W H E R E S H A D O W S M E E T
pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15 - pt.16 - path 1 - path 2
Summary: Y/N defies the bus and her friends, turning back toward the shadowed figure under the streetlight—another reckless gamble she can't resist.
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
-> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (about to be) -> Warnings: swearing/strong language, emotional distress, intense interpersonal conflict and tension, manipulation, betrayal, mentions of violence and blood, smoking (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> all characters are portrayed as being of legal age -> Wordcount: about 2.000 words -> thank you for your patience ♡
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
The bus doors hiss, ready to close. Your friends are waiting. Your new, hard-won peace is waiting. But he is still standing there, his gaze locked on yours, an unspoken question hanging in the space between you.
You hesitate. Why? You can't even explain it yourself, but his damn gaze draws you to him like a magnet. Who knows, maybe he drugged you so you can't think straight anymore, or you are just an addict for his stupid gambling game. You’d trust him with anything, yet you’d trust him to destroy you just as easily.
The bus driver throws you a demanding look, the engine humming with an impatient, mechanical energy. Just as you are about to lift your left leg onto the step, your body decides to follow a different script. You step back.
With a splash on the rain-soaked asphalt, the bus doors close with a disappointed hiss. Before the vehicle even pulls away, you lower your gaze, not wanting to know what expressions are etched onto your friends’ faces.
Once the danger of their judgment is gone, along with the last bit of common sense, you raise your head and look toward the streetlight... toward the one person you were supposed to leave behind with the fight that just ended.
As he realizes your gaze is fixed on him, Seongje turns slightly, taking one last drag from his cigarette before grinding it into the pavement with the heel of his boot.
The smoke around him thins as you get closer. Every step feels hesitant, yet controlled. A walk through a minefield of your own making.
“Why are you here? If you expected your ‘grand’ Union to win, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” you say, trying to hide the tremor in your voice. It’s a tremor that makes you vulnerable, a flicker of weakness that could show him that he is not as irrelevant to you as you wish he was.
“Shut up. It’s not...” He stops. He can’t hide it. There’s a crack in his voice, deeper and more jagged than your own slight trembling. He looks uncertain- a side of him you never could have imagined. Until now.
“Then why? Tell me,” you ask, your voice is clearer now, but softer than you intended. Or maybe it’s exactly how it should be?
“I-” he stops suddenly, unable to finish. His foot drags nervously across the ground as he turns away again. The streetlight, cutting through the damp dusk, highlights the faint red mark on his cheek – a stinging reminder of the slap you gave him at the bowling alley.
“Does it hurt?” Your voice breaks the silence that had formed between you two.
He just looks at you. Eyes almost glassy – if you didn’t know better, you’d think he was close to tears.
“What?” He is clearly confused, but as your eyes wander on his cheek again, his hand follows, but he just shakes his head. “Oh, that... No, that... I...”.
A speechless Seongje? Damn, what has happened. You wonder for a second if your hit actually damaged his brain. You cannot help but smirk, your gaze remaining demanding and fixed on him.
His hand flies to his pocket out of habit, ready to grab another cigarette, but he stops before even touching the pack. Instead, his hand finds its way to your face. You flinch back instinctively. It’s unexpected. Previously, you would have leaned into that touch, craved it like a secret truce.
He finally seems to have found his voice again. “I’m not here because of that stupid Union. I would’ve found out about that sooner or later... but this is what I was worried about.” He nods in the direction of your face. You reflexively touch your own skin, and a sharp, stinging pain shoots through you as your finger grazes the fresh cut beneath your eye. As you flinch, you catch the way his hand reaches out in worry. Only to snap back just as fast as it happened, the fragile mask of control trying to settle back over his features.
Seongje reaches into his dark red school jacket. Another try to smoke a cigarette? No, but for a tube of ointment and a handful of bandages. He presses them into your palm, his fingers grazing yours with a warmth that feels like a silent confession in the damp evening air.
“Sorry,” he mutters. The word is quiet, raw, and completely out of character. It throws you off completely. Your mind scrambles to reconcile this vulnerable version of him with the one he showed usually. Before you can process what was happening just now, he turns to leave, his shoulders stiffening as he retreats into the shadows of the alley.
“Seongje!” You call out, your voice against the mess forming in your head. He stops, a dark silhouette under the flickering streetlight, but he doesn’t turn around. Is he trembling? Or just thinking about if he should keep walking or turn around in an instant.
You call his name again, more urgently, more energized this time. You know his behavior was more than just fucked up. But honestly? Fuck it. Once again just fuck it.
Seeing him like this, so visibly uncomfortable with his own humanity, makes you realize he is more important to you than you’re willing to admit.
You see the tension in his neck, the way his jaw must be clenched. To save him from the suffocating weight of his own feelings, you retreat into the safety of your familiar armor... sarcasm.
“Hey! Buy me something to eat. I’m starving out here. These things aren’t enough for a proper apology,” you shout, voice sharp as a blade cutting through the heavy atmosphere.
You notice a small shift in his posture, a flicker of relief as your words ease the tension between you.
Later, over the rising steam of the ramen bowl you picked, the silence between you is different- less like a weapon, more like the first, hesitant step toward acceptance. You look him straight in the eye, the neon light reflecting in your own bruised gaze.
He hasn’t said a word since he sat down. He just watches you, the way you quietly pick out the pieces you don’t like and set them on the plastic lid of your bowl like tiny exiles. Then he nudges his own bowl closer, a silent offer to take them from you, as if this small act could bridge the distance between you.
You shrug, trying not to show how that small gesture softens you.
“You’re bad at apologies,” you mumble between two bites. He huffs, something between a laugh and a sigh.
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” he says, eyes fixed on his chopsticks as he swirls them slowly between his fingers. “Just eat already.”
He leans back slightly, one corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk, shoulders finally dropping a fraction.
As you still slide the unwanted pieces into his bowl, the plastic lid clattering softly against the table. "I’m not making it hard," you counter, your voice dropping to a low, steady hum that matches the hum of the refrigerators. "I’m just making it real. You can’t expect me to just... reset. Not after that asshole move of yours."
He doesn't look up, but the smirk stays, though it looks a bit more tired now. "Resetting is for cowards who can't live with their mistakes. I'm not asking for that."
He takes a long, deliberate slurp of his noodles and new gained pieces, as if accepting your 'exiles' is a part of his penance. The neon sign of the convenience store buzzes overhead, flickering between a harsh white and a sickly green, painting the sharp lines of his face in ghost-like colors.
"What are you planning to do now?" you ask, leaning your chin on your hand, watching him. "Will the Union come back to life again? Without Baekjin, with you? Or will you just... quit for good?"
He pauses, the steam from his bowl momentarily fogging up his glasses, which he takes off, cleaning them with the hem of his black shirt. Exposing that vulnerable look you fell for.
“The Union?” He lets out a dry, sharp sound that might have been a laugh if there were any humor left in him. “Don’t need them. Who wants to be part of the losing team?” He slides his glasses back on, the metallic click of the frames matching the coldness in his voice. “Not me at least. Maybe I should think about retiring and focusing on more important things.”
You cannot help yourself but laugh at his last sentence. Seongje… retiring… focus on important things? These variables don’t fit together at all. “Are you for real?” it’s hard to form a sentence not buying his words at all.
He huffs, nudging your knee with his under the narrow table—a small, grounding touch. “I am full of surprises, princess. Maybe. Just maybe I’ll just stick around and see how much more chaos you can cause. Switching teams, fighting for fun and…” He pauses, his smirk softening into something almost real. “Nevermind. But if you’re handing out second chances–”
You take a final bite of your ramen, the heat of the broth matching the warmth spreading along your jawline. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Seongje.” You point your chopsticks at him, eyes narrowing in a mock-warning. “It’s your last one. If you mess this up, there won’t be enough bandages in that jacket to fix what I’ll do to you.”
He actually grins then, a lazy, cocky expression that feels like a return to normality— or at least, your version of it. “Understood.“ He lowers his head, smiling to himself like a little boy who just got his favourite candy.
It’s unfair, really, how someone who’s messed up so badly can still make your heartbeat stumble with just one look. Especially now, with that cocky little grin softening his usual sharpness. It‘s never been the simple pretty-boy thing anyway, but that raw mix of sharp jawline, tired eyes, and the rough stare that hits harder than it should. His guard down like this just makes the whole dangerous package even more magnetic, worse. Or better.
You can almost feel the pull of him on your skin, like a drug you’d sworn off but suddenly remember exactly how good it feels. The way his gaze lingers, the way his mouth curves when he’s not fully on defense – it makes you want to close the space between you and just kiss him, just once, just to see if it still tastes like every bad idea you never regretted.
And underneath all the chaos in your head, there’s something else: a stubborn, fragile hope. He won’t turn into a different person overnight. He’ll always be a little reckless, a little too sharp, a little too much. But he came back. He worried. He tried. Not for the Union, not for some game – for you. Maybe he hasn’t changed completely, but he’s changed enough where it matters.
So you breathe in, let the warmth of the moment sink under your bruised skin, and give in to that last reckless thought.
One last fuck it.
pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15 - pt.16 - path 1 - path 2
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