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DREAMS OF THE DAMNED (Zhenya X Taekjoo)

Russian crime lord Yevgeny Bogdanov is plagued by haunting dream invasions that erode his grip on reality. As his empire teeters, he uncovers a deadly conspiracy within his own ranks and enslaves Kwon Taekjoo, a dreamwalker in order to free himself. Their bond deepens into an unexpected romance-complicated by Taekjoo's secret mission to free a cunning, ancient entity trapped in the dreamscape. Loyalties blur as dreams twist into nightmares, and power, love, and fate collide in surreal chaos. Join Yevgeny and Taekjoo as they navigate through the webs of crime, power, betrayal and love to taste freedom at the expense of something bigger. (WELL, THIS STORY IS MY PRODUCT--LIKE, FRAGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION. READERS' DISCRETION IS ADVISED. INACCURACIES MAY FIND YOU ABOUT RUSSIAN, KOREAN AND GERMAN CULTURES SO, FEEL FREE TO EDUCATE ME.) THE MAIN CHARACTERS ARE ACCREDITED TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS. I AM JUST A FANFIC WRITER OBSSESSED WITH THEM. MANXMAN GOTHIC FICTION MAGICAL REALISM CRIME, VIOLENCE, 18+ STUFF YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

CHAPTER 1: THE DANCE OF NIGHTMARISH FUTURE

"Zhenya..."

The whisper slithered through the dark, curling in his ears like cigarette smoke. But it wasn't smoke—oh no. It was alive. A mass of shadow swam between the illuminated buildings of Moscow's skyline, gliding like serpents with wings, weaving through the air with an elegance too smooth to be natural. Each movement birthed a pulse of mirth—high-pitched, gleeful, then suddenly guttural. The laughter echoed in warped octaves, as if five voices argued for dominance from the same throat.

The man turned, twelve years old again. No suit. No penthouse. No power. Just a boy in his father's oversized coat, his knees scraped, and his soul trembling.

The city behind him cracked like porcelain. Skyscrapers splintered as though made of glass and ash. Light bled from their cores, swallowed into the widening mouth of a black void. Streetlights winked out. Cars dissolved into puddles of liquid time. The sky—once a brilliant cobalt—became a yawning abyss.

And in the midst of it, the shadow mass descended.

"No matter how much you try..."

The voice broke reality. It was nowhere and everywhere, carried by wind that didn't blow. The black tendrils coiled around him, slick and cold, caressing his skin like regret. He tried to move. His feet didn't obey. The air thickened into syrup.

Then it gripped him.

The shadows twisted around his neck with monstrous intimacy. The laughter pierced the silence again—needle-sharp, unrelenting. Each chuckle stabbed into his brain, laced with words. Words that cut deeper than bone.

"You will never be enough."

The voice warped, growing low and coarse. Familiar. His father's.

The boy's knees buckled. Tears rimmed his eyes, hot and shameful. He gasped, fingers clawing at the invisible coils crushing his throat. His legs kicked in air that felt like oil.

The boy choked out a scream—then the shadow released him.

He dropped, wheezing, to his knees. The blackness retreated with the laughter, now hollow and distant, echoing like the last words of a dying god.

Then—

Moscow shimmered in the early summer heat. Golden domes glinted in the morning sun, flanked by brutalist towers and old cathedrals locked in an eternal standoff. The streets bustled with caffeine and capitalism. It was about to be another Wednesday. The city, radiant and restless, marched on.

But within the penthouse atop Bolshaya Dmitrovka, time stood still.

Yevgeny Bogdanov sat bolt upright, pale as unspun silk, sweat glistening on his bare chest. The silk sheets clung to his body like bandages torn from a battlefield.

His breath came in shallow bursts. The remnants of the dream clung to his senses: a phantom weight on his neck, a child's weeping, a city that no longer stood.

He rubbed his temples, but the echo remained.

You will never be enough.

The sentence dug in like a shard of glass. He exhaled through gritted teeth and reached for the bedside control.

No lights.

Right. He had turned them off. The only source of light was the sunrays peeking through the flimsy curtains. Another foolish attempt to "retrain" himself. Darkness was supposed to soothe, not summon demons. But for the man with storm in his mind, darkness now bore teeth. The silence in the room wasn't real silence. It hummed, alive with something unseen. Always something watching. Never quite dreamt. Never quite real.

He slipped out from beneath the duvet, his feet kissing the cold marble floor. The chill grounded him. Momentarily.

And then—

The door slid open with a soft hiss, as if the universe had chosen the worst possible moment to interrupt.

Caesar Sergeyev entered with a smile only the well-rested and well-armed could carry. Six-foot-something of polished arrogance, wrapped in a designer suit the colour of storm clouds. Blond hair slicked back. Sharp jaw. Grey eyes like twin daggers resting in ice.

He moved like a man who'd never run from anything—because he hadn't.

"Morning," The man said with the tone of someone too cheerful to be trusted that morning. He cocked his head slightly, arms folded, assessing his boss with an unreadable smirk. "No sleep?"

Yevgeny offered him a sideways glare that said more than words ever could.

"What? Not even the pills worked?" Caesar's eyes widened theatrically, mock horror lighting up his face. "Mate, we've got the best doctor in Moscow—"

"Just go," The annoyed man interrupted, massaging his temple. "I need a moment."

But fate didn't care for moments.

A knock—gentle, hesitant. Like the tap of a bird's beak against glass.

Caesar waited, eyebrow raised, as if he wondered it was right to let the person in.

"Voyti vnutr," Yevgeny muttered.

The door creaked open.

A woman entered, her figure round and compact, wrapped in starched white. Her maid's uniform was spotless, but her hands trembled as if she carried a ghost in her apron. Her wrinkles were not from age, but from the stress the Bogdanovs inflicted upon her with their volatile personalities.

She spoke barely above a whisper. "Molodoy khozyain... Breakfast... is ready."

Her eyes flitted between the two men. Especially Caesar. She remembered yesterday. Everyone did. The master chef had been threatened with mutilation over a rare steak. Caesar had managed to talk him down, barely, citing that it was just like how Yevgeny liked.

The annoyed man looked at her as though seeing a statue crack. His face hardened.

"Speak loudly, you insolent—!"

"She's just doing her job," Caesar said lightly, swatting the air, a warning to the maid to leave quickly. "I'll be down in a minute," he added in Russian.

The woman nodded and practically fled.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Caesar turned.

"You had the dream again," he said, no longer grinning.

Yevgeny didn't reply. But the look in his eyes said everything.

He was still in it.

Still in that black city.

Still choking. He could still feel that mass of nothing but tar black gripping itself around his throat ever so slowly, while its sadistic laughter hit his ears like drums on Monday mornings.

Fifteen minutes after a breakfast that sat far too heavy in his gut, the sound of flesh being torn from bone echoed through the south wing of the Bogdanov estate.

A fist met skin — not with the crisp crack of a clean hit, but the sickening thud of something breaking. It was the sound of cartilage folding, bone yielding. Then came the sound that followed it — wet, guttural, pathetic — the sound of a grown man screaming not from fear, but from the dawning realisation that no amount of screaming would save him.

The dungeon was cold, cruel in its design. The walls were stone, dark with age and sin, and the light — weak and jaundiced — flickered from a single bulb that hung from the ceiling by exposed wire. It barely illuminated the horror within. But it was enough. Enough to see the blood.

Enough to see the man.

He hung inverted, suspended by rusted chains looped cruelly around his ankles. His body swayed slightly, twitching with every sob, every cough. His face was no longer a face. It was a canvas of violence — swollen, distorted, a mask of purple, black and red. Where once had been a nose, there was now pulp. His mouth hung open as if permanently in mid-scream, stained with blood and saliva.

He whimpered something — words lost in the bubbling in his throat. It might have been a denial. Or a prayer. Or both. Or neither. It didn't matter anymore.

Yevgeny didn't speak. He just struck again.

The man's head snapped sideways with a meaty crack. Blood sprayed from his lips in a slow, almost beautiful arc — like wine flung in ceremony. Then came the cough — rattling, wet, choking. And then the sobs. Childlike. Desperate.

"S—sir, trust me... I am no—"

Another punch silenced him, shattering the sentence into a garbled yelp. This time Yevgeny didn't look away when the man's teeth cut into his own cheek. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth in thick strands. The man convulsed, twitching in his chains.

"You had all the time in the world to spit the truth yesterday," a voice said calmly from the gloom.

Caesar stood to one side, untouched by the shadows that clung to every inch of the chamber. The blond man, elegant as ever, appeared utterly at ease — hands clasped behind his back, tailored suit untouched, his pale eyes locked on the scene before him with the cool interest of a man watching a play he'd seen many times before.

"And now, you get what you deserve," he said, voice low, every syllable a threat in velvet.

Caesar didn't smile. He rarely did when blood was being spilled. Not out of pity. But because he savouring it. Deep down, under all the polish, he was as brutal as Yevgeny — perhaps even worse. He simply wore his cruelty better.

Yevgeny's chest heaved as he stepped closer, his knuckles split and glistening with red. His face was unreadable, save for the thin smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. Not joy. Not satisfaction. Something more primal. A hollow kind of pleasure that didn't come from dominance, but from necessity — like scratching at a phantom itch only he could feel.

He leaned in, voice a low, menacing whisper.

"And now, I want you to live on until my anger cools down. So hang tight, yeah?"

The man whimpered, shaking his head violently, eyes wide with animal terror. His body trembled, swinging slightly in his bonds. But Yevgeny didn't see him anymore. He was somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

The next punch came without warning. Followed by another. And another.

He was no longer hitting a man. He was hitting the voice.

You will never be enough.

He was hitting his father. He was hitting the dream. He was trying to bleed the nightmares out through someone else's skin.

The blows became frantic. Mechanical. Driven by rhythm more than rage. Like a man trying to drum out a tune only he could hear — one composed of screams, of broken bones and splintered pride.

And still, the laughter lingered in his head. Twisting. Mocking.

Only when his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps did he finally stop. Blood dripped from his fingers, staining the silk handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. The room spun slightly. Pain lanced behind his right eye, sharp and sudden. A migraine. Or something worse. Something old. Something incurable.

The man — the betrayer — no longer moved. He hung limp, half-dead, a ruined effigy of deceit and failure. His soul, if it hadn't already fled, was hiding deep in some corner of his mind, praying for unconsciousness.

Yevgeny stared at him for a moment longer, his own heart still racing, before turning away.

"Handle it," he rasped to Caesar. His voice was hoarse, hollow. "Find the others."

Caesar gave a small, obedient nod, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on Yevgeny's back as the crime lord stalked out of the dungeon, his breath still ragged, steps unsteady.

There was something in the way he moved — not just fatigue, not just fury. A tilt in his posture. A weight in his stride. Like a man walking beneath something far heavier than his reputation.

Caesar's gaze lingered just a moment too long.

And in that silence, where only the flicker of the light and the drip of blood could be heard, a faint echo whispered from the shadows beyond:

You will never be enough.

Somewhere in Moscow, a dark-skinned man scrubbed at a stubborn coffee stain on table six with far more resentment than the situation really deserved, muttering apologies in heavily accented Russian that dripped with genuine guilt.

The man in the bespoke navy trousers sat stiffly, legs awkwardly splayed to avoid the rapidly spreading cappuccino blot that would definitely leave a mark. Across from him, his equally fashionable date glared down at her once-lovely red summer dress, now an unfortunate canvas of dairy and bitterness.

"Real sorry," Taekjoo mumbled, his rag doing less wiping and more artistic smearing. "Very... aesthetic now, yes?"

The woman shot him a look like he'd spat on Tolstoy's grave.

It had been a normal morning. Painfully normal, in fact — until the moment it wasn't. The Talk of The Town, mid-tier café with aspirations of class it couldn't quite reach, bustled with the usual clinks of dishes, bursts of laughter, and the faint background music that tried far too hard to be Parisian-chic. The scent of cinnamon pastries and burnt espresso lingered in the air, thick as the judgement Taekjoo now felt pressing in from every direction.

He'd been doing what he always did — juggling tables, reciting the specials with his signature flair, and trying (failing) to flirt his way through the shift. Three tables deep into his charm offensive, and he was already regretting waking up.

"Baryshnya," he said with the suavity of a man who definitely practised in the mirror, "we've got all the good stuff. But for beautiful ladies like you, I'd recommend the beef stroganoff — hearty, rich — followed by our syrniki, sweet and elegant. Kvass on the side. You'll leave looking even more divine, if that's possible."

The two pastel-dressed women blinked at him like he'd just offered them a plate of broken glass. One of them sniffed.

Taekjoo cringed internally.

Strike one.

It always came down to this: no matter how much effort he put in, how many smiles he faked into reality, he never quite blended in. The Russian waitstaff could flirt and flatter without being dismissed. Him? He was too much. Too bright. Too foreign. Too... Korean.

Or, as Maya liked to say: "Tone it down, Taekjoo. This isn't LA."

To which he'd always retort, "Well guess what? In two or three months, I will be back in America, and you'll be begging for my autograph when I'm famous."

Maya would just roll her eyes and say, "You'll be late to your own fame."

But none of that mattered in the seconds that followed.

His eyes flicked upward — and froze.

The tray. The stumble. The arc of brown liquid flying like war paint through the air.

Maya.

She was walking toward table six, balancing her tray like it was a sacred artefact. Her petite frame moving like a new born snake in water. Her hand — barely trembling. But he saw it. He saw it.

The crash. The stain. The shrieks. The shame.

He saw it. Clear as day.

"No, no, no—"

He lunged to intercept — only to catch her elbow at the exact wrong angle.

And it all happened in slow motion, to Taekjoo's regret. The tray pitched. Coffee launched. Cups shattered like glass grenades. Hot liquid splattered across linen, flesh, and reputation. A woman shrieked. A man cursed. Maya gasped. And Taekjoo...

He stood frozen, staring at his own hands like they'd just betrayed him.

"Shit—Maya—I saw—"

But she was already bowing, apologising, doing damage control like a soldier under fire.

Mr. Volyenka—the Manager, burst from the back like an enraged bull, bald head glistening, cheeks red with fury. His bellow targeted Taekjoo with sniper precision. Everyone turned to look. Every. Single. Customer.

"Oh, man," Taekjoo muttered, eyes wide with dread. "Not again."

____

Outside, the sun was too bright. The kind of aggressive summer light that made your soul squint.

Taekjoo sat on the curb behind the café, a half-unwrapped sandwich on his lap and his pride slowly evaporating in the heat. The bread was slightly damp, and the lettuce had given up long ago. He chewed mechanically, not tasting a thing.

Traffic hummed beyond the alley, uncaring. Somewhere nearby, a dog wandered past without so much as a glance. Even the strays had more dignity today.

He leaned back against the warm brick, staring at the pavement as if it might suddenly open up and swallow him whole. Honestly, that wouldn't be so bad. He'd just been chewed out — the silver lining was that he'd only screwed up once today, which was better than most days. The downside? He had no idea if Mr. Volyenka was planning to keep him around much longer.

It was always like this.

He'd see something. He'd try to stop it. It would happen anyway.

Like fate was a rubber band. No matter how far he stretched it, it always snapped back — often harder than before. Sometimes he wondered if he was just cursed. Or perhaps the universe had the world's worst sense of humour.

The sandwich slipped from his fingers and hit the concrete with a soft, tragic plop. He watched it land. Didn't even flinch. Then, faintly — like breath on glass, or a thought too deep to be his own — a voice spoke:

"It's not the future you're seeing," it whispered, curling around his mind. "It's the dream choosing its ending."

He blinked. The words rang strange and sharp, like a bell tolling from a place he couldn't name.

Not the future. The dream choosing.

"What does that even mean?" he muttered to the dog, who didn't reply.

He sighed and rubbed his face, smearing a streak of mayo across his cheek.

Fantastic.

"Great. I'm hearing voices, ruining lives, and I smell like sour milk and regret. Can't wait to tell my therapist."

"Oh wait, can't even afford a therapist in this economy. Guess I'll just chill with Maya."

He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his apron and dignity. Back inside, Maya was probably explaining things. The manager would yell. Again. He was the kind of person who would hold a grudge against a child. Taekjoo cracked his fingers, ready to profusely apologise again, hoping to keep this job for another two or three months.

Still, he squared his shoulders and stepped back toward the door. Maybe fate was laughing. But that didn't mean he had to give it the satisfaction of crying.

Not yet, anyway.

#bl manhwa #yaoi bl #codename anastasia #passion #roses and champagne #Yevgeny Bogdanov #Zhenya #Kwon Taekjoo #Ilay Riegrow #Jeong Taeui #Jeong Jaeui #Caesar Sergeyev #Jeong Leewon #yaoi smut #korean fanfic

DREAMS OF THE DAMNED (Zhenya X Taekjoo)

CHAPTER 1: THE DANCE OF NIGHTMARISH FUTURE

"Zhenya..."

The man turned, twelve years old again. No suit. No penthouse. No power. Just a boy in his father's oversized coat, his knees scraped, and his soul trembling.

And in the midst of it, the shadow mass descended.

"No matter how much you try..."

Then it gripped him.

"You will never be enough."

The voice warped, growing low and coarse. Familiar. His father's.

The boy's knees buckled. Tears rimmed his eyes, hot and shameful. He gasped, fingers clawing at the invisible coils crushing his throat. His legs kicked in air that felt like oil.

The boy choked out a scream—then the shadow released him.

He dropped, wheezing, to his knees. The blackness retreated with the laughter, now hollow and distant, echoing like the last words of a dying god.

Then—

But within the penthouse atop Bolshaya Dmitrovka, time stood still.

Yevgeny Bogdanov sat bolt upright, pale as unspun silk, sweat glistening on his bare chest. The silk sheets clung to his body like bandages torn from a battlefield.

His breath came in shallow bursts. The remnants of the dream clung to his senses: a phantom weight on his neck, a child's weeping, a city that no longer stood.

He rubbed his temples, but the echo remained.

You will never be enough.

The sentence dug in like a shard of glass. He exhaled through gritted teeth and reached for the bedside control.

No lights.

He slipped out from beneath the duvet, his feet kissing the cold marble floor. The chill grounded him. Momentarily.

And then—

The door slid open with a soft hiss, as if the universe had chosen the worst possible moment to interrupt.

He moved like a man who'd never run from anything—because he hadn't.

"Morning," The man said with the tone of someone too cheerful to be trusted that morning. He cocked his head slightly, arms folded, assessing his boss with an unreadable smirk. "No sleep?"

Yevgeny offered him a sideways glare that said more than words ever could.

"What? Not even the pills worked?" Caesar's eyes widened theatrically, mock horror lighting up his face. "Mate, we've got the best doctor in Moscow—"

"Just go," The annoyed man interrupted, massaging his temple. "I need a moment."

But fate didn't care for moments.

A knock—gentle, hesitant. Like the tap of a bird's beak against glass.

Caesar waited, eyebrow raised, as if he wondered it was right to let the person in.

"Voyti vnutr," Yevgeny muttered.

The door creaked open.

She spoke barely above a whisper. "Molodoy khozyain... Breakfast... is ready."

The annoyed man looked at her as though seeing a statue crack. His face hardened.

"Speak loudly, you insolent—!"

"She's just doing her job," Caesar said lightly, swatting the air, a warning to the maid to leave quickly. "I'll be down in a minute," he added in Russian.

The woman nodded and practically fled.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Caesar turned.

"You had the dream again," he said, no longer grinning.

Yevgeny didn't reply. But the look in his eyes said everything.

He was still in it.

Still in that black city.

Still choking. He could still feel that mass of nothing but tar black gripping itself around his throat ever so slowly, while its sadistic laughter hit his ears like drums on Monday mornings.

Fifteen minutes after a breakfast that sat far too heavy in his gut, the sound of flesh being torn from bone echoed through the south wing of the Bogdanov estate.

Enough to see the man.

He whimpered something — words lost in the bubbling in his throat. It might have been a denial. Or a prayer. Or both. Or neither. It didn't matter anymore.

Yevgeny didn't speak. He just struck again.

"S—sir, trust me... I am no—"

"You had all the time in the world to spit the truth yesterday," a voice said calmly from the gloom.

"And now, you get what you deserve," he said, voice low, every syllable a threat in velvet.

He leaned in, voice a low, menacing whisper.

"And now, I want you to live on until my anger cools down. So hang tight, yeah?"

The next punch came without warning. Followed by another. And another.

He was no longer hitting a man. He was hitting the voice.

You will never be enough.

He was hitting his father. He was hitting the dream. He was trying to bleed the nightmares out through someone else's skin.

The blows became frantic. Mechanical. Driven by rhythm more than rage. Like a man trying to drum out a tune only he could hear — one composed of screams, of broken bones and splintered pride.

And still, the laughter lingered in his head. Twisting. Mocking.

Yevgeny stared at him for a moment longer, his own heart still racing, before turning away.

"Handle it," he rasped to Caesar. His voice was hoarse, hollow. "Find the others."

Caesar gave a small, obedient nod, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on Yevgeny's back as the crime lord stalked out of the dungeon, his breath still ragged, steps unsteady.

There was something in the way he moved — not just fatigue, not just fury. A tilt in his posture. A weight in his stride. Like a man walking beneath something far heavier than his reputation.

Caesar's gaze lingered just a moment too long.

And in that silence, where only the flicker of the light and the drip of blood could be heard, a faint echo whispered from the shadows beyond:

You will never be enough.

"Real sorry," Taekjoo mumbled, his rag doing less wiping and more artistic smearing. "Very... aesthetic now, yes?"

The woman shot him a look like he'd spat on Tolstoy's grave.

The two pastel-dressed women blinked at him like he'd just offered them a plate of broken glass. One of them sniffed.

Taekjoo cringed internally.

Strike one.

Or, as Maya liked to say: "Tone it down, Taekjoo. This isn't LA."

To which he'd always retort, "Well guess what? In two or three months, I will be back in America, and you'll be begging for my autograph when I'm famous."

Maya would just roll her eyes and say, "You'll be late to your own fame."

But none of that mattered in the seconds that followed.

His eyes flicked upward — and froze.

The tray. The stumble. The arc of brown liquid flying like war paint through the air.

Maya.

She was walking toward table six, balancing her tray like it was a sacred artefact. Her petite frame moving like a new born snake in water. Her hand — barely trembling. But he saw it. He saw it.

The crash. The stain. The shrieks. The shame.

He saw it. Clear as day.

"No, no, no—"

He lunged to intercept — only to catch her elbow at the exact wrong angle.

He stood frozen, staring at his own hands like they'd just betrayed him.

"Shit—Maya—I saw—"

But she was already bowing, apologising, doing damage control like a soldier under fire.

"Oh, man," Taekjoo muttered, eyes wide with dread. "Not again."

____

Outside, the sun was too bright. The kind of aggressive summer light that made your soul squint.

Traffic hummed beyond the alley, uncaring. Somewhere nearby, a dog wandered past without so much as a glance. Even the strays had more dignity today.

It was always like this.

He'd see something. He'd try to stop it. It would happen anyway.

"It's not the future you're seeing," it whispered, curling around his mind. "It's the dream choosing its ending."

He blinked. The words rang strange and sharp, like a bell tolling from a place he couldn't name.

Not the future. The dream choosing.

"What does that even mean?" he muttered to the dog, who didn't reply.

He sighed and rubbed his face, smearing a streak of mayo across his cheek.

Fantastic.

"Great. I'm hearing voices, ruining lives, and I smell like sour milk and regret. Can't wait to tell my therapist."

"Oh wait, can't even afford a therapist in this economy. Guess I'll just chill with Maya."

Still, he squared his shoulders and stepped back toward the door. Maybe fate was laughing. But that didn't mean he had to give it the satisfaction of crying.

Not yet, anyway.

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