been sound asleep at 3 a.m., so your plan really wasn’t well thought out—more a product of the rage that joshua isn’t sure whether he admires or should have you committed for.
his instagram notifications had been off back then, back before he felt the need to see everything you were doing and saying and posting on the stupid app.
it made sense that he kept you waiting, not noticing your first message until about halfway through his sunday morning.
he remembers feeling like it was an unfair assessment to make of his own long-term relationship, especially coming from a stranger. he also remembers having to sit back in thought for several minutes after reading that to contemplate what on earth you could even mean.
of course he loved mina. she was his girlfriend of a little over a year. you don’t stay with someone for a whole year and not love them, right? it was such a bizarre idea to him at the time—the thought that anyone could be in a relationship and not love their partner.
unfortunately, he learned that you were right pretty early on in your friendship. you've proven it enough times now that joshua knows you often are—right.
as he sits here next to you now, frowning at the odd sensation in his chest and listening to you frantically explain yourself to the bewildered officer across from you two, he realizes that not only did he never love mina, he's also starting to wonder if he ever loved anybody.
he has let go of all his ex-girlfriends so frighteningly easily when he thinks about it. on the other hand, he’s had a single month with you and he can’t imagine his life without you in it anymore. the thought makes him nauseous.
so now, it’s not a question of whether or not he ever loved mina; he knows he didn’t. now… he’s wondering if maybe, without even knowing it, he was just letting each relationship he’s been in happen to him—if he was just passing time.
passing time until what?
he doesn’t have the courage to respond to his own thoughts with the obvious answer, but he knows it’s the wrong question.
he watches you speak at a million words a minute, your cuffed hands waving in the air erratically and your brows pinching in the middle as you plead your innocence. he was sure you thought it was a pitiable enough expression for the officer to let the two of you go, but really, it was just painfully cute.
he bites back a sigh.
yeah. it was the wrong question. passing time until *who?
one month ago
“i believe her.”
joshua looks up from where he’s pulling up your messages on his phone and glares at jeonghan. “she’s a stranger. and you haven’t even seen what she said. how on earth can you already believe her?”
his best friend shrugs casually, bringing his straw to the corner of his mouth and sipping his americano nonchalantly like they’re not discussing the possibility of joshua’s girlfriend cheating on him. “i have eyes? ears? literally any one of the five senses? pick one and it can definitely pinpoint mina for the absolute snake she is.”
“okay, you’re biased, you hate everyone i date,” he mutters, returning to his phone so he can show jeonghan your conversation—if he can even call it that. most of it was just you screaming.
“yeah,” jeonghan agrees easily. he never made an effort to mask his feelings, something joshua still wasn’t sure if he appreciated or loathed. “because you date the most vapid, boring people.”
“oh, i’m sorry my tastes aren’t up to your standards,” he snarks, not bothering to look up.
“y’know, i’m glad you apologized—someone had to,” jeonghan says dramatically, making joshua roll his eyes. “i don’t know why you keep dragging these duds not only into your life but my life as well. why should i have to suffer too? you don’t even like any of these people.”
joshua immediately puts his phone down on the table. this is now the second time in 24 hours someone has claimed he doesn’t love or like mina. jeonghan raises an eyebrow at his sudden attention.
“what makes you say i don’t like mina?” he asks, eyes narrowing.
the man sitting across from him scoffs before putting his drink down and leaning his elbows on the table. “do you like mina?” jeonghan dodges the question.
“of course i like mina,” he says incredulously. “why would i stay with her this long if i didn’t like her?”
“beats me, i’d like to know too,” he retorts.
“jeonghan.”
he sighs, knowing he’s wearing joshua’s usually never-ending patience thin today. “okay, fine. you like mina,” he says in a way that blatantly confirms he doesn’t believe him. “what exactly do you like about her?”
“what?”
“what do you like about her?” he repeats easily.
“what do you mean?” joshua asks when his best friend doesn’t clarify.
jeonghan looks at him like he has two heads. “what do you mean what do i mean?” he asks, irritated. “it’s not some kind of trick question. what do you like about your girlfriend, dude?”
joshua is dismayed at his own silence. he realizes the first things that come to mind when he thinks about mina are physical traits. he likes her long hair. he likes the way she dresses. he likes the way she does her makeup. he likes her lip gloss—wait, no, not really because she doesn’t let him kiss her when she has it on… which is almost always. sure, she’s pretty, but… what does he really like about her?
he doesn’t have the time to ask himself what it could mean that he doesn’t have a meaningful answer, and jeonghan doesn’t have the time to laugh in his face and drive his point home. because at that moment, his phone pings, and it’s one message from you, just a little over 24 hours since your last message about him being heartless went ignored.
joshua glances down and feels his stomach turn.
i have evidence.
an hour later, joshua and jeonghan are sprawled across the latter’s living room. when they’d seen your message, both of them had quickly and wordlessly vacated the cafe they were holed up in, gotten to jeonghan’s apartment frighteningly fast, and rifled through the series of messages you sent—all of them photos you took of your boyfriend’s phone screen.
at first, joshua was just annoyed at how hard snapchat made it to read messages; most of the ones sent by whoever your boyfriend was were deleted. he was ready to wave you off and call your “evidence” a reach. but then, he got to more damning photos—photos he was a little vexed jeonghan got to see too.
because they just proved his know-it-all best friend right. mina was a fucking snake.
he’s shocked at the lengths they went to to be able to communicate with each other without being caught.
but perhaps the most damning piece of evidence of them all comes last: a photo of a woman’s naked back as she laid on her side in a bed—that wasn’t joshua’s or mina’s—away from the camera. it could’ve been anyone. the small tattoo at the base of her neck told joshua exactly who it was.
it wasn’t something he could refute anymore; you were obviously not a random person and you definitely weren’t mingyu playing some kind of sick prank.
“so what now?” jeonghan asks, both of them still starfished on the floor and staring at the ceiling after spending several minutes furiously swiping and cussing at his screen. “let’s fill all her shampoo bottles with hair remover,” he answers his own question before joshua can even open his mouth. “oh! or we can follow her around, inevitably find this tool, and kidnap him! i’m sure this y/n person will appreciate that too!”
joshua doesn’t bother entertaining his best friend with a proper response, choosing to ignore the suggestions altogether. his mind is racing a mile a minute, trying to find the point in his relationship mina might have started straying away. has it been happening the entire time? or did she recently decide joshua wasn’t fulfilling her needs to her liking?
“… his car and it’ll probably break down and explode at some point later that week?”
he frowns, realizing jeonghan has been suggesting ridiculous things they can do to mina and your boyfriend the entire time he was contemplating his relationship. it’s his first time getting cheated on, but he isn’t surprised at his best friend’s reaction to it. he’s more surprised when silence blankets over them for several long seconds before jeonghan asks:
“are you okay?” he sighs. “i know that’s a dumb question to ask. you’re obviously not going to be okay after finding out your girlfriend cheated on you.”
his frown deepens at that. it’s a fair statement. he always imagined this kind of thing would throw him into some kind of jealous rage—emotions he’s not really familiar with. rage like yours.
he wonders if he had been the one to find out about this, would he have had a meltdown the way you did? make a burner account and find you to tell you the way you did? try to find someone to commiserate with—even if it’s a stranger—the way you did?
no, probably not. he was telling the truth when he told you that all he would do is break up with mina.
and he’s incredibly confused to find that, contrary to what jeonghan is saying, he feels very okay with that. he can’t really imagine caring enough to do anything more, and he doesn’t know why. shouldn’t he care more?
if you and jeonghan were wrong about him loving mina the way he was so convinced you were, why didn’t he care more?
“joshua,” jeonghan reaches over and pokes his shoulder. “speak. you’re scaring me.”
he snorts. “i’m fine.”
“okay…” he responds slowly. “so still in shock?”
“no, i really think i’m fine,” joshua says, shaking his head at the ceiling. “i feel… normal. i guess just confused about when and why she decided to cheat.”
“you did nothing wrong. she’s just a conniving, slutty ingrate who doesn’t know that she’s throwing away the most decent man in the universe,” he assures him. “which brings me back to my initial question. what should we do now to punish said conniving, slutty ingrate?”
joshua sighs. “we’re not doing anything. i am breaking up with her as soon as she gets off work.”
jeonghan perks up, rolling over onto his stomach and crawling to him until his head appears in his line of vision. his best friend has a shit-eating smile on his face that makes him instinctively roll his eyes.
“can i be there?”
he knows he should say no. it’s an absurd request and it shouldn’t even take joshua more than a second to answer. but as he thinks about it, jeonghan continuing to smile at him like a little devil on his shoulder, he thinks it might be nice to have him there and shame mina for cheating in a way he knows he doesn’t really care to do himself.
he shrugs. “sure, why not?”
jeonghan squeals with delight, scrambling to get up. “come on, we have to make sure you look smoking hot so it hurts her twice as bad. you can borrow my leather pants.”
“leather?!” joshua repeats. “it’s the middle of summer!”
joshua texted mina to let her know he wanted to talk to her after work and he would be dropping by. she told him several times that tonight wasn’t a great time and insisted they wait until tomorrow, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about her convenience, so here he is, with jeonghan practically vibrating with excitement at his side, standing outside her apartment building.
“i still think you should’ve worn the leather pants,” his best friend says, “but you look killer. she’s gonna shit herself.”
joshua recoils at the idea but thanks him anyway.
“ready?”
he sighs. “yeah, i guess. ready as i’ll—oof!”
he stumbles a few steps and right into jeonghan as someone violently shoves him, continuing to push and slap at both him and his best friend until they’re several steps away from the entrance to mina’s apartment.
“what the—”
“and what the hell are you doing here?!” a female voice shrieks.
he wants to yell at this stranger for putting her hands on him. he wants to tell her to have some manners and to get away from him. at the very least, he wants to glare at her until she shrivels up in shame and scurries away. but all ideas of even attempting to do any of that die as soon as he lays eyes on the stranger.
your instagram photos don’t really do you justice (of course he looked. he really thought mingyu was pranking him and had even mentally applauded him for his effort to find a cute girl to post so consistently). your photos were well-taken and curated perfectly for your profile, but now that you were—for some weird reason—standing in front of joshua and jeonghan, he can confidently call your photos dirty liars. he can’t blame them, though. he has a feeling no camera in the world can capture how pretty you actually are in real life.
prettier than anyone i’ve ever dated, his intrusive thoughts remind him. prettier than mina.
“well?!” you screech when neither of them answer you, making them both flinch. you don’t notice your effect on them, though, because you’re busy frantically looking between them and the entrance of the building like you’re scared the three of you will be seen.
he knows jeonghan is thinking the same, exact thing he is because he is never rendered silent.
“i—uh,” joshua stammers for what he thinks might be the very first time in his life. “we…”
jeonghan glances at him, face twisted in amused confusion before he schools his expression and points his signature stunning smile at you. “you’re y/n! hi!”
“who the hell are you?” you turn back to them, cross your arms, and practically bark at him.
his best friend’s laugh is exaggerated and several decibels louder than it has any business being. it grates joshua’s nerves. he glares at him but jeonghan pays him no attention. “i like her,” he mutters to him before saying, “i’m jeonghan.”
“okay, jeonghan,” you spit his name like venom, obviously unimpressed, making him giggle.
joshua rolls his eyes at him and his increasing giddiness. his best friend doesn’t date often, but he shouldn’t be surprised that he enjoys this kind of vitriol. jeonghan is, at his core, attracted to the same chaos and mischief he himself is made of.
“what are you doing here?” you ask again, raising an eyebrow at joshua to make it clear you’re talking to him.
“i’m… here to break up,” he answers weakly. “with mina! i’m here to break up with… mina.”
he doesn’t know what’s come over him, but being confronted by you in person and unnervingly close in his vicinity has him forgetting how to properly communicate. the thought of blocking you was a lot easier when he had no idea if you were a real person. now, he feels like there’s no escaping you.
“what are you doing here?” jeonghan asks the question he forgets to return to you.
you ignore him, eyes staying trained on joshua as you speak, and something about you pretending like his best friend doesn’t exist forces him to fight down a smile.
“you’re not breaking up with her today,” you order him confidently, like you know saying it is enough for joshua to agree. if the way his palms start to sweat are a sign, you might be right. “she’s up there with siwoo.”
“who’s—”
“my boyfriend,” you answer before jeonghan can even finish his question. “i followed him here when he told me he was getting drinks with coworkers.”
joshua’s stomach flips. he’s not really sure how anyone can even think about another person in your presence, let alone cheat on you. maybe your intensity scares siwoo, though. it definitely kind of scares him.
“you mean… they’re up there right now… and they’re probably…” jeonghan’s sentence trails off, but you’re you and you don’t shy away from finishing it.
“fucking?” you ask with a biting and sarcastic enthusiasm. “yeah, jeonghan! probably!”
joshua winces. your rage was already palpable via DMs, but it’s near suffocating in person. it grabs him by the neck and shoves his face back into the dilemma he was quietly contemplating back at jeonghan’s apartment: why isn’t he sharing the same anger? why isn't he doubled over, throwing up at the idea of mina having sex with someone up in her apartment at this very moment?
“are you hungry?” you direct the question to him.
“what?” he asks dumbly.
“are. you. hungry?” you repeat, irritation laced in your voice.
“i am!” jeonghan announces.
you give him a blank stare before looking back at joshua. when he fails to say anything, you sigh, your temper appearing to deflate infinitesimally.
“they’re going to be a while,” you inform him like you’ve done this before. “there’s a fried chicken shop i like nearby.” okay, so you’ve definitely done this before. “we can eat and… talk, i guess.”
“we would love to talk. right, joshua?” jeonghan asks, pinching his side with more force than necessary. he fights to keep from jumping.
"sure," he finally agrees. "i could eat."
"thanks for ignoring me amidst my weekend-long menty b, by the way," you say sarcastically as you set down a pitcher of beer and three glasses next to the tray of friend chicken on the table.
"ment—?"
"mental breakdown," jeonghan whispers to him as he reaches to pluck a piece of fried chicken from the tray.
instead of depositing it on his own plate, he stretches across the table to put it on yours. joshua's eyes involuntarily narrow at the gesture. he doesn't realize he's glaring at his best friend until he speaks again.
"what?" he pouts at him but his eyes glint with mischief. "ladies first."
"thanks," you murmur, not-at-all sounding thankful. jeonghan snorts. "well? explain your rude behavior." he looks back over to you to find you sulking. you add more chicken to your plate even though you haven't touched the one jeonghan gave you.
"ah." joshua shakes his head. "i was just... not all the way convinced you weren't my friend trying to mess with me."
"mingyu," you say the name a lot like you said jeonghan's and for some reason, it makes him smile.
"yeah," he confirms, laughing a little. "mingyu. he's been known to play a prank or two on me."
"our joshua is just very gullible," jeonghan supplies as he serves joshua chicken now. the statement feels like a crack to the ribs. it's what mina called him when she was messaging siwoo. gullible. "so he's slow to trust."
joshua doesn't have a chance to argue that because you're, once again, ignoring jeonghan to ask him another question. "and now?"
"now what?"
"i take it you're all the way convinced?" you clarify as you tear into your first piece of chicken like you haven't eaten in years. with a full mouth, you add: "i mean, i assume you are if you're here to break up with your girlfriend."
"uh... yeah..." he nods slowly, distracted.
joshua is often described by his friends as a gentleman—elegant even. with the exception of jeonghan and mingyu—the two people who know him best—he is always polite and accommodating. he's careful that his clothes are always pressed and lint-free. he always has good posture, and he does his best to remember his table etiquette, especially in the presence of elders. he tries to be buttoned up and put-together almost all of the time, sometimes even to his own detriment.
so staring at you, wiping soy garlic sauce off your mouth with the back of your hand and talking with your pieces of chewed up chicken tucked into one, puffy cheek, he should absolutely feel repulsed.
he frowns at you and knows it probably looks like he is repulsed by you. but really, he's just confused about why you look so endearing sitting there, eating like it pains you to while taking turns glaring at your drumstick and glaring at him and his best friend.
"hello?" you wave your saucy fingers in front of joshua's face. "is he always this... spacey?" you ask jeonghan without taking your eyes off him.
"i'm glad you asked! no," the man next to him answers—also through cheeks full of chicken. "i've actually never seen him this nerv—"
"sorry, what were you saying?" joshua interjects before everyone at this table, including him, has to face the fact that yes, he is very much nervous and he's unsure why.
you sigh as you wipe your fingers on a napkin. "what is it about me that men's eyes just begin to glaze over as soon as my mouth opens?" you complain, the signature rage joshua has come to expect from you in the one hour he's known you bubbling back to the surface.
his eyes widen in horror at the thought of you mistaking his fascination with disinterest. "oh! i didn't—no, i'm not—i—"
"what joshua is trying and failing miserably to say," jeonghan cuts in, sneaking him a look that screams get it together, "is that no one here is ignoring you. he's just... trying to process all of this. after all, you had all weekend to think about this, and he just realized you were telling the truth, what? two hours ago?"
you stare at jeonghan with the same unimpressed expression you’ve been forcing on him since you met him. after a moment, your gaze travels to joshua, and he gives you a meek smile. you finally hum in understanding.
“sorry, i know i’m projecting. i’m just all…” you wave your hand wildly near your temple to mimic a muddled brain. “siwoo has done a number on me.”
joshua finally gains enough composure to string a sentence together. “i’m sorry i ignored your messages… and blocked your burner account.” you cringe at that but nod an acceptance of his apology. “and i’m sorry i’m not fully present right now. jeonghan’s right.”
kind of. not really. he was processing your existence more than he was processing being cheated on, to be frank.
“i’m just… trying to understand what’s happening, i guess. for what it’s worth, i find it really unbelievable that anyone would ever cheat on you.”
he ignores the way jeonghan inhales deeply and slowly through his nose. only joshua would be able to tell it’s the equivalent of him scream-giggling and kicking his feet when he’s trying to be discreet.
your eyebrows rise like you’re shocked joshua is capable of more than grunts and one-word replies.
“ditto,” you say plainly. joshua can’t help the immediate laugh that escapes his mouth at that, and he’s pleased when you smile for the first time since you met. “mina seems dumb. and not just because she and siwoo are ruining my life. you’re very handsome. and if you blocking me on instagram so fast is any indication, you seem very loyal too.”
you say it easily, as if giving out compliments like that is no big deal to you. maybe it isn’t, but even if that’s true, he’s going to appreciate it nonetheless.
unfortunately, that appreciation manifests in a fierce blush joshua feels spreading across his face like wildfire, much to his mortification. he doesn’t remember the last time he blushed like a pathetic schoolboy with a crush. it was probably when he was an actual pathetic schoolboy with a crush.
he clears his throat, choosing to ignore the compliment. “yeah, i guess we have the same, bad taste in dummies.”
you suddenly groan, throw your head back, and blink rapidly at the ceiling like you're trying your best not to cry. both men glance at each other and fidget awkwardly at the abrupt change of mood, neither of them being great at handling a crying woman. joshua has little to no experience with it and jeonghan tends to fall back on ill-timed jokes during times of distress.
"i followed him here months ago," you tell them unprompted. “i followed him here so many times because he was always so fucking sketchy. but his lie always involved ‘one of the guys,’ so i just thought his friend lived in that building.”
“and you found out this weekend…?” jeonghan asks carefully. joshua rubs the back of his neck nervously.
you nod, squeezing your eyes shut briefly before bringing your line of sight back to them. your eyes are glassy but your efforts to keep from crying were mostly successful.
“he lent me his laptop because mine stopped working,” you explain, rolling your eyes like having a broken laptop on top of all this is almost enough to send you over the edge. “his texts are connected on there too. i was at a cafe with a friend, and one of those verification texts came through. i ignored it but a few seconds later, it messaged again and i saw that he’d replied on his phone.”
“he told her it was safe to text,” joshua says, remembering the photos you sent.
“yeah…” you breathe, hugging yourself tightly and rubbing your arms as you try to self-soothe. “and i just sat there in front of my friends, watching him make plans with her in real time… brainstorm the lies they agreed to tell us… and i just had to pretend to be normal or else i would’ve burned that cafe to the ground.”
jeonghan coughs as he chokes on his chicken a little. joshua pats him on the back absentmindedly, eyes never leaving you, even as his best friend stretches across him, still coughing, to pour everyone a glass of beer. you sniffle as you accept your glass with a small nod, your body visibly relaxing as you take your first sip. he tries not to gawk when you down it all in one go.
joshua thinks this is probably what someone in love should look like when their heart has been broken: drunk and sad. now that the initial shock of seeing you in person has worn off, he can see how tired you really look. there are dark, bruising circles under your eyes, visible even under your makeup, and your hair looks like it was haphazardly put up into a ponytail to avoid having to wash or brush it. your eyes are tinged pink, a little swollen, and dull, like you’ve been crying all weekend. you have been crying all weekend.
and joshua? he’s asking himself why he hasn’t felt the urge to cry at all yet because right now, he could be the poster child for soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend who is going to be okay has been okay, is okay, and will always be okay. aside from his irritation with mina and her insane audacity, today is like any other day.
he’s never had his heart broken before this, but maybe it’s just different for guys. he read somewhere that men’s emotional intelligence develop a lot slower than women’s; maybe he just hasn’t reached a level of maturity you have.
“anyway,” you say as you stifle a tiny burp that makes jeonghan giggle for the nth time tonight, “i’m going to ruin his life.”
okay, so maybe maturity is the wrong word.
“wh…” joshua glances at jeonghan for confirmation he heard correctly.
his best friend’s eyes are lit up with excitement as he leans forward with impossibly even more interest in what the pretty lady across the table has to say. joshua would slap him if they were alone. what for, he doesn’t know, but he would.
“sorry, what was that?” he asks, trying not to sound judgmental at the risk of setting your anger off again.
“she’s going to ruin his life,” jeonghan answers for you giddily. “what are you going to do? i told joshua he should fill mina’s shampoo bottle with hair remover.”
that earns the two men another smile from you, but this time, joshua finds himself annoyed it was because of something jeonghan said.
“oh my god, that’s vile,” you say even though you’re grinning and obviously love the idea. “maybe i’ll add that as a little cherry on top for siwoo.”
“oh, he’ll be so ugly,” jeonghan claims like he’s already daydreaming about it.
“you don’t even know what he looks like,” joshua murmurs.
“i don’t need to,” he responds, smiling as he stares off into the distance. “a stupid motherfucker who can cheat on our lovely y/n, here, like that has to look like ass.”
you roll your eyes at the compliment but your cheeks turn a cute shade of pink anyway.
“well, making him bald will look like child’s play when i’m done with him,” you match jeonghan’s dreamy tone, and joshua feels a chill of fear from having the two of you at the same table crawl up his spine. why was he a magnet for agents of chaos?
“is that why you haven’t broken up?” he asks. “you’re scheming to ruin his life?”
you frown. “what makes you think we haven’t broken up?”
joshua shrugs. “maybe the fact that you followed him here and then shoved me and my best friend into next week to keep us from attracting any attention?”
jeonghan snickers and your cheeks turn a darker shade.
“ah, right.” you nod once. “sorry about that.” you don’t look sorry at all and joshua finds himself thinking it’s amusing. “i suppose that was a bit… rude.”
joshua hums like he’s contemplating your apology but he knows it’s clear he’s fighting a smile as he brings his beer to his lips.
you sigh. “anyway, yes. that’s why i’m still with him. he doesn’t even know i know. i’m trying to get my ducks in a row and figure out the most devastating way to leave him.”
jeonghan smirks. “my kind of girl.”
joshua’s foot finds his best friend’s and stomps on it as hard as he can without thinking twice about it. it almost shocks him—how much it felt like instinct—but after the day he’s had, he thinks he’s entitled to a bit of a tantrum. maybe this is how he is when his heart is broken. a little mean.
“ow, what the fu—”
“so what’s the plan?” joshua asks loudly when your eyes snap up to jeonghan mid-sip over the glass of your beer.
you lick your lips clean of foam before setting the glass down, and joshua forces himself to look away when he notices how plump and pink they are.
“well, to be honest… i haven’t been the smartest,” you admit, seeming timid for the first time since you barged into his DMs. it’s an odd look on you. “i—um. i kind of rely on him… financially.”
the explanation comes tumbling past your lips after that like you’re afraid the two of them are going to judge you if you allow even a second of silence to pass.
“i had a job! i had a great job! but siwoo’s a bit traditional, and he comes from a more conservative family that really buys into gender roles, and i mean, fuck that, right?”
you give them no chance to agree.
“i’m a feminist! i swear to god i’m a fucking feminist!” you’re practically shouting now and the two men are so stunned, they can’t bring themselves to notice or care that the other patrons of the restaurant are starting to look over. “but i was in love! and i thought i was going to marry this moron! so i convinced myself i wanted to stay home and i wanted to clean the house and take care of a man—”
you say the word with so much disgust, both joshua and jeonghan struggle to keep from laughing.
“—and he was so happy when i quit my job like he’s been asking me to, and i thought i was happy too, like, what woman doesn’t want to be taken care of by a rich man?!”
you pause to burp briefly but it still isn’t enough time for either of them to get a word in.
“though again, i was in love! i was looking at that shithead through rose-tinted glasses! he’s nothing but a spoiled mama’s boy with a rich family! that asshole doesn’t have to do anything for the wealth he has! so, like, really… what woman wants to be fake-taken-care-of by a 30-something-year-old mama’s boy?!”
the words come with even more disgust than “man.”
“and he had the nerve to act like he was better than me because i had to work for everything i had before him! like, dude. if your bank account is still connected to your fucking mom’s, lower your goddamn voice when speaking to me!”
his best friend’s mouth drops open in absolute joy-filled shock at your biting remark. he’s enjoying meeting someone as chaotic as he is too much.
“and what was it for?! empty promises that he would propose soon?! endless faked orgasms for a man who’s afraid to give a woman head?!”
jeonghan chokes again, this time on nothing. joshua has more decorum but he can’t help the way his face turns bright red.
“you’d swear i was harboring a monster down there the way he cringed at the mere mention of oral, like, what is he, 12?!”
joshua has to avert his eyes to the ceiling of the restaurant at the mention of your “monster,” and he can’t even get it together long enough to nudge jeonghan when he bursts into hysterical laughter. they might as well be nonexistent, though, because you keep barreling through your rant.
“i was on track to be a director before 30! i was a fucking star! and look what he made me!” you screech, words slurring.
it takes your slurred speech and yet another burp for joshua to realize with mild horror that the pitcher of beer is almost empty, and that he and jeonghan are still on their first glasses. he elbows his best friend, who’s still cackling, and motions at the pitcher. jeonghan sighs happily as the last of his laughter leaves him and mutters a quiet: holy shit, pretty aggretsuko can drink.
“he turned me into a housewife! and i remind you: I AM A FEMINIST!” you slam your palms against the table to each word to punctuate your point. joshua can see why you picked aggretsuko for your burner account. “i support a woman’s choice to be a housewife if that’s what she wants, but my dumb ass didn’t realize that this isn’t the life i wanted until this fucking weekend! god!” you groan miserably. “all of this heartache and for what?! he cheated on me and now i’m jobless and about to be homeless and completely broke, and i…”
you abruptly run out of steam, slumping in your seat and looking at your near-empty glass of beer pitifully. joshua has the urge to round the table and give you a hug, but he stays put, trying to process the whiplash of witnessing what he imagines is a mini “menty b.”
you take a few breaths before quietly saying, “i can’t believe this is what being in love got me.”
something violently lurches inside joshua’s chest when you say that.
“i can’t believe something that’s supposed to be as beautiful as love blinded me so badly.” your voice cracks. your eyes well with tears and this time, you make no move to stop them as they begin to streak your face. “how the hell can love hurt this much?”
joshua’s mouth falls open to say something—anything. any kind of comfort or kindness or advice. but no sound escapes his lips as he watches your heart break into tiny, little pieces in front of him.
he’ll look back at this moment and realize this was the first time his heart knew something before he, himself, did: what he had with mina wasn’t love—that he had actually never even been in love before. there’s no world where mina would ever have the kind of effect siwoo has on you on him, and there isn't anything mina can do that would make joshua scorn the concept of love because it's something he never even experienced with her in the first place.
but for now, all he can think is that, despite barely knowing you and despite being somewhat afraid of you, he has an insatiable want to fix this for you. he wants you to stop crying. he wants to see the rare smiles they were gifted tonight on your face once more. most of all, he wants to make the man who made you cry sorry for ever entering your life.
the words are out of his mouth before he can think twice about them.
“i’ll help you.” you immediately stop crying and look up at him with wide eyes. “i’ll help you ruin this idiot’s life. and when the two of us are through with him, i promise you he’ll be afraid to breathe within a 10-mile vicinity of you.”
joshua is surprised you haven’t already responded to tease him about his fickle typing bubbles because for the last ten minutes, he’s tried and stopped, tried and stopped (stopped, stopped, stopped) to find a response to your question that was not only honest with you, but with himself.
it’s not lost on him how unconcerned and unbothered he was with the repulsive and heinous death his relationship suffered last night. jeonghan made sure to point it out the entire way home, all while nearly choking him and stimming his socked, shoeless feet against his torso during his piggyback ride.
“so are we going to talk about the fact that you had zero reaction to mina having a guy up in her apartment?” jeonghan muttered not one minute after demanding joshua carry him home.
“we were in the presence of a stranger,” joshua grumbled, adjusting jeonghan higher on his back. “how should i have reacted?”
jeonghan hummed in thought. “i guess if it were me, i wouldn’t have really cared about strangers. i would’ve started with busting into her apartment and hoping you were present to keep me from committing second-degree murder. that’s a start, no?”
joshua sighed. “you’ve known me practically my entire life. i’ve never been like that.”
“i know.”
he said it in a resigned way, as if a visceral reaction was a healthy one and joshua was depriving himself. as if jeonghan wanted more for him—like he wanted him to cause a scene and make a fuss. the thought confused him but he stayed silent as his best friend continued.
“i kind of just… i don’t know, worry?”
joshua smiled. he could practically hear the wince on jeonghan’s face from having to be serious as he spoke.
“i lowkey expected a meltdown like y/n’s from you at my place. are you sure you’re okay? i feel like i’m waiting for the aftershock of an earthquake.”
“are you saying you think i’m emotionally repressed?” he asked, putting the pieces together and saying what jeonghan was dancing around.
“well, if you think that’s what i’m saying, who am i to argue with your interpretation of my words?”
he snickered. “i literally cried when you told me about that deep-sea anglerfish that swam to the surface of the ocean to see the sun before it died. i wouldn’t call myself emotionally repressed.”
“okay, repressed isn’t the right word,” jeonghan conceded. “it’s just—ugh, hold on.”
he suddenly started wriggling in his hold, obviously asking to be let down without vocalizing it. joshua squatted down to let him off his back, and before he could straighten all the way up, jeonghan had him by the shoulders and was turning him around almost violently.
“ungh!” joshua grunted as he came face-to-face with him.
“listen,” he said, capturing joshua’s face between his hands, forcing his wide, surprised eyes to meet jeonghan’s. “i’m going to ask you something seriously, and i want you to answer just as seriously, okay?”
joshua frowned. “okay…”
jeonghan nodded curtly once before speaking. “your girlfriend of over a year is cheating on you.”
“dude. i kn—”
“uh-uh, i’m speaking,” he deadpanned, tapping a finger against joshua’s temple.
he sighed. “okay, go on.”
“your girlfriend of over a year is cheating on you,” he repeated, this time slower and with more emphasis, as if it was something he was convinced joshua didn’t totally understand. “she went out of her way to sneak behind your back, and not only lie to—your—face!” he practically shouted. “but laugh about lying to your face with that scumbag asshole. and when you went over to break up with her, she was entertaining her side-piece in her apartment!”
joshua fidgeted under his hold. having it repeated like this did hurt him, and although he spent a lot of this time wondering why he wasn’t as affected as you were, he felt a little sad and lonely now, standing there being reminded that his relationship just imploded.
“in all of this,” jeonghan continued, “the most reaction i saw from you was some quiet cussing when we looked through y/n’s screenshots, and i know you’re capable of being upset.” he smirked. “anglerfish aside, i know that you can express emotion healthily. so…” he took a deep breath.
when he didn’t say anything for several seconds, obviously hesitating, joshua raised his eyebrows. “so…?”
jeonghan’s gaze flicked down to him from where he had been frowning at nothing above his head.
“so…” he inhaled slowly. “do you think you really… truly loved mina?”
he hadn’t been able to answer a barefoot jeonghan last night, and even after tossing and turning for hours and thinking of nothing else this morning, joshua finds that he still doesn’t have an answer.
if he measured love by how heartbroken someone was after it ended, he’d say you were (are?) madly in love with siwoo and he’s basically been in a committed friendship with mina—apparently a shitty one at that. but is that even the proper way to measure love? did the way he cared for mina for the past year count for nothing? a tender, aching hurt bloomed in his chest when jeonghan stopped him and forced him to look at his love life closely, and it has just grown since then. he doesn’t know if it’s telling him that love is more than the way it ends or if it’s telling him he’s been living life without it.
the jarring sound of his phone ringing interrupts his introspection, and he’s startled to find your contact on the incoming call. he quietly gets up from his desk and vacates his cubicle, where he has been neglecting his work to figure out a way to respond to you. he slips into one of the office’s private phone rooms and answers.
“hello…?” he rolls his eyes at how confused his sounds. smooth.
“you’re taking ages to reply,” you inform him, forgoing a normal greeting. “thought i’d call and see what has you so committed to sending me nothing but typing bubbles.”
joshua sighs harder than he needs to, sinking into the seat in the booth. “do you have nothing better to do than stare at my messages and wait for a reply?”
“no,” you scoff. “should i remind you i’m a stay-at-home girlfriend?” you spit the words out like you’re ashamed of them. he knows that you are and winces, silently chiding himself for the poorly timed joke. “i’m not doing anything for that cheater and his apartment while i have to continue living in this hellhole.”
“fair,” joshua says quickly. “sorry. forgot for a second.”
you snort. “it’s fine. what are you thinking about?”
“um, i’m at work, so… work?”
“no, dude, in regard to my question,” you remind him, laughing. he squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to groan. he knows he’s not doing a good job of convincing you that you don’t make him nervous. “why are you overthinking your answer so hard?”
“i’m not overthinking,” he mutters petulantly. “i’m just…”
“thinking overly hard?”
he hates that he cracks a smile at that. “fine, i might be overthinking.”
“oh! well, welcome to my page. i’m glad we’re now on the same one.” he can’t help but grin even wider at your apparently never-ending well of sarcasm. “so what are we overthinking about?”
we. you just met last night—barely agreed to help each other last night—and already, there’s a we. and already, joshua feels comfortable with the notion of that.
he shrugs even though you can’t see him. he slides down until his neck meets the curve of his seat and he stares at the ceiling as he speaks. “i was there to break up with her last night.”
you hum. “i remember. and you still want to.”
it’s more an observation than a question.
“well, i guess that’s what i’m overthinking about.”
“bro, i get it,” you say, shuffling around in what he assumes is your bed. he narrows his eyes at the word bro. “staying with your awful partner and pretending like everything’s okay when all you want to do is strangle him is certainly not for the weak.”
“okay well, thankfully, i don’t want to strangle mina.”
you laugh again and he suddenly wishes he’d gotten to see and hear you do that in person last night. “so what do you want to do to mina?” you ask as the sounds of you moving around the apartment come through the phone. “please don’t say nothing. i already feel like a horrible enough person as it is.”
the statement derails joshua’s train of thought. “why do you feel like a horrible person?”
“probably because i’m committed to doing whatever it takes to burn siwoo’s life to the ground instead of just breaking up with him and moving on like a normal, well-adjusted adult, and if you say ‘nothing,’ it will just remind me moving on is exactly what i’m supposed to be doing. and i don’t want to do that! not without fucking some lives up first!” you end your ramble with a grunt of frustration.
“i don’t think that makes you horrible,” joshua counters. “i think that just makes you… human? i feel like the normal reaction is to want to hurt someone as badly as they hurt you, right?”
at least from how joshua sees it, he thinks that’s probably the normal reaction. if jeonghan’s pressing questions say anything, it’s that his lack of reaction isn’t normal.
the sounds in the background pause like you’ve stopped to think about what he said. after a few moments, your only response is: “thanks.”
“i’m just being honest.”
“i know. thanks for saying it anyway,” you sigh as you continue to do whatever you were doing. “well?”
“well, what?”
“you haven’t answered my question.” you repeat it for him. “what do you want to do about mina?”
he groans, letting his eyes fall shut. “i want to break up with her and forget she happened.”
“do all men move on that fast?” you ask, sounding genuinely curious. “like, do you all just decide you don’t love someone anymore and move on after, like, a week?”
“i’m not moving on fast,” he argues, opening his eyes once more and sitting up. “i just want to give myself a chance to move on at all.”
“so mature of you,” you comment. something tells him you don’t believe that, though, and you prove him right with your next sentence. “or you just don’t love mina as much as you think you do.”
“what is with you guys and insisting i didn’t love my long-term girlfriend?” he complains.
“who’s ‘you guys’?” you sound too excited to realize more than one person in his life has made this observation about his relationship.
“nobody,” he practically hisses, not wanting to give you and jeonghan something to bond over and tease him about.
if he had his way, he’d probably make it so that you two never hung out again; your threatening energy as a duo honestly freaked him out a little and something about the way his best friend acted around you irritated him to no end. but he knows that helping you with siwoo will probably entail jeonghan butting in somewhere at some point.
“i loved mina, okay?” he insists, annoyed with the way he sounds like he’s trying to convince not only you but himself. “why do you even think otherwise?”
he doesn’t think he needs to point out that ultimately, you two don’t really know each other. you don’t have enough evidence to make such a massive assumption about him.
“i don’t know,” you mumble, “ugh.” he hears something clink against what sounds like porcelain. “i guess i’m having a hard time knowing that i’m devolving into this… child who’s having a world-war-sized tantrum, but someone who’s going through the same, exact thing i am is able to handle his emotions maturely... and gracefully… and just walk away. you’re so level-headed. meanwhile, i feel like my anger is consuming me.”
he rolls his lips over his teeth and bites, like that will help him from saying something too intimate to someone who’s still virtually a stranger. he suddenly feels sad for you again. it shoves away the newly formed pain in his chest that jeonghan forced there last night and burrows deep in his ribs the same way it did when he was watching you sob over fried chicken and beer.
“it’s kind of funny,” he starts, his voice soft and hesitant. “i thought something was wrong with me for not reacting the way you were.”
“nothing’s wrong with you,” you assure him. “sorry, i know me joking that you didn’t love mina probably makes you feel that way. i’m just trying to find an excuse for why you’re doing this so well and i’m… not. guess it’s easier to tell myself you’re moving on so fast because you didn’t love her in the first place.”
“you know,” joshua starts making his own observation as he thinks about the way you apologized for projecting your feelings about siwoo on him last night, “you’re super self-aware.”
“pfft, well as my therapist would point out, what good does that do if i’m aware i’m being self-destructive and i do it anyway?”
he smiles. “does that make me an accomplice to your self-destruction?”
“of course. you’re still willing to help with project destroy-siwoo-and-maybe-y/n-in-the-process, though, right?”
he grins wider. “of course,” he parrots before getting serious again. “but hey, i’m definitely not a good bar to set yourself against when it comes to break-ups. i’ve had too many to be someone you want to compare yourself to. you’re not not doing well.” he frowns at himself. super eloquent, joshua. “i think you’re handling this as best as you can. plus, i’m not going to pretend like siwoo doesn’t deserve everything that’s coming to him.”
you giggle like the thought of siwoo’s life crashing to the ground excites you. he knows it does. “okay, well if you’re committed to enabling me, i’m not going to make you stop.” joshua laughs loudly at that and you join in. “you have a nice laugh,” you tell him once you both stop.
“yah,” he whines. “are you always so bold?”
“didn’t we already establish that i am? what’s the big deal, anyway? i think we should all compliment each other more. it balances out my devotion to rage and revenge.”
he shakes his head, smiling once more. his cheeks are beginning to hurt. “fine. i’ll try to get used to it.”
“good!” you chirp as he hears more clinking in the background.
“what are you doing, by the way?”
“uh, i’ll tell you later,” you give him a non-answer before quickly directing his attention elsewhere. “so are we leaving mina out of this? should i just let you move on and grieve however emotionally healthy people grieve and tear up the mina section of my revenge plans?”
he snorts. “wow, okay, i need to stop letting your antics surprise me.”
“i agree. it’ll make this friendship easier for you.”
“i’ll bite. what’s in the mina section?”
“oh, nothing huge yet since i know nothing about her. i have jeonghan’s brilliant hair remover bit in there though.”
joshua glares at the wall across from him. he agrees that jeonghan is generally brilliant but he’s irked to hear you say it anyway. “right.”
“mhm,” you hum.
“well,” joshua sighs, knowing that after several minutes on the phone with you, he has yet to give you an answer and he should really get back to work. “i guess that’s what makes the most sense for me. tearing up the mina section of the plan.”
honestly, nothing really sounds better to him than getting her out of his hair.
“okay,” you agree quickly. “i can’t lie, i’m a bit disappointed because the scorned woman in me of course also wants to ruin mina’s life, but you’re the boss.”
he has no idea why he’s the boss when this is all your master plan, but he appreciates the grace you give him. he knows it’s probably not easy for you to redirect your disdain for mina and refrain from including her in your mission to ruin lives. well, life—one life: siwoo’s.
“at least i can keep my girl’s girl reputation in tact.”
he smiles at your priorities: 1. ruin siwoo’s life 2. remain a girl’s girl.
“exacting revenge on mina would do nothing to your girl’s girl reputation,” he assures you. “she’s the one who isn’t being a girl’s girl. she’s the asshole here.”
“oooh,” you sing, very clearly delighted, “joshie’s getting mad!”
he’s glad you’re not here to see him blush for no reason. when he’s too flustered to respond, you chuckle.
“i guess we don’t really need to go after mina, anyway, huh? you’re probably just as angry at siwoo for stealing her away too,” she thinks aloud.
he stills.
joshua is a little embarrassed to admit he didn’t even consider that. he’s typically a proud man—humble and grounded, but he takes pride in himself nonetheless. is it weird that he didn’t think twice about the fact that siwoo disrespected him and his relationship by pursuing mina? up until now, his anger was mostly feeding off of your sadness.
“joshua?”
“uh, yeah,” he stammers. “yeah. siwoo’s enough.”
“figured. we’ll make him pay real good for the both of us then.”
joshua nervously squirms in his seat. “yup. well, i should get back to work,” he says awkwardly. if you notice, you don’t point it out for once. “let me know what we should do next whenever you’re ready.”
he can practically hear the smile in your voice. “okay, and you let me know how breaking up with mina goes.”
if he had his wits about him, he'd probably give you shit for sounding so happy about the looming end, but he doesn't. so all he does say is:
“bye, y/n.”
“later!”
just a few moments later, he’s back in his cubicle when another text from you comes in.
he wasn’t scared, just like he wasn’t annoyed that you ate like you were discovering food for the first time. the right word didn't come to him until he was almost done with the report he had been working on before you texted: he was charmed.
a/n: thanks for waiting! hope you liked it! as you can probably tell, this is already way longer than i planned on it being so i’m not entirely sure how many parts this will be, but it’s my priority fic rn so i’ll work hard on updates! for now, keep reading to see a teaser for the next part! (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡
if you’d like to be added to the tag list, comment here or send me an ask! if you requested to be on the list but weren’t tagged in this post or the reblog, it’s bc you don’t have an age indicator on your page. pls add that if you want to be tagged next time.
part two teaser
and when he felt a little better in his own skin and ready to put a “realer” version of himself out there, he met mina. mina, his longest relationship, and up until now, someone he was convinced was his first love. he said as much anyway. he was the first to tell her he loved her, he reminded her he did every day, and he thought they had a nice, long future ahead of them. what he pictured in that future exactly, he had no clue. but after an odd and somewhat unlucky streak in dating, he finally felt like mina was a nice and comfy place to land.
he’s never been more wrong about something in his entire life.
and after the laughable amount of breakups he’s experienced, he’s also never been angrier after the end of a relationship in his entire life.
mina was proving to be a lot of firsts for him—first cheater, first master manipulator and liar, first person who’s ever made him wonder if he could possibly switch over to dating men instead… or simply stop dating at all! sure, he would die alone but he would die in peace.
whatever the case, he's quickly approaching the conclusion that “first love” is not among those firsts, and it probably never was. no amount of teasing from you or jeonghan did it, but in less than a handful of minutes spent breaking up with mina, he is a million percent sure this was not someone he could have loved. or else what did that say about him and his taste?
sixteen minutes earlier
joshua arrives at mina’s apartment exactly two hours after work ends for her—5 p.m. every day because she always scheduled a pilates class at 5:30 p.m. thirty minutes for her to get to her class, one hour for her to finish it, 30 minutes for her to get home, zero minutes for her to get clean because he doesn’t care how presentable she is when he dumps her.
plus, however long it takes joshua to end this.
he hadn’t bothered to tell her he was coming over; he didn’t think she really deserved that courtesy. he may be intent on a clean break, but he also wanted this to be as annoying for her as it has been for him.
so at a prompt 7 p.m., joshua finds himself casually leaning against the elevator’s railing, ascending the floors of mina’s apartment and feeling almost excited to be free of this experience.
after he got off the phone with you, he decided he would bite the bullet when work was over. he spent the rest of his day absentmindedly finishing his reports, periodically stopping to scribble an idea for what he would say to his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend.
he takes the folded piece of paper out of his pocket now and runs over his options again.
his levels of shame and self-pity were sky high when he first pulled out his notepad at the office to write his thoughts out, but after texting you and letting you know what he planned to do, you insisted on meeting at a cafe beforehand to brainstorm together while he waited for mina’s pilates class to end. and once you both workshopped the entire list, his embarrassment diminished almost completely.
it was clear you took this a lot more seriously than he did. he doesn't know what he expected; you probably have a manila folder stuffed full of notes for what you plan to do to siwoo.
as such, you were very helpful. sure, you were also really distracting, with your subtle, spiced perfume he recognized as lola james harper, and your daunting and unrelenting eye contact, and the way your eyes smiled all on their own when they weren’t busy crying over siwoo, and the fact that you graced him with your laugh in person for the first time (every bit as fun as he thought it would be), and everything else that came with just existing in your presence.
all of it was really distracting—almost to the point of it being entirely counterproductive for him. almost, if it weren’t for the fact that you were so determined on his behalf to make this the most unpleasant experience for mina. he was mostly pleased with where you two landed, and if anything, he at least had a better idea of what he wanted to say. he reads the completely ruined paper, a mess of his black ink and wrinkles where you kept trying to grab the paper out of his hands. it was already a vulnerable enough occasion talking about this with you; he did not need you seeing his notes on top of it.
TALKING POINTS FOR BREAKING UP WITH EVIL GF
i know you’ve been cheating on me, and don’t try to deny it because someone sent me proof! — cannot say this without exposing that y/n knows about siwoo!!!
i know you’ve been cheating on me, and don’t try to deny it because i went through your phone and saw your text messages! — better, but am i willing to look crazy just to cover for y/n? yes what am i saying NO this will do ✓
how could you do this to us, mina? i loved you! — seems disingenuous? note: yell at jeonghan and y/n for putting ideas in my head later!
i literally gave you everything you could’ve wanted, and that still wasn’t enough? what does any other man have that i don’t? — ok met with y/n for feedback. she says this sounds pathetic and that i can't let her think this has affected me. but she cheated on me? this LITERALLY affects me. i will come back to this one ok y/n made a different, better point: i am perfect and i should not present myself as lacking. so true. she's very good at this!
do you really think anyone with half a fucking brain cell who's willing to homewreck a relationship is really going to give enough of a fuck about you to be capable of putting up with your insufferable ass and treating you as well as i did? — y/n suggested this one. had to workshop bc she's alarmingly vulgar. plus, it sounds a little toxic to say i "put up" with mina ??? not sure
do you even regret hurting me? — y/n says this is silly bc siwoo and mina obviously do not regret anything, but i told her i do want mina to feel guilty even if i'm not sure that i'm all that hurt. she now agrees and says i should add: "or are you just so heartless you don't care?" she said this more colorfully, but i will remain respectful why should i remain respectful? mina is literally the most disrespectful person i have ever met. i will say what y/n suggested:
↳ my bad, i forgot your commitment to being a heartless fucking asshole has you by your ugly ass neck and it's squeezing with both hands and i hope it kills you
GET HELP! — more for catharsis. will not be yelling this at her
you're going to regret this and if you think there's a world where i take you back when you do, you're mistaken — wow, no notes from y/n! must be very good. definitely say this one!!
please never contact me again — note from y/n: "why are you being so goddamn polite? tell her to fuck off and if you ever see her number on your phone screen, you'll set up an appointment on her behalf to get a lobotomy." ????? note from ME: have a serious discussion with y/n at a later time about why i, a MAN, can't just talk to WOMEN like this!
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