⚠️RPF Warning⚠️ || When I get obsessed with a new thing I WILL find a way to make it about BTS trust (´－ω－)人 ‘06 || moon/they/he
(∠※。.:*:・'°☆)
" It shall pass, surely, without a doubt"
- everythingoes, RM🪻
⨰ summary: Yoongi is a god. He directly and indirectly owns thousands of malls, clubs, ports in the country, and people all over the world owe him favors, or worse, a shit ton of money. If he wants something, he gets it—even if a few dead bodies are the aftermath. There are hundreds, even thousands, of people worshiping him. Unfortunately for him, you aren’t one of them.
You sit in your dressing room, staring at your face in the mirror. It’s gilded, made from pure gold, imported straight from Christopher Guy’s luxury workshop in Britain to the biggest nightclub in Gangnam. Jimin had gotten that for you three months into knowing you, and you have to admit, it does really elevate the experience of admiring yourself.
You carefully run your fingers through your hair—tantalizingly slow—then let them fall to your neck, where the pink star diamond sits between your collarbones, hanging from a delicate gold chain. The necklace that mysteriously appeared on your dresser a few days ago. Most likely a gift from Yoongi. You don’t think anyone else could afford something like this.
You’re not even a performer, but you get a dressing room all to yourself. One that’s filled to the brim with exquisite furniture and that African Blackwood coffee table you’ve been eyeing since yesteryear. Again, a gift from Jimin. He treats you better than he does any of his girls.
Now there’s an inconsistency in your reflection. In particular, a man who casts a light shadow over your features. You didn’t hear him come in at all.
You make eye contact with this man in the mirror, his sharp eyes glinting slightly. “I’m surprised they let you in,” you say.
The man is Min Yoongi. The chairman of the syndicate. He’s dressed to the nines in a crisp, all-black suit he imported from some rich fuck’s couture house in Italy. His dark hair is slicked back as always, and he wears gold rings and a watch worth ten times more than his sixth Bugatti.
“It was almost too easy,” he says, voice husky.
“I did tell them I was expecting someone,” you say, not even bothering to stroke his ego.
“And it wasn’t me?” There’s a lilt of amusement in his voice.
You roll your eyes. If anyone else had done that to Min Yoongi, he would’ve had their eyeballs plucked out of their head and fed to the dogs. But it’s different with you.
“Not at all.” You turn around now, grinning. “I was expecting a business proposal.”
“I always have business proposals for you.”
“Sure,” you respond, playing with the diamond pendant of your new necklace. His attention shifts to the beautiful gem in between your fingers. “Auction?” you ask.
“Something like that,” he responds.
“Mm…”
“You’re taking on business proposals by yourself now?” he asks, quirking his eyebrow. Yoongi knew everything that happened in his massive empire. He had eyes everywhere. Which meant he knew about this business deal you were about to have with some associate who flew in from Hong Kong a few hours ago. He was just toying with you.
“I figured I’d save you some trouble,” you reply. That’s not the real reason, of course.
Yoongi’s eyes narrow slightly as they do when he knows someone is lying to him. “Doing Namjoon’s dirty work?”
The corner of your lips twitches. “Captain’s orders,” you say with a forced smile.
“Don’t get yourself killed,” is his only response.
“You wouldn’t let it happen,” you say without missing a beat.
He looks at you, eyes glimmering. “I wouldn’t.”
The deal with the associate goes well. Your Cantonese is a little rough around the edges, but the associate still quivers in his little suit—something that looks like it came straight out of Sears.
Namjoon is delighted.
“The thing about meth, Y/N, is that in its purest form, it’s more than just a drug. More than a stimulant for fuckers with narcolepsy or ADHD. It’s a kind of happiness,” he says. “A necessity. Do you know how many people would kill for just a pinch of it?”
You know all of this. Namjoon knows you know too. But he likes having his occasional power trips to remind you that even though the chairman gives you special attention, you are still under his command.
“A lot,” you say, entertaining him. “You’ve killed for it, haven’t you?”
He shoots you a deadly look. “I see Yoongi’s gotten you a new gift.” It’s scornful, the way he says it.
“Mm… Says it’s from an auction.”
Namjoon just laughs. “Perhaps originally.”
Namjoon doesn’t trust you. But then again, he doesn’t really trust anyone. Still, things simply don’t add up about you.
“She was born in Yeosu, moved to Seoul when she was in 10th grade,” an associate told them. Yoongi was sitting at his desk, legs splayed with a glass of whiskey on the rocks in his left hand. Namjoon was standing, arms crossed, taking in the information.
“For school?” Yoongi asked.
The associate nodded. “She always did incredibly well in school.”
“SNU?” Namjoon said.
“Yes, sir,” the associate said. “She studied economics. Entered earlier than normal. At 16.”
Yoongi hummed, sipping his drink. “But she dropped out.”
“Yes, sir. When she was 18. She was hired at Goldman Sachs and worked there for four years as their top stockbroker.”
Namjoon laughed. “You could’ve done that too, Yoongi.”
Yoongi didn’t respond. “No abnormal behaviors?”
“Well…” the associate said, trailing off. “When she was in high school, she was called into questioning, sir. Someone created mustard gas in the science lab and released it in the math teacher’s classroom.”
Namjoon’s eyebrows raised. “And?”
“Well… There wasn’t enough evidence, so they let the situation go, sir.”
Yoongi burst out laughing.
The associate looked terrified for his life.
“And you’re telling me that after she was making goddamn bank at the top brokerage firm, she quit and disappeared off the radar for a year?” Yoongi said, an amused look still plastered on his face.
“Y-Yes, sir. No one knows what she’s been plotting, and considering that she only appeared to make a threat—”
“You’re telling me that this girl, this 24-year-old woman who’s done nothing more than conduct a risky little science experiment in high school, is a danger to me?”
“N-No, sir! I am only trying to warn you.”
Yoongi’s eyes narrowed.
Things weren’t looking too good for the associate, Namjoon thought. And Namjoon was right. Only two people left the office that night. Whoever cleaned in the morning was going to be in for a nasty surprise.
As Namjoon followed his way to where Yoongi had parked his latest vehicle—a Bugatti Super Sport with a whopping horsepower somewhere in the sixteen hundreds—Yoongi suddenly turned to him.
Namjoon wasn’t scared. He’d worked with Yoongi for years. He knew that Yoongi would never kill him, but break a finger? A nose? Perhaps. Yoongi could be a monstrous person when he was angry, and the butchering—and the sprinkle of sadistic torture—of the low-level associate earlier could only just be the beginning.
But the chairman must’ve been in a better mood after the bit of bloodshed in the office. “She’s fucking crazy, that one,” he only said, thumbing at the dried blood splattered on his chin. Then, he grinned. It was the maniacal, insane kind.
Namjoon quietly agreed.
This was all a year ago.
Now, here you are, waltzing up to the top, threatening Namjoon’s goddamn position as the captain of Yoongi’s prolific drug trafficking ring. Namjoon can think of several unkind words to call you, but he would never dare to lay a finger on you. At least, not in front of his boss. For some fucking reason, you are Yoongi’s little favorite. And anyone who touches Yoongi’s favorite things might as well wish they had never been born.
But perhaps favorite is a strong word. Yoongi doesn’t trust anyone—not even Namjoon—or any of the two other captains of his syndicate. Namjoon simply thinks that the man is intrigued.
When you showed up nearly two years ago at one of Jimin’s nightclubs in Gangnam, somehow bypassing security, pinning Jimin to the floor with your heel, demanding he connect you to Namjoon, Namjoon wanted you dead. You brought your little henchmen too—nobody knew where they came from—and they’d beat the living shit out of Jimin until he acquiesced. Even after one of his precious captains had been beaten to a pulp, Yoongi wouldn’t let Namjoon kill you. No, he needed to meet this fucking insane woman who dared to threaten the captain of his prostitution ring. Namjoon never got the chance to ask why.
Is there something about you that he doesn’t see that Yoongi does? All Namjoon sees is insanity and a whole hell of a lot of unearned audacity. It fucking pisses him off that he feels like he’s on borrowed time. How much longer until one of your henchmen poisons him? How much longer until you drive a knife to his heart?
He’s tried to beat you to it several times already. Four different hitmen, over twenty poisoned meals—even your specialty: mustard gas. But every time afterward, he sees you, perfectly fine, shooting him a dashing, knowing smile.
“You haven’t been subtle with it, Namjoon,” Yoongi says. He’s leaning back in his seat, sipping his whiskey on the rocks.
Namjoon blinks.
“Don’t you think Y/N has enough shit to deal with on top of dodging the bullets you’ve sent her way?”
Of course Yoongi knows. He’s got eyes everywhere.
“Don’t make things personal,” Yoongi warns.
“I’m not,” Namjoon argues.
Yoongi gives him a dangerous look.
“I’m not,” Namjoon repeats, but this time, it sounds more like he’s reassuring himself.
“Be careful,” is the only thing Yoongi says. “She bites back.”
“I’d say tread carefully,” Jimin drawls, crossing his legs and leaning back in his custom-made loveseat he’s probably shared with who knows how many women. Gray smoke leaves his open mouth, curling and wisping into the cologne-filled air. He takes another long drag of his cigarette. “You know how Yoongi is.”
“You think he’s already replaced me in his mind?” Namjoon asks. He frowns so hard his forehead begins to throb.
“Maybe,” Jimin says, shrugging. “How else do you think she’s always ten steps ahead?”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“He would,” Jimin says, laughing. He balances the cigarette between his fingers, giving Namjoon a long, hard look. “Yoongi does whatever he wants. If he’s telling her about how you’ve been trying to kill her, that’s his business.” He shrugs.
“How the hell are you so calm?” Namjoon asks. What he really means to ask is, How the hell do you not fucking despise the bitch who stepped into Yoongi’s kingdom and dared to upheave the status quo? How the hell do you not want to kill her after she humiliated you in your own fucking territory?
Jimin, totally oblivious to Namjoon’s inner unpleasantries, just grins. “I wouldn’t mind co-captaining with her,” he says. “And,” he holds up a small bag filled with white powder, “I’m not sober.”
Namjoon snatches the bag from Jimin. “Fucking bastard,” he says. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Send in some of your girls. I need to take a goddamn break.”
“Sure thing,” Jimin says, winking. “It’s coming out of your pay, though.”
“Whatever,” Namjoon responds. “Fuck,” he curses. “Do you think they’re fucking?”
Jimin only laughs out loud.
The thing is, your relationship with Yoongi is the most puzzling thing you’ve dealt with in your life. And you were a stockbroker for four years.
Faint trust has grown between the two of you as a necessity. After all, when you deal with so much wealth and power, you need to work as a unit to maintain it, keep it from slipping from your fingers. From time to time, you remember that the wealth isn’t yours to keep, and that’s what irks you. Others might think it’s a miracle neither of you has killed the other yet. It’d be a smidge easier for him to do away with you too—one phone call and your body would be dumped in a suitcase in the Han River, only to be found by authorities months later. But you have your ways too. If you really wanted to, he could be dead by the end of the day, and you’d never be caught.
But you don’t want Yoongi dead, and he doesn’t want you dead either.
It’s not because he fancies you, though the Graff jewelry, Gangnam condos, and Ferraris in every color he gifted you would say otherwise. But to a man like Yoongi, throwing a few billion won for a new luxury car was akin to an average middle-class citizen buying a morning latte. You like to think that he believes you are an investment. Someone who will take Namjoon’s place in due time, though he’d never appoint you as his second-in-command. The thing about Yoongi is that he doesn’t like the idea of an underboss. Puts an unnecessary target on his back from inside the house. After all, the only reason he became the head of the largest crime syndicate in South Korea overnight was because he’d taken advantage of his previous position as the chairman’s right-hand man.
But with every investment comes a risk. After all, taking Namjoon’s place is only the beginning, and the thing is, Yoongi should expect this from you. Why the hell else would you march into his territory and threaten one of his precious captains? It would’ve been idiotic to assume you risked your life and three others just to run Yoongi’s prolific drug ring. If Yoongi were smart, he’d know you’re aiming for more. But he is smart, and you’re more than sure he knows your ulterior motives.
In that regard, Yoongi’s hard to figure out. If he knows what you’re really up to, he could easily kill you and get away with it. He doesn’t even have to get his hands dirty. One of his many enforcers and associates would do it for him—no questions asked. Sometimes, you give him attitude, which no one else would dare to do. It amuses him, though, and you can tell because he quips back. Perhaps he is fond of you. Perhaps this is why you’re not lying mangled in a ditch yet.
Sometimes, just sometimes, he makes time for you—just for you—when he would never do so for his three precious money-making captains. A few months ago, a day before your birthday, he cleared out his entire evening just so the two of you could fly to Paris. You woke up in the private jet the next morning with flight attendants fussing over you and serving you perfectly buttered croissants and crisp beignets with fresh blackberry jam. Then, you spent the entire day with him in Paris—sightseeing, eating the most exquisite food that money could buy, then coming back to the private suite in the Shangri-La Hotel to admire the nighttime view of the Eiffel Tower.
You remember that day so vividly. There was a gilded mirror near the bed that you were already cozied up in, Yoongi’s Hermès scarf wrapped around your neck. In the reflection, you could see the fluttering curtains to the open balcony doors and a straight view of the luxurious city. Oh, and also Yoongi. He was drinking his fifth glass of whiskey on the rocks, dangling the cup over the edge of the veranda, staring out into the dark sky. There was no moon, so he almost blended in with the night.
Silence.
You didn’t want to speak first, so he spoke for you. “Did you do it?”
You cocked your head. “Do what?”
“Attempt to murder your teacher.”
You didn’t expect him to ask. A laugh left your lips as you pulled the scarf tighter around you, though it wasn’t particularly cold. It smelled like him—bourbon and patchouli, an odd combination of scents, but it was also strangely comforting, which meant the million-won cologne was doing its job. “I was young,” you said. “And she was a bitch,” which sounded like more of an excuse than anything. “Did you do it?” you asked without missing a beat.
Yoongi downed the rest of his drink. Then, slowly, he turned, facing indoors. His cat-like eyes glinted in the reflection of the mirror, staring right into your soul. “I did,” he said. “I killed him.” A pause. “But you knew that already didn’t you?”
“People talk.” You shrugged, playing with the ends of the scarf. “He was your friend. Your childhood friend.”
“Yes,” he said. “And?”
“And nothing,” you said. “But it explains why you don’t appoint an underboss for yourself.”
He looked amused. “I have but one regret.”
“Yeah?”
“I should’ve done it sooner.”
You snorted. “Of course.”
He shifted slightly, part of his face hidden from the mirror’s reflection. “You can keep the scarf, Y/N,” he said. You knew he’d been eyeing the way you’d snuggled into it. “A gift,” he said. “For a friend.”
A gift. After flying you to Paris, paying for the hotel, the food, the extravagant birthday vacation, the scarf was what he wanted to give you. Perhaps he believed you were attached to this accessory of his—with its warm, comforting scent.
You didn’t answer.
He turned his back to you, staring out into the city again. This time, he really did blend in with the darkness. “Though I suspect that you’re just as unsentimental as I am.”
Yoongi’s right. You do bite back.
You’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Namjoon is heavily vigilant, though unfortunately not so much as you and Yoongi, as he often loses himself to what he knows best: booming music, scantily clad, sweaty bodies, lines of powder and rolled-up bills, even more of the drugs in small, plastic bags. He loves the high, swears by it, even. He’d fucking kill for it, too, which he has in the past.
He can’t even count the number of lines he’s already taken from that bag he confiscated from Jimin, and maybe it’s because he didn’t have to pay for it, at least not out of pocket, but the drug hits faster and harder than usual. Namjoon revels in the high, worships it, too. There’s a pretty girl who’s been clinging to his side all night whom he might just take home. In fact, the private suite—the one Jimin was so generous to lend him—is filled to the brim with gorgeous, svelte women—exactly his type—dancing, leaning over him, desperate to impress him. This is heaven, he thinks. Better than heaven, though not that he’d ever know—if he died, he was well aware that he’d be put on a one-way path straight to hell.
But when he finally notices you in the corner of the room, eyes narrowed, arms crossed over your chest, the high rapidly dissipates. You look like the Grim Reaper. Pitch black dress and heavy jewelry, all paid for by Yoongi or Jimin or Hoseok or whoever the fuck you have wrapped around your little finger.
You smile at him. You fucking smile.
Namjoon is speechless. His spine begins to tingle. Something isn’t right.
But before he can piece anything together, one of your henchmen opens the door to the private room and escorts you out. You give Namjoon an innocent little wink before you disappear into the neon lights on the other side.
Fire erupts in him. Even the beautiful women in front of him can’t distract him now.
What the hell was that?
He’ll go after you. That was a call to war, no doubt. That sly smile, that fucking wink. He’s going to kill you. Do you really think you can barge into his private room and look at him like that? In his territory?
He pushes the pretty girl off his lap and tries to stand. But as soon as his legs extend, he falls to the ground, abdomen suddenly searing with pain. There’s a heavy thud. And now the excruciating pain is all over his body.
He watches with hollow eyes, listens with muffled hearing as the women scream and run out the door, none of them bothering to help him. He feels rage all over, but his consciousness is dwindling now. He doesn’t know what you’ve done to him, but he knows he won’t wake up again.
The last aggravating thought he has, before everything fades into black, is that you’ve won.
“You took your sweet time, didn’t you?” Yoongi says.
He’d appeared by himself in front of the condo he’d bought you last year. No bodyguards. No wires. Just himself. You couldn’t help but invite him in and offer him the dinner that your private chef had fixed for you earlier that evening. He’d refused and asked for whiskey on the rocks instead.
You shrug, staring at your face illuminated in your diamond-studded mirror as you take off your jewelry with your gloved hands. “I suppose so.”
“I reckon you won’t come to the funeral?”
“No, I’ll go,” you say, storing away the pink star diamond in its special case. “I’m taking his place. I’ll spare an ounce of respect.” You turn around to face him, an amused smile on your lips.
Yoongi smiles as he sips his drink. “Mm… And I didn’t even have to lift a finger.”
“I can cover my tracks,” you answer, walking closer to Yoongi. “It was almost too easy.”
He downs the rest of his drink, wiping the excess liquor from his lip with the swipe of his thumb. “Was it?”
“Are you doubting me?” you ask, eyebrows rising.
This time, he takes a step closer. “Thallium is child’s play,” he says, sharp eyes glinting in the low light.
You frown. You hadn’t told anyone what you’d poisoned Namjoon with, and you thought it’d be near impossible for anyone to guess, too. Especially not without an autopsy. No, even with an autopsy.
He just smiles at your countenance, then sets down his finished drink before getting ready to leave. “It won’t be so easy next time,” he says.
There’s something about the way he says it that sends chills down your spine.
“You’ve won,” Jimin tells you. He’s leaning back in a booth seat at his own nightclub, staring at you through curious eyes. “Wasn’t messy, either. I would’ve hated to have his blood taint the walls of my best room.” He’s smiling.
“How quickly did he take the bag?” you ask, cocking your head.
“Too quickly,” Jimin answers. He lights up a cigarette and takes a long drag before he speaks again. “Yoongi’s going to give you shit, you know. Unless he already has.”
“Mm…” you hum, crossing one leg over the other. “We’ll have to go to the funeral.”
“Yoongi’s orders?”
“No,” you say, smiling. “We should make sure Namjoon’s on a safe passageway to hell.”
Yoongi is a god. He directly and indirectly owns thousands of malls, clubs, ports in the country, and people all over the world owe him favors, or worse, a shit ton of money. If he wants something, he gets it—even if a few dead bodies are the aftermath. There are hundreds, even thousands, of people worshiping him. Unfortunately for him, you aren’t one of them.
The thing is, it takes an insane person to recognize another.
“He had a rough childhood,” Jungkook told you as you sat cross-legged in your armchair, staring at stock charts on your laptop screen. “His father abused his mother, and they both died from substance abuse by the time he was 8.”
“Interesting,” you mumbled, waving your empty water glass. Seokjin immediately stepped forward to fill it for you from your favorite glass pitcher.
“He lived with his grandmother during his younger years,” Seokjin said as he wiped the condensation from underneath your glass. “Attended Mokpo High School.”
“Mm,” you said, now preoccupied with examining your nail beds.
“He was a troublemaker,” Taehyung spoke up. “Never did his homework, bullied other kids—bullied the teachers, allegedly. Got into a knife fight once and got the other kid pretty bad. Clearly, he has some issues—mainly anger issues, but psychological ones too. He was expelled thrice, and the only reason he wasn’t expelled a fourth time was because he dropped out.”
You laughed. “Not very good at covering his tracks, was he?”
“He was a reckless child.” Taehyung nodded.
“But he strangely did very well on every exam he took,” Seokjin said. “He made good money taking exams for others—until he got busted.”
You snickered. “And his relationship with Donghan?”
“They were best friends since childhood,” Jungkook said. “They met when he was 10 and Donghan was 12. By the time they were 18 and 20, Yoongi killed him off.”
“How?” you asked, eyes sparkling.
“No one really knows,” Taehyung said, a wicked grin on his face.
“I guess he finally learned how to cover his tracks,” you mumbled. “And I presume he did it to win over the syndicate?”
“Yes,” Jungkook said, avoiding eye contact when you stared intently at him. He was always shyer than the others—younger too. “His closest friend, his chairman, was the only barrier to becoming the chairman, so he killed him.”
“He was infertile, by the way,” Taehyung said. “The bloodline would’ve ended with Kang Donghan anyway.”
“Some say Yoongi made him infertile,” Seokjin said, fussing with wiping down your already fairly neat desk. “To make sure no one else was in line for the position.”
“He could’ve waited until Donghan died,” Jungkook said.
“What kind of idiot would wait?” you asked, grinning. “He saw an opportunity and took it. I admire that.”
Your three henchmen nodded in agreement.
“You said the easiest target is Jimin?”
“Maybe not easy—” Seokjin started.
You raised your eyebrows, which silenced him. “We’ll plan carefully. They’ll want to kill us for disturbing their peace, especially in their own territory.”
“So how do we plan on avoiding getting stuffed in a suitcase and tossed in the Han River?” Taehyung asked, but he didn’t look scared. Only intrigued.
You smiled. “We’ll do something so fucking outrageous he’ll have to take a look. He’ll be a moth drawn to a flame.”
Yoongi places the bouquet of white roses on Namjoon’s grave with his perfectly leather-gloved hand. He stands back up, not even bothering to look at you. “It’s hardly cold enough for a scarf, don’t you think?” he asks.
“I don’t think it’s cold enough for gloves either,” you say, then you pause, turning to him. “I’m sorry about Namjoon,” you say, though it sounds more like an afterthought than anything. You tighten Yoongi’s scarf around your neck. It still smells like him. Bourbon and patchouli.
“Hm.”
“You worked with him for almost a decade.”
“You’re not really that sorry,” he says, which makes you raise your eyebrows. He faces you. “But I don’t give two shits.”
You don’t say anything.
“It looks good on you.”
“Hm?”
“My scarf.”
“You mean my scarf,” you whisper, though you’re not sure why you’re whispering when he’s already so close to you. “You gave it to me, remember?”
Yoongi smiles, shaking his head. Then, he sighs, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he stares into the ground where Namjoon’s buried. “He was a good captain and confidant. But he messed with the wrong person. Can’t have that.”
You grin. “Meaning, me?”
“Hm,” he says. “Anyone who messes with you will always be very sorry.”
You agree in silence.
The silence persists even on the walk back to Yoongi’s car. It’s the new one he got just last week, with neon blue lights lined in the interior and an engine so raucous it always turns a few heads.
You slide into the shotgun seat, staring at Yoongi’s reflection on the tinted dash. The neon blue light illuminates his pale face, casting an ominous look across his sharp features. If he weren’t already so ghastly, he would’ve looked like a ghost.
He meets your eyes in the reflection. You don’t look away, waiting for him to speak first.
“I used thallium too,” he says, voice oddly quiet. It sounds like a whisper, a hushed breath.
You raise your eyebrows. “I didn’t take you for a poison kind of person.”
“I’ve learned to be more discreet,” he replies.
“Did you watch him die?”
Yoongi scoffs. “Of course I did. Had to make sure he wouldn’t get back up.”
“Hm,” you say.
“Hm?” he asks.
“And the body?”
“Incinerated.” A pause. “You’re quite curious today.”
You’re unfazed, sinking comfortably into the rich, white leather of the car seat. “Can’t I be?”
“I suppose so,” he says. His fingers hover over the exorbitant crystal button to start the car engine. “Did you act alone?”
“Of course.”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, the roar of the car engine fills the silence.
“Pierre Gagnaire?” he asks, still facing the dash. “I’m feeling French for dinner today.”
You shake your head. “I have a meeting.”
He nods. “All right.”
The rest of the drive is silent as Yoongi hits 100 on the dash. No cop would dare stop him. Not when he’s practically paying their salaries. When you arrive at Jimin’s biggest nightclub in Gangnam, Yoongi unlocks the car door for you.
You hesitate a little, staring at your perfectly manicured nails as your fingers curl around the illuminated car door handle. “We can get dinner at Pierre Gagnaire tomorrow.”
“I’ll pick you up at 6,” he responds.
You step out of the vehicle, and just as you’re about to shut the door behind you, Yoongi calls your name. It always sounds so good coming from his husky voice.
“Yes?”
“Next time,” he drawls, voice soft yet icy at the same time. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Do you think he’s onto you?” Jimin asks, taking a long drag from his cigarette and letting the smoke leave his mouth in large puffs.
“He has to be,” Hoseok says, crossing his arms. He takes a seat on your prized African Blackwood coffee table, but once he sees the murderous look on your face, he immediately stands. “Sorry.”
You continue to primp in front of your gilded mirror, touching up your lipstick—the red Louboutin one Yoongi got you at the French airport your birthday weekend. “Well, he’s not doing anything about it.”
“Not yet he hasn’t.” Hoseok frowns. “How much do you think he knows?”
“I’m not a mind reader, am I?” you say. “He did ask if I had accomplices in Namjoon’s untimely death.”
“God, fuck, Jimin, put out that cigarette, won’t you? If Yoongi won’t kill you first, lung cancer will,” Hoseok says. “That stench is fucking disgusting.”
“You run goddamn casinos,” Jimin snorts. “I would’ve thought you’d gotten used to the ‘stench’ by now.” He turns to you, eyebrows raised. “And you insisted you worked alone?”
“Hm. He didn’t believe me.”
“We’re fucked,” Hoseok says. “I knew the odds of this working out going in weren’t great.”
“And yet you agreed to it,” you say, amused. “You must’ve somehow come to the conclusion that the benefits outweighed the risks. But the moment there are signs of difficulty, you want to rat us out?” you ask, not even bothering to turn around. You muss up your hair a bit, posing in front of the mirror, puckering your freshly painted red lips.
“No,” Hoseok answers immediately, fear in his voice. “Never.”
“Good. That’s all that matters.”
“So how are you going to proceed?” Jimin asks, lighting a new cigarette and ignoring Hoseok’s offended face. “With caution, I presume?”
“No,” you say, cocking your head. “Why would I? I’m not afraid.”
“You look stunning,” Yoongi says as he walks you out to his favorite car—a limited-edition black and red Bugatti, his first Bugatti, in fact. “I rarely see you in pink.”
You are stunning. You should be—in an outfit that costs as much as a Birkin. Everything on your body is custom-made, and the star of the show? Well, it has to be your new dress. You’d asked for a mini, the same shade as your pink star diamond—something suitable for a person like you. Preferably with as many diamonds as they could add. Valentino and his team of designers were encouraged to take some creative liberty, and the result was nothing short of a disappointment.
With hand-spun silk, soft tulle, and a dash of white feathers at the hem, you look like an angel. You would’ve preferred a god, but sometimes, it’s beneficial to look less dangerous than you really are.
“And what about you? A new suit?” you ask, tugging at Yoongi’s perfectly ironed cuffs. “It looks good.”
He only smiles.
It isn’t until Yoongi trusts his car with the valet and the two of you have been seated at Pierre Gagnaire that you realize he’d bought out the entire place for the night. Even for him, this was a lot.
“Is it a special occasion?” you ask, sipping red Lafite from a rather dainty wine glass.
“No,” he responds, cocking his head. “Though it looks like we’ve both dressed for it.”
He and you are always on the same wavelength like that.
You smile. “Maybe it is special. We haven’t done this in a while, you know,” you say, lifting a piece of your lobster fricassee into your mouth. It melts on your tongue in a beautiful, lemon-gingerly burst.
“I suppose not,” Yoongi says. “The last time we had dinner together was on your birthday.”
“We had French then too,” you say, sipping your wine.
“I suppose we did.”
Silence.
The waiter comes in, pours more wine for you, takes a few finished plates, then leaves.
“You’re thinking,” you say, peering into Yoongi’s stoic face. His eyes are slightly glossed over as they usually are when he’s lost in thought. “Care to share?”
He snaps back into reality as his eyes focus on you. “Only if you’ll listen,” he says with a small smile.
Your conversation is interrupted by a band of waiters serving the next course of the meal. They’re followed by the head chef, eager-eyed and pink-cheeked, excited to explain his delectable creations just as he did for the last two courses. Yoongi waves him off, just before you do it yourself.
Always on the same wavelength.
“I’ll listen,” you tell Yoongi as soon as the distractions leave. “I’ll always listen.”
Silence.
You wait patiently. There’s something about his silence, his hesitation, that makes you wonder if he’s got murder on his mind. But Yoongi’s not careless. And if he wanted to kill you, you would’ve known.
“Why are you here?”
You blink. “Sorry?”
“I said, why are you here, Y/N?” He stares straight into your eyes. Don’t play dumb, his expression reads. You know exactly what I mean.
This was beginning to enter dangerous waters, but you don’t miss a beat. “The same reason you’re here.”
“Evasive as always,” is his response. He leans back in his chair, then signals for a waiter. “Whiskey on the rocks,” he orders. “Get me another glass as soon as I finish the first.”
You don’t speak until Yoongi’s favorite drink is in his hand.
“I didn’t lie, though,” you say, cocking your head. “You like being worshipped. You like being feared. You like having it all, do you not?”
He takes a sip of his drink, a single eyebrow arching. “Who wouldn’t?” There’s something dangerous about his countenance, but you couldn’t care less. “Here’s the thing, Y/N,” Yoongi drawls on slowly. “We’re low lives on the top floor.”
You frown. “Funny.”
“We climbed and clawed and killed our way to the top, did we not?” He grins, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I imagine I made my way up to the top with a little more decorum,” you say, uncrossing your legs and recrossing them over the other way. The air feels tense—something that rarely happens between the two of you—despite being the kind of people you are.
“Did you, now?” Yoongi says.
“You’re upset,” you say.
“No,” he says, slowly, “I’m fascinated.”
“Hm.”
“It’s like looking in a mirror,” he tells you, then downs the last of his whiskey, slamming the glass down on the mahogany table. A waiter rushes forward to replace his empty glass with a new one. “I want everything in this fucking world to be mine.”
“Anyone with a brain can see that, Yoongi.”
“Of course. And anyone with a brain can see that you share this aspiration.”
“Hm. So what are you saying?” And perhaps it’s the wine muddying your brain that lets you say the next string of words with a grin on your face: “That there can only be one of us?”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” he drawls out. “I don’t want to kill you.”
“Good,” you say.
“Still, you shouldn’t test me,” he says, sipping his glass of whiskey.
“But you want the challenge,” you say, eyes sparkling. “If you didn’t, you would’ve killed me the day I stepped into your territory, threatening one of your precious captains.”
“I welcome challenges,” he replies, grinning. “A god will always find the pleas of his subjects amusing.”
You laugh. “I think I’m more than an amusement to you, Yoongi.”
“And you think correctly,” he says. “You’re fascinating. Only because you and I are so alike, and I find myself the most fascinating person on this damned planet. I want to keep you alive, Y/N. The world can only benefit from having more people like us. They need our guidance.” He pauses to sip his whiskey again. “So don’t be stupid. You can’t unseat a god. You think Jimin hasn’t already told me about your plans?”
“Of course I know,” you say. “He’ll find rat carcasses all over his precious nightclub tonight.”
Yoongi laughs out loud.
You wait until he quiets down to speak, “I have no intentions of backing down.”
“I know,” he responds. “It’s a pity, really. I thought we were friends.”
“Can’t we stay friends?” you say. “There’s not a single person in the world who understands me. Not in the way that you do.”
“I suppose so,” Yoongi says. “The real pity is that I’m in your way, aren’t I?”
“Hm… Sometimes I wish you weren’t.”
“Don’t get all sentimental on me,” Yoongi laughs. “But I agree.” He downs the rest of his glass. “Let’s take one last trip together,” he suddenly says. “I’ll clear out my schedule. Where do you want to go? Fiji? Costa Rica? Geneva?”
You raise your eyebrows. “Are you trying to bribe me?”
“No,” he says. “Though if you fall for me on the trip, perhaps one of us won’t have to die.”
You snort. “Tough chance.”
“So? What will it be?”
“I want to stay in Korea. Let’s visit your hometown.”
“So you can bury me there? Right next to the grave of my shitty parents?” Yoongi laughs. “Sure. I’d love to see you try.”
The mind games with Yoongi never stop. There’s something so exhilarating about it.
He knows you want to kill him, and Yoongi’s most definitely not the kind of person to sit around waiting for his murder to happen. But there’s something about you that intrigues him. Perhaps he is so egotistical that the thought of killing someone even remotely similar to him is abhorrent. You think that when it really comes down to it, he’ll hesitate.
Just like you might.
The thing is, Yoongi’s right. As he always is. When you look into a mirror, you can’t help but see him too. There is nobody else in the world who will understand your aspirations, your goals, your motivations. Sometimes, just for a fleeting second, you truly wonder if the world can only benefit from having more people like the two of you.
But no. You can’t have it all when he’s right next to you, sharing the world.
So there can only be one of you.
Yoongi opens the car door for you, interrupting your long chain of thoughts. You silently take his gloved hand, climbing out of the car and letting your favorite Miu Miu pumps touch the gravel.
Your outfit is nothing short of regal today, and it looks otherworldly compared to the ramshackle rural city. Your Hermès scarf hangs around your neck, smelling like bourbon and patchouli as always. The wool Burberry trench coat hugs every curve of your upper body and is decorated with black ribbons around the neckline. Your skirt is Dior, and your stockings are Chanel—all studded with sparkling diamonds and thick, velvet ribbons. It makes the gun in your coat feel out of place.
“This is where I grew up,” Yoongi says. He begins to walk towards a rather dilapidated home, which is quite a generous descriptor. It’s more like a shack if anything.
You wonder how no one has bulldozed the sorry excuse of a building yet. Perhaps Yoongi can be sentimental. Or the city of Mokpo has better things to do than waste manpower on knocking over a few sticks and bricks when the next monsoon could do the same at a much lower cost.
The yellow light flickers inside the old shack, casting dim shadows on the peeling walls and splintering wooden floors. Moths swarm around the single light source, drawn to the brightness that would bring them to their imminent demise—when they eventually trap themselves inside the stained globe.
It’s dingy. Medieval, even. Your nose upturns at the sight—and at the rather fusty stench that seems to grow more and more potent as time passes.
“I always knew I deserved better than this,” Yoongi says as he carefully watches your crumpled countenance. Even you can’t hide the disdain on your face. “Does it surprise you?” he asks. “That I come from a place like this?”
“You said it yourself that you’re a low life on the top floor,” you reply. “So no. I suppose not.”
Yoongi hums. He lets you walk around the cramped space once, which takes less than a minute, before he asks, his back turned to you, “How much do you know?”
You cock your head. “As much as my men told me.”
“Good,” he says, to your surprise. There is a pause.
Silence with Yoongi used to mean a connection, a sync in your heads—a truce to retreat back into your brilliant minds where you and he felt most comfortable. It used to mean a common understanding that neither of you wanted to speak, and that was completely fine.
But now, the silence is threatening. Tension of all things replaces the mildewy smell in the air. Is it possible that at this point, he’s put two and two together? There’s no one here except you and him; should you have thought it was a little bit suspicious that he agreed not to bring a single bodyguard? But no. He never needed bodyguards with you. There was an unspoken trust. Is it still there?
You answer your own question when your hand slips under your trench coat to find purchase on the cold handle of your gun.
“Easy there,” Yoongi says, his back still turned to you. “A prolonged silence isn’t worth shooting me over.”
“Is it?” you challenge. Your hand is still on the gun, but you make no move to take it out. If you kill him now, everything will be over. You’ll have it all. You’ll finally have an empire of your own. All those years of planning, scheming, double-dealing to bring him down? Over. Yet… there is also something so fucking unsatisfying about shooting a man like Min Yoongi in a shithole like this. When you get rid of him, you always imagined pushing him off his aureate throne in the heavens and watching his limp body fall to damnation.
Yoongi’s grinning at you now, his black eyes glinting in the low light. “Gods may do whatever they fucking please,” he says. “But what’s the fun in that? Resistance makes the game so much more fun. After all, who can beat a god?” You stay silent, calculating your next moves. Yoongi only laughs at your silence. “I’ve traded off a few pawns to be here tonight. I know you have too.”
Of course he knows.
“I told him to spare your favorite,” he says.
“I don’t have a favorite,” you say. Then, you pause. “Taehyung’s alive?”
Yoongi nods.
“Hm. Well, I imagine Jungkook and Seokjin put up a fight. I hope they made Jimin’s death painful,” you say without much emotion. “How are you planning to keep your syndicate afloat now that your charming pimp is dead?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” he replies. “You didn’t just get him killed tonight because he betrayed you. The rats were only the first step. No, even the first time you met him—when you pinned him to the ground with your heel—you knew what you would do to him in the coming years.”
“Of course,” you say, grinning. “Loyalty was never his strong suit. And now, I’m taking over his prostitution ring.”
“They’re not going to take you seriously,” Yoongi says.
“Nothing a few dead bodies can’t fix,” you reply sharply. “You should take good care of Hoseok. He’s next.”
“I noticed the pattern,” Yoongi says in acknowledgment. “A body for a body. But do you really want to be left all alone? Without a band of your precious bodyguards?”
“I can fend for myself.”
When Yoongi’s usual quip doesn’t come after several seconds, you begin wondering if he’s given up. Except Min Yoongi never gives up—not if he was created as a mirror image of you. But the next thing you know, Yoongi’s sighing and sinking to the dusty floor of the shack. He stares up at you, dark eyes revealing nothing.
“Sit,” he orders.
You hesitate. Why should you take orders from the man you were going to usurp? And why was he ordering you around as if you were one of his low-level associates? It’s like he doesn’t know you at all. You’d never sit on a ground as dirty as this.
But then it dawns on you. He’s testing you. Trying to see if you’ll follow his command like one of his disposable foot soldiers. Trying to see if you’ll defy his words and test his patience.
If his patience is waning, he doesn’t show it. Yoongi shrugs off his jacket—the Moncler one he had Namjoon pick up from France back when he was alive and running errands. Then, Yoongi lays the black fabric on the floor, gesturing for you to sit.
Perhaps he does know you. You sink to the floor, staring at him warily.
It’s silent for the next couple of minutes. Yoongi’s mind can be like a black box sometimes, even though more often than not, his thoughts mirror yours. Even you aren’t really sure what’s to come and what to make out of the rest of this trip. You were never going to kill him today. Just acquire some information about him. Optimally, seek a vulnerable point. But it seems as if Yoongi’s being as vigilant as ever. And besides, Yoongi has no vulnerabilities. Every single weakness, flaw, imperfection—if he even has any of these—is wrapped away beautifully and hidden in the deepest crevice of his body. Not even he can access them. Hence, his arrogance.
“I used to want to be a king,” Yoongi says.
You turn to him, face blank but inwardly eager to hear what he has to say next.
“When I lived in this house,” he continues. “I knew I was fit for the lifestyle of a royal. But as I built my empire, Y/N, I realized that there’s something even more powerful than a king. An entity that doesn’t just command his subjects. An entity that may control them. An entity that ordains the king himself.”
“A god,” you murmur.
“Yes. A god,” Yoongi repeats. “I imagine you were the same when you were young. You knew you were worthy of more. I’m sure you thought being Goldman Sachs’ top stockbroker would put you at the zenith of your career. But even you realized being a corporate slave wasn’t real power.” He smiles.
You stay silent.
“You’re overthinking things,” Yoongi says. “I’m not going to kill you now. We both know I’m above that.”
“Are you, though?” you say. “If I put my gun to your head this instance, I’m sure you’d fight back.”
“But you won’t put a gun to my head,” Yoongi replies. “You’re smarter than that. Perhaps even smarter than me,” Yoongi says, which catches you off guard for a split second.
“Humility isn’t exactly your strong suit,” you say. “So what are you trying to say?”
“There was never really a rational reason for me to keep you alive,” he says, cocking his head and staring straight into your eyes. “It was obvious what you wanted from the very beginning. Even if you could’ve been an asset to my empire, your nature is to control, not serve. Sooner or later, you would’ve clawed your way to the top with the desire to push me off my throne.
“And now, here you are, just as I had predicted—closer than ever to stealing my empire. So many others warned me about you…” He smiles. “But my intention was never to tame you. People like us can’t be tamed, Y/N. Instead, I wanted to see how far you’d go. Because no matter the amount of money I threw at you, the luxurious gifts I sent your way, the time I generously spent with you, you’d still have one goal: to kill me. Perhaps you might hesitate. We’re quite fond of each other if I say so myself. But we’re people who act on self-interest…” He looks over at you. “Have you thought about how to do it yet?”
You frown. “Of course I have; just like you’ve thought of it too.”
“I did contemplate thallium,” he admits with a smile. “Before you used it on Namjoon.”
“I did too,” you say. “Before I learned that you used it on your predecessor. And you called it child’s play.”
He laughs. “I did. Only to scare you a little.” He shakes his head, smiling. “We’re never going to find other people like us in our lifetime.”
“It’s a pity,” you say. “Except you and I wouldn’t know what pity felt like even if it hit us in the face like a brick.”
“It’s true,” Yoongi says. “I don’t feel much emotion other than anger.”
“It amazes me how alike we are,” you say.
“I agree,” he says. “So I assume you’d understand that sometimes, anger is all that I feel.”
You cock your head. The level of vulnerability he is showing—it is so unlike him. But it is like him to tease calculated weakness, perhaps to let your guard down.
Yoongi continues: “Before I know it, my fists are bloody and someone’s lying unconscious on the floor.”
You snort. “Maybe you should see someone for that.”
“You say that as if you haven’t experienced it.”
He’s right. Rage is something you welcome with open arms. It’s something that fuels you, something that makes you who you are. Without anger slowly boiling inside your stomach, without it simmering in your mind, your head, you can’t think. Of course you’re fucking angry at this world. You weren’t born to riches; you clawed your way up with deception and subterfuges so many that you couldn’t even count. You’re angry at your useless parents, who didn’t understand the importance of education and barred you from moving to Seoul until you were already 14. You’re angry at your obtuse brother who destroyed the family with medical bills and ended up dying a pathetic death anyways. You’re even angrier at Yoongi for sitting exactly on the throne you want to occupy.
But he and you hide your fury quite well. Though perhaps well is not quite the best descriptor. You’ve seen Yoongi shoot madly at his deficient associates before, sweat clinging to his forehead and his face red with wrath. And you, well, while you do have more decorum, you’ve orchestrated some deplorable murders in a fit of rage—you rarely get your own hands dirty though, which is why you have your henchmen, now only reduced to Taehyung. And sure, you can strategize elaborate, ingenious plans, but sometimes they unravel in your wrath—like the first time you met Jimin. You only meant to scare him a little; it was an entirely impulsive decision for you to press your Louboutin heel so hard into his chest that it nearly punctured his rapidly beating heart. At least it left a crack in his ribs. You didn’t factor in how much his signature smug expression would set you off. And perhaps that act of violence was the moment that Jimin realized you were meant to be feared and the reason he always showered you with expensive gifts, though not the same caliber as Yoongi’s. Of course, Jimin then went around and double-crossed you, which was expected from the pimp that he was. That’s besides the point, however. The bottom line is, it’s only a matter of time before either you or Yoongi unexpectedly explodes in anger. There’s no telling what would happen then.
“Of course I’ve experienced it.” You surprise yourself with your honesty. “Anger’s how I got so fucking far.”
Yoongi smiles. “Then let’s hope anger is what gets you what you want in the end.” There’s something completely unreadable in the depths of his dark eyes as he stares at you. Then, he’s settling closer to you, sitting on the edge of his jacket. It isn’t cold—if anyone was, he should be since he gave up his jacket for you to sit on—but his proximity to you is delightfully warm. Without thinking much, you rest your head on his shoulder. If that movement surprises him, he doesn’t show it.
And just like that, all the tension left in the air diffuses.
It’s silent for a few minutes before you decide to speak. “I know you never liked Jimin,” you whisper. “He annoyed Namjoon and pissed off Hoseok all the time.”
“Is that your way of apologizing?” Yoongi asks. He shifts his shoulder to let you rest on it more comfortably.
“Not really,” you say. “Just trying to say he won’t really be missed.”
Yoongi hums. “I trust you to handle their jobs.”
“Thanks,” you say. His scent is almost intoxicating. Does he know how well bourbon and patchouli suit him?
“Do you like spending time with me?” Yoongi asks suddenly. “Besides plotting my murder. Am I interesting enough for you?”
Yoongi always manages to come up with questions you never expect to come out of his mouth. He is a man of purpose. Every action he takes, every word he speaks has a meaning—usually so that he can use it against you. But this? What could he possibly gain out of knowing this? Because this question, this blatant seeking of approval… No god would ever care enough to ask. So why? Why would he ask something so human?
“I’d rather spend time with you than anyone else in this world,” you say.
And why are you being so honest?
“As would I,” he replies. He turns his head slightly, staring into your eyes. Then, gently, and tantalizingly slowly, he reaches forward to brush a stray strand of hair away from your face. You frown at his action.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he murmurs. “I’m not flirting.”
“Then what are you doing?” you whisper.
“Savoring this moment,” he answers quickly, so naturally.
“You?” Your lips break out in a small smile. “You’re the least sentimental person I know, other than myself.”
He only laughs. “I save it for endgames. We both know one of us won’t be here next week.”
You tug the scarf that used to be his to your chin, inhaling the calming scents of bourbon and patchouli. “Then don’t blink.”
“What the hell was the point of going to Mokpo if you came back with him still alive?” Hoseok asks, exasperated. He crosses his legs, uncrosses them, then recrosses them in the same position he had before.
You barely look his way, staring at yourself in your golden mirror. “I never said I went there to kill him.”
“Then why the fuck did you go?” he yells, losing his composure.
You glare at him through the mirror. Your silence is enough for him to settle down and avert his gaze.
“She’s waiting for the optimal time,” Taehyung tells Hoseok, looking at the terrified captain with an amused look on his face.
“That was an optimal time,” Hoseok mutters. “Now Seokjin and Jungkook are dead, and we lost Jimin.”
“Are you trying to tell me what’s good for me?” you ask quietly. You’ve stopped primping yourself in the mirror, your hand in mid-air, holding a gold brush tinged with setting powder.
“Careful, there,” Taehyung whispers, grinning. “Do you really want to upset the chairman-to-be?”
“Of course not!” Hoseok says. “But my life is on the line, okay? Any minute now Yoongi’s going to kill me off for betraying him. I don’t want to be stuck in this… this fucking limbo as she flirts with the man she’s supposed to be plotting to murder!” He points an accusatory finger at you.
Your eyebrow arches. Your soft makeup brush dances across your skin as you continue applying your powder. You don’t say a single word in response.
“Are you in love with him?” Hoseok shouts, now standing up. He’s clearly even more agitated that you’re so apathetic. “Do you love this man, Y/N? Why else are you delaying his murder? Why the fuck else did you travel all the way to his fucking hometown?”
Now, you’re laughing, not even bothering to turn around from your mirror.
Hoseok just scoffs. “Fuck this!” he yells and storms out of your dressing room.
Taehyung immediately stands from the couch, pulling out his handgun and loading it with bullets. He looks at you for approval.
You nod. “He’ll learn to hold his tongue when he’s dead.”
The taxi driver looks nervous. He glances at the rearview mirror too often for it to be a coincidence, most likely wondering why such a beautiful woman like you is willingly walking straight into a lion’s den.
“M-Miss, you do know that h-he’s… um, he’s—”
You give him a dazzling smile. “I do know. Now drive before I tell him you’re the reason I’m late.”
The driver slams his foot on the accelerator, and you’re at one of Yoongi’s many estates in five minutes flat. The guards outdoors recognize you in the backseat of the taxi and let the vehicle in through the towering gates, which lead to the long driveway decorated with verdant bushes and exotic, flowering trees. The driver parks in front of the main entrance, unable to make eye contact with you in fear.
“Thank you,” you tell him, minding your manners. You throw a wad of cash at him worth well more than what you owe him. “For your troubles.”
He immediately stumbles out of the car to open the door for you, thanking you profusely. You quietly take his hand as he sweeps into a deep bow, escorting you out of his vehicle as if you’re royalty. You step out gracefully, the hem of your white silk dress falling to your knees. Then, you wave the man off. You don’t need a puppy to follow you to the door. The man doesn’t need another warning; he hops into his car and speeds off—perhaps to irresponsibly spend his earnings for the day. When you give a peasant a taste of wealth, they tend to self-sabotage.
Your pastel pink Hangisi pumps clack on the stone pathway leading up to the incredible glass door of the modern mansion. Rumor has it that Yoongi had this particular estate of his rebuilt four times to cater to his ever-changing tastes. The location is too good to abandon. The overuse of glass was the most recent remodeling—you were the one who suggested it.
Coincidentally, or not so coincidentally, really, this happens to be Yoongi’s favorite home. Of course, there’s an off chance that he won’t be here tonight. You didn’t bother to text or call him; it’d ruin the element of surprise. And you like to think that you know Yoongi well enough to predict that he’s making use of the spectacular bars lined up in this particular estate. Especially after today.
Your hand reaches to press on the intricately designed doorbell, and you can hear the pretty, silvery chime come from inside the home. Then, you see him through the glass. He’s already holding his whiskey in his hand, dressed in one of his forest green Kiton cashmere suits. He must’ve gone to that gala tonight—the one to which he invited you, but you were too busy covering up your tracks from the afternoon to accept the invitation.
He opens the door. “I was waiting for you.”
You smile. “Perfect.”
“Come on in,” he says. “I have your favorite wine.”
It goes without saying that you and Yoongi always enter each other’s residences unarmed and unguarded. A signal of trust. You don’t plan on breaking it tonight, and Yoongi trusts you enough not to check.
He sits at the obsidian bar table, his hands splayed in front of him, decorated with silver rings. “The gala was a bore,” he says.
You smile, though he wouldn’t be able to see with your back turned to him. You carefully drop perfectly sphere-shaped ice into a rocks glass on the counter across from him. “Must’ve been because I wasn’t there,” you say casually, lightly shaking the glass to level the ice.
“Well, of course,” he muses. “I assume whatever business you had to finish in place of the gala was more eventful.”
“Hm,” you say, neither confirming nor denying his statement. Instead, you silently pour the dark amber liquid into the glass from the exquisite white gold decanter speckled with thousands of diamonds. It’s Yoongi’s most prized whiskey—Isabella’s Islay, which is imported fresh from Scotland every other day. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say Yoongi’s an alcoholic. But he holds his liquor better than any other person you’ve seen, and most of the people in your circle drink so often their veins are practically circulating with alcohol. “I’d say any business is more eventful than that gala.”
Yoongi laughs—it’s hearty and loud and filled with a certain ebullience he never went around showing anyone. Just you. A thought flits through your head that you regret: you’re going to miss that laugh.
“I’d say any business you’re a part of is eventful,” Yoongi says. Though you can’t see his face, you imagine his dark eyes are twinkling. “Trades have doubled since you’ve taken over my rings. Though we both expected that.”
“It’s true,” you say, now fixing yourself a stem glass a quarter filled with—as promised—your favorite wine. “Who knows? I could’ve made you the richest man in the world by now if you’d let me run your rings any earlier.” You turn and place the drinks on the obsidian bar table, walking around to take a seat next to the quiet man.
He only cocks his head in response. “Hm, and to what do I owe the pleasure of you fixing me a drink?”
You pick up your glass. “To celebrate,” you say.
He doesn’t ask for what, only because it’s painfully obvious. Because you both know why you sought him out tonight.
Yoongi picks up his glass and inspects it. You expect that from him, of course, that vigilance. Because even though Yoongi is an inherently reckless man, he isn’t stupid. Still, he slowly raises the glass to his lips and drinks like he has all the time in the world. He waits a few seconds before he speaks, raising his eyebrows. “You’re testing me.”
“Am I?” you say, feigning ignorance. “Or are you just being paranoid?”
“Hm…” he responds, taking another sip of his whiskey. “Don’t I have the right to be? You’ve killed off my last pawn tonight, and I, yours. The gala was only so tedious because I knew you had some fun wiping blood off your hands while I was stuck with pretentious rich fucks ogling over art that could’ve been made by a blind two-year-old.”
Your lips curl up into a smile as you down the rest of your wine. “You could’ve easily poisoned this drink too, you know. But you didn’t. At least, not for now.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” he says. “Just like you wouldn’t. But you shouldn’t take offense that I checked anyways.”
You shrug. “None taken.”
“I heard Taehyung presented you with his tongue,” Yoongi says. He downs the rest of his drink but doesn’t ask for more, which makes you realize he’s probably had more than ten glasses at this point.
“Mm, you heard that from Taehyung?” you ask. You also don’t bother to grab another glass of wine, much preferring to have this conversation more sober than not. “He was quite proud of that. It was a clean slice. Something about how Hoseok will stop yapping when he’s dead.”
Yoongi shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “I see. You shut him up for good.” He sighs, twiddling his silver rings. “You know, I received intel that Taehyung talked, but he never revealed anything useful during his…” There was a minute pause. “Interrogation.”
You scoff. “That’s one fancy word for torture.” You think for a moment before asking, “How long did he last?”
“He was willing to go until he died,” Yoongi says. “So about eight hours. He said he’d rather die than divulge any of your secrets, so he did.” Yoongi taps his fingers on the obsidian table. “I applaud your method. You’ve trained your men to be so loyal they greet death with welcoming arms at your expense.”
You grin. “They’ve told me about your many bribery attempts to double-cross me.”
“Ah, so you knew about them,” Yoongi says with an equally wide grin. “You never told me.”
“I didn’t really need to,” you reply. “You want to know the secret? Why my men stay loyal to me until they die?”
Yoongi raises his eyebrows. “Is there a reason you’re being so generous?”
“One of us will be dead soon, so I might as well tell,” you say. “The secret will stay between us.”
“That’s fair.”
“Well,” you say, leaning in towards Yoongi and lowering your voice, though there is no one else in the mansion. Perhaps it’s a stupid excuse to be closer to him. “The trick is simple. You just need to manipulate people who have absolutely no self-worth or ambition for themselves. Why the hell would they double-cross if they don’t understand the definition of a fair trade? Even if you offer them a higher salary, a new condo, a fucking Bugatti, they won’t care because they only worship one god—the one that pulled them out of the trenches when they were desperate. They have no desire for a better deal. As brainless as they are, they can be quite selfless. But your goons?” You poke Yoongi in the chest with your pointer finger with a grin. “They’re the most selfish people I’ve ever met. So easy to bribe. So easy to kill, too.”
There’s something that flashes in Yoongi’s eyes that makes you worry for half a second that you’ve gone too far. Instead, he leans forward even more, your finger now digging into his chest. “There’s not a single person in this business who isn’t selfish,” he whispers. “At least not anymore.” He leans back, a triumphant grin on his face.
You have to admit that stings just a little. Taehyung had always been your favorite; he was unsentimental, brash, and extraordinarily violent. He was perfect. Your forehead grows a little hot just thinking about his non-existence. Eight hours, however, is disappointing. A child could’ve lasted longer. And now it’s just you and Yoongi. No goons, no henchmen, no inner circles.
“Come,” Yoongi says as he stands. “Let’s move to the veranda. I need some fresh air, and I think you need it too.” You hate it when he knows exactly what you need.
Your arms hang off the glass railing as you stare out into the darkness. You can spot Jupiter in the sky, shining brightly against the inky night. It’s chilly out, so Yoongi offers his jacket for you; you take it, just so he can be colder.
You’re being spiteful tonight, but the end is near, and you can’t afford to enjoy Yoongi’s presence when he’ll be dead by tomorrow. The stars have aligned, and if you don’t kill Yoongi soon, you won’t win the full support of his empire. The thing is, you can’t risk leaving Yoongi’s assassination to anyone else. With your henchmen dead and long gone, for the first time in a long time, you’ll have to get your hands dirty. You think Yoongi knows that too. What he doesn’t know is how vicious you can be.
But the silence is peaceful. The air is sweet and crisp from the verdure in the mansion’s garden, and the clouds have moved away to reveal the solemn light of the first quarter moon. You also can’t ignore the fact that Yoongi is next to you, radiating warmth. He, too, stares out into the open night, his line of vision aligning with where Jupiter sits up in the black sky. You stargazed with him once before on the hood of his Lamborghini, parked up at the highest hill he could find, away from civilization and especially away from the city lights. He was surprisingly adept with astronomy, just as you were, but maybe that isn’t so surprising. He has a penchant for collecting pretentious hobbies—just like you.
You wrap Yoongi’s suit jacket tighter around yourself, the heady, woodsy smell of bourbon and patchouli ensconcing you from the chilly night breeze. It should be well past midnight, but Yoongi doesn’t seem to be in a rush, and you don’t particularly want to leave. Just one last night with him should suffice. You’re not being sentimental, you tell yourself, you’re just scoping him out before you kill him in cold blood. You’ll do it tomorrow. You’ve already made up your mind—because if you didn’t, you were afraid that you would put it off, which would be incredibly stupid. You have quite the elaborate plan in store, and you’re only half sure that Yoongi’s already figured it out. But there is nothing he can do to stop it at this point.
It seems like hours have passed before Yoongi speaks. “I want to apologize,” he says. His voice blends harmoniously with the brisk night air.
You scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You have to admit our colloquy has been tense tonight,” he says, cocking his head and staring at you with those shining black eyes of his.
“Mm, well, I meant every word that I said.”
“But of course,” Yoongi says. “I just don’t want to part on strained terms.”
You laugh at his words. Have you miscalculated his character? Why the hell would someone like Min Yoongi care if you and he parted on strained terms? And why the hell would he admit it?
“You can laugh all you want, Y/N,” Yoongi says, watching you carefully. “But you’re standing here, wearing my jacket in my home at three in the morning for a reason.”
Annoyingly enough, he has a point. The thing is, you’re fond of Yoongi; it’s really no secret. Are you in love with him as Hoseok had accused? No. But there is a small part of you that enjoys spending time with him, hearing his soft, husky voice, and staring at his emotionless face, yet being able to discern his thoughts and feelings better than any other. It’s a pity you’ll have to kill him. The only person who will ever understand you whole.
You despise showing your cards. Even if you are partial to Yoongi, even if you respect him—even care for him, you dislike to show it. He’s the type of person to use every ounce of affection you have for him against you. And you know this because you’d do the same. And you are.
“I could’ve left a long while ago,” you agree, which is just about all the confirmation Yoongi’s going to get tonight. “You can have your jacket back.”
He only laughs. “Y/N,” he says.
Why the hell does your name sound better coming from his lips? Your heart never flutters—you’re not senseless like that—but it does skip a single beat in this moment. It’s the way his raven hair sweeps over his sharp, obsidian eyes; except his eyes have lost their usual sharp look at this hour. Instead, his gaze is soft and dare you might say, sweet. His lips have stretched just slightly in a gentle smile.
For fuck’s sake, Min Yoongi is not gentle. He doesn’t have a single gentle bone in his body.
“Just enjoy the moment,” he says, eyes still soft. “Don’t overthink things. And keep my damn jacket.”
“You know I can’t trust you. Especially not now.” Your hands tug his jacket tighter around yourself. Bourbon and patchouli. You inhale deeply.
“You can trust me today. You’ve already trusted me, anyway, showing up at my doorstep after having decimated all three of my captains with the promise of doing the same to me.” He says all of this so gently—not as if he is trying to accuse you, but as if he is begging you to trust him. “I trust you too, you know. Even if it’s just for today.”
For once, Yoongi’s countenance isn’t its usual impenetrable, emotionless void. Tonight, he wears his heart on his sleeve—that is, if he even has a heart. He looks sincere—the most sincere you’ve ever seen him be. “You were telling the truth, weren’t you?” you whisper. “When you said you didn’t want to part on strained terms.”
“I was,” Yoongi says.
“Mmm… Then I suppose that I don’t want to part on strained terms either.”
You don’t know how you didn’t stop those words from coming out of your mouth. But when you see the tender smile forming on Yoongi’s face, your regret ceases.
“And for what it’s worth, I’ll apologize too. I didn’t mean for things to get tense.”
His smile widens.
You find yourself smiling back.
“See? It wasn’t so hard. You might not be a psychopath after all,” he teases.
You roll your eyes. “Don’t be stupid. I’m much worse.”
“An oversight. Apologies,” he says with a grin.
A comfortable silence washes over. There are intermittent conversations here and there afterwards, but they, too, convene in silence. The soothing, comfortable kind. This continues until you spot the red sun peeking out from the far horizon, painting the sky in its golden light. It’s peaceful, and so quiet, too. Yoongi is beside you, offering you his warmth as he stares off into the distance, his eyes glossed over and his lips just slightly parted. Somewhere inside of you, you wish this time never ends.
“It’s almost seven,” Yoongi says, glancing at his watch. “I’ll be late for my meeting.”
“Is it?” you say. “Time flies. I’ll leave, then. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“No,” he replies quickly. “I’ll miss it.”
“You’ll miss it?” Your eyebrows raise. “I’m rather honored. A morning meeting must’ve been urgent.”
“If they can’t deal with my absence, they don’t deserve to work for me,” Yoongi says.
“Mm…”
“Besides, you were supposed to lead a staff meeting at the Gangnam club a few hours ago, and yet you’re still here,” Yoongi says with a smile. “So let’s say we’re even.”
So he had known.
Silence ensues.
You and Yoongi watch the morning sun paint the sky in its glorious warm colors. The horizon becomes a beautiful palette of pastel yellow, shy pink, and subdued orange. And slowly, the sun chases away the darkness of the night until the bright cerulean sky stares down at you. There are a few clouds today.
The silence is calming, yes, but you also acknowledge that it is the calm before the storm. That you and Yoongi have agreed to make your last moments together serene before you both release your wrath.
“When I stare up at the heavens, I feel like I belong there,” Yoongi whispers.
You acknowledge his words with a soft hum.
“I used to stare up at the sky during sunrise every day when I was young. It was my escape, if you will,” he continues.
That, you don’t know how to answer. He continues anyway.
“All I ever fucking knew was to fend for myself,” he says. “When my father would beat my mother and my mother would fight back with empty soju bottles, I would stand and watch the blood, the glass shards, listen to the screams, the groans, the sounds of flesh and broken bones. Even at that age, I knew they were such lowlives.” There is a hint of disgust in his voice, yet his face remains neutral. “But I knew I was better than that. I knew I was worthy of more. And I knew I could get there.
“It was a long fucking climb to the top,” he says. “Every person I killed, every family I decimated, every associate I’ve buried in the dirt with my bare hands… They were the pawns I used to build myself up. People feared me. Isn’t that such a wonderful thing? Fear?”
“Of course,” you say, though curious about his sudden vulnerability. “Fear keeps others in check.”
“You and I are the same, Y/N.”
“I know,” you say. “There’s nothing we can’t sweet-talk our way out of. And we both knew from a very young age that we operated differently from everybody else. We’ve used that to our advantage. Though my sort of genius was never really appreciated.”
Yoongi hums. “How so?”
You hesitate for a split second, but decide it can’t hurt to divulge to Yoongi of your past—he knows of it anyway. Why not tell him the details yourself? He won’t live long to spread the tale, anyway. And besides, there’s something about the way he’s looking at you right now—full of trust, full of curiosity—that you can’t resist.
“I had an older brother,” you say. “And he was fucked up, is what you can say—never cared enough to learn the medical terms. My mother was supposed to abort him, but she didn’t, so they both became fucked from labor. She couldn’t walk ever again, and he was barely functional. I spent my childhood taking care of them. And in return, I never had nice things, never went to a nice school, never had anything to call mine… Every fucking cent my father made went toward my brother. I always knew I was fated for more.”
You’re ranting now, but it feels too euphoric to stop.
“Despite my family’s negligence towards me, I excelled in my shitty little school. After all, knowledge was the only thing I could control in my life. But we could never afford tutors like my friends did, and I never had time to study after school either because I was always scrubbing someone’s shit off the walls or changing a goddamn diaper. For fuck’s sake, I used to get on my hands and knees near the cash register at convenience stores to look for loose change so I could afford lunch for myself. And oftentimes, that would end up being my only meal of the day.”
Your face grows hot from the bitter memories.
“And you know the real kicker? All that fucking money spent on my brother went to waste in the end when he finally died. Only then was I able to convince my parents to move to Seoul so I could live the life I always deserved.”
You sigh, turning to the man who looks at you quite curiously, his dark eyes glimmering in the morning sun. You didn’t expect to share so much about yourself with him today, but it only seems right.
“Go on,” he whispers. Tell me everything, his eyes say—not because he’ll use this information against you, though he might, but because he is interested. Because he wants to know how you’ve suffered. Because he wants to listen. And if anyone in the world could understand your struggles, it would be him.
“I landed my first job at Goldman Sachs when I was only 18,” you say. “Unsurprisingly enough, I was more successful than people double my age. But even then, I knew I could do better. It was rather constraining to be working overtime in a cramped fucking cubicle. The pay was good, though, and I suppose that was when I acquired my taste for designer… It felt good to own things I knew others couldn’t afford.”
Yoongi smiles knowingly. He doesn’t need to say that he understands you—his 20 luxury cars speak for themselves.
“I would’ve stayed for maybe another month more,” you continue, “but there was this bum, this old fucking upper management bastard who took a liking to me. You know the type. The ‘come here sweetheart, let’s get drinks after work and maybe I’ll get you drunk enough to convince you to come over to the pathetic little room I rented for us in a love hotel and maybe you’ll fuck me better than my ol’ wife does and keep quiet about it because I have the power to fire you.’”
He grins at your dry sense of humor. “I take it that you killed him?”
“Of course,” you say curtly. “I quit my job first, built up an allegiance, then had them stab him in his office chair a few months later.”
“Sounds fitting. What a scumbag.”
“Hm.” It’s strange to hear him be empathetic, and as if you’re allergic to that very ability, you deflect: “As if you’re any better.”
“As if we’re any better,” he corrects smoothly. He’s always been so good at repartees—you’ll miss that. No one else has the guts to challenge you, especially not in a verbal fight. “Might I remind you that you now run my prostitution ring?”
You snort. “Oh, I’ll be running a lot more than just your three rings, Yoongi.”
He cocks his head. “You fight tooth and nail for what you want,” he says. “I understand. I do the same. Everything we have now, we’ve fought for.”
“Mm…” you hum in agreement. You hesitate before you say your next words. “Sometimes I wonder, though, Yoongi, if people like us will ever be satisfied.”
Yoongi’s eyes glimmer. “I think we both know the answer to that, Y/N.”
“It’s funny, I suppose. So much power and for what? We’ll never be happy with it because we always want more.”
“We know what it feels like to be helpless,” Yoongi says. “We’d rather be unhappy and powerful than not.”
“Mm…” He knows you too well. Or perhaps he knows himself well and, as an extension, knows you like the back of his hand, for you’re exactly like him. “From low lives to crime syndicate leaders... We know that playing nice won’t get us anywhere in this fucking twisted world.”
“And so we became twisted ourselves.”
You stare at him pointedly, playing with the hem of the sleeves of his jacket he let you borrow. “I wonder what you were like before you were insane.”
To your surprise, he laughs. “I wonder the same for you.” He cocks his head. “But something tells me we were always a little bit insane.”
“I suppose so.”
“Makes me wonder sometimes how life would’ve been different if we weren’t.”
You hum in deep thought. “We’d still be living in poverty, maybe turn to low-level crime, or fall in love, get married, and have kids like normal people do.”
“Ha,” Yoongi snorts. “Love, huh?”
“An outlandish concept,” you agree. “Perhaps an exception is self-love. I’ve always been incapable of the real thing.”
“I understand how that feels,” Yoongi says. He stares out into the garden, where the morning light graces his extravagant flora. For a while, it’s quiet. You let him think. You don’t have much to say anymore, having exhausted your emotional capacity for the day. It’s enough vulnerability for you. Then, Yoongi hums, breaking the still silence. “But if I could imagine what love is, it’d be this.”
You expected him to say something like that. If he said it to be manipulative, it would fail to work. Only because you’ve thought the same thing, just moments before he said it. It’s like looking in a mirror, really, the way his mind works. But this is how you know he’s telling the truth, that he really does think if he knew any better, your relationship with him could have been something so pure and so human. Because you agree. And you know he knows that.
None of that matters, though, and you won’t give him any more satisfaction tonight. Your hours of complying with his wills and wants are over. While he and you might agree this could be love in another universe, you also agree that you love yourselves more than anything else in this world. There is no space in your hearts for anyone else. It’s late morning now, and this new day will be the most pivotal of your existence—the day where you finally get what you want.
So, without another word, you take out a sleek ring box from your mini purse. Yoongi reaches to receive it. “A souvenir or a statement,” you tell him as he slips the ring box into the pocket of his slacks. “You can decide.”
“An honor,” he replies with a grin.
He orders a taxi for you and walks you out, a gentle hand on your back, guiding you. He grants you a respectable exit, despite what’s waiting for him in that box.
“Goodbye,” you tell him from the unrolling window of your taxi. “I say it now because I’ll never say it again.”
“Goodbye,” he agrees. His eyes twinkle as he gazes down at you. “From here on out, you’re on your own.”
The taxi driver speeds away, no doubt terrified of Yoongi and of your reputation for punishing workers without a sense of urgency. The car ride is mind-numbing. It’s finally sinking in that whatever grace Yoongi has shown you for years is now gone. He won’t feel anything if he kills you, even more so after that souvenir you’d given him of Hoseok’s tongue. But he’s without his inner circle of backstabbing, arrogant men. You imagine there’s only so much he can do. Yoongi would never ask anyone else to kill you; he respects you too much for that. The same goes for you, too. Only you are able to dethrone him, strip his empire from his clutches, all the while his lifeless body lies limp at your feet. Victory is so close you can almost taste it.
It’s not until you’re back in one of your luxurious condos that you notice you never gave him his jacket back. Bourbon and patchouli. It’s like he’s still with you.
Poison will always be your weapon of choice. It’s discreet and predictable, but most of all, it’s clean—no blood and guts and dismembered bodies spilled on the floor. Yoongi might think thallium is child’s play, but it’s really because he hasn’t studied its chemical properties. In reality, thallium poisoning can take many different forms, and you plan to walk him through every one of them.
Of course, Yoongi isn’t easily fooled, so you expect to put in extra work. You don’t mind. It’s a small price to pay for his kingdom. What you don’t expect is a sparkling diamond ring waiting for you on the dresser of your favorite dressing room in Gangnam. It’s placed neatly, right in the middle of the surface, though missing an enclosure. Judging from the size, the ring’s at least 20 carats, and matches the exquisite, rosy hue of your pink star diamond necklace. You’re no jeweler, but you know this is a piece worth tens of billions of won.
You pull out a pair of gloves from your dresser. Beautiful things like this ring are usually laced with poison, and you can’t accept Yoongi’s gifts anymore without suspicion. You examine it. The cut is flawless; there’s not a single impurity in this diamond. You’re sure it’s the best that money can buy. Meticulously, you conduct a swab test and conclude the ring isn’t poisoned. The gloves come off, and naturally, the ring slips onto your finger. You admire the dazzling thing on your hand.
From the reflection of your mirror, you watch Yoongi enter the room. He’s in a new, crisp suit now, and it looks like he took the time to get his hair done as well. You don’t turn around to greet him.
“I suppose I don’t have bodyguards anymore to stop unwanted guests,” you say, sliding open your drawer to take out your matching necklace.
“Am I really unwanted?” he asks.
“Hm.” You rest the heavy necklace in your hands. “Maybe not.”
“The ring looks good on you.”
“Thanks. Is it a proposal?”
Yoongi laughs, walking up behind you and taking the necklace from your hands. He clasps it around your neck, carefully watching your face through the mirror. “If you’d like.”
“A bribe, then,” you say, eyes narrowing as you gaze at his reflection. “It’s impossible to change my mind.”
“Oh, I know,” he replies, placing a casual hand on your dresser as he leans his arm. His expression is relaxed, so he must have no idea what you have in store for him. “Can’t I give you one last gift? As a friend?”
You scoff. “You told me yourself that I’m on my own.”
Yoongi stays silent, and you watch him through the mirror carefully, analyzing his every move. He looks confident—a little too confident. So much so that he thought to gift you a diamond ring, perhaps to sway you or soften whatever punishment he knows you have in store for him.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
Your blood runs cold.
“What?”
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” he repeats himself. Now, there’s a smug smirk on his face. You recognize it as the one he uses on his stupid, disposable minions before he orders someone else to do away with them. It’s the kind of look he reserves for scum of the earth, people who don’t even deserve to die by his hands. You feel a small burst of agitation within your chest.
“I know every thallium distributor in this damn peninsula,” Yoongi says softly. His eyebrows raise as if he’s testing you. “I didn’t even have to bribe them. One phone call, and they told me exactly how much you requested, when you requested, and where it’s all located.”
Your blood spikes hot. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You made sure of it. But the certainty in his voice gets under your skin. He’s bluffing—he has to be—but the smirk on his face makes you falter. You made sure to cover your tracks. But if anyone could dig up corpses you thought you’d buried, it’s Yoongi.
“Poison’s the poor man’s weapon, Y/N,” he says. “You never left her behind.”
He doesn’t need to spell it out. You’ve hidden your past in designer and diamonds, but he can still see the little girl who scraped change from convenience store floors. And worse, you can see her too. She stares back from the mirror, fragile and gaudy. It hits you too fast, too hard. You're just a lowlife claiming divinity. Even Yoongi sees behind your disguise. Sudden rage fills your body.
You can’t bear it. The mirror shatters under your fist. Glass rains down, a shard biting into your palm. You curl your fingers around it and turn.
The motion is instinct. You seize his shoulder, drive the jagged glass deep into his gut. You feel the give of flesh, the sudden bloom of red blood. His breath catches, but then so does yours.
Wet warmth spreads across your side. When you look down, you see a dark stain blossoming through your dress.
He got you too.
You lift your gaze, and he’s already watching you, laughing. “Messy.” Yoongi grunts, refusing to let go of the glass shard stuck in your gut. “Didn’t see it coming.” He twists the glass.
You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste of iron erupts in your mouth. “Neither did I.”
His laugh is cut short as you pull out the shard you stabbed him with, throwing it carelessly away. Blood spurts out of his wound, painting you with it.
The two of you wither on the floor, locked in each other’s violent embrace. “You look good in red,” he says with ragged breath.
You manage a smile. “You do too.”
Your pain numbs as you watch the light fade from his eyes. He’s still smirking, as if you’ve just made the final move in the game only the two of you understand.
When you take your last breath, all you can smell is bourbon and patchouli.
Two monsters are finally at rest.
They find you both dead in a puddle of dark blood, arms tangled as if neither could let go. The dead chairman carries a receipt for a 70 billion-won diamond ring in his pocket; the ring gleams on your finger. The mirror lies shattered between your bodies, reflecting nothing back.
Authorities call it a double homicide. The media calls it a lover’s quarrel. Whatever it was between you, it died the same way it lived: impossible to name.
⨰ a/n: i casually wrote this for two years while writing LOD. this fic was originally not meant to be published because it was my guilty pleasure project. but then i thought, why not post it? it's more content! the story is a lot darker and the MCs are more cutthroat than i usually write them, but it is a mafia fic after all! anyways hope you enjoyed bc i took much joy in writing yoongi and OC's unnameable dynamic heh
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