young god | jjk
genre ↠ mafia au, undercover jjk, mafia!reader ; angst (?)
pairing ↠ jeon jungkook, female reader
warnings ↠ violence, mentions and usage of drugs, mentions of illegal activities such as human trafficking, vulgar language, eventual smut
word count ↠ 4,301
description ↠ Jeon Jungkook had been one of the world’s top special-operations agent inside the country’s secret service – included in a mission launched to infiltrate Korea’s biggest and highly feared mob empire, your empire. He had been set to catch a bullet in the head for his country and its people if it had entailed the shambles of your kingdom; but what he had not anticipated was to take a bullet to the heart for you, as he finds himself fighting for an ill-fated love he knew was doomed from the very start.
"The one thing about a royalty is that we love to feast. Too bad you're the sacrificial lamb."
one | ongoing
“Jeon.”
The slight nick on the edge of the hardwood holds his gaze captive – compact Italian oak amply glossed to glint beneath the suspension lamps. Had he been in the right state of mind, Jeon Jungkook would have already been on his feet, an arm extended in a fold over the other atop his neat Tom Ford ensemble in anticipation to pay his respect to his senior in a form of a bow – much to the chagrin of the latter who countlessly tells the younger not to bother because, friends don’t exactly bow ninety degrees to each other, do they? However, such is not the case as he stays rooted on his seat, unknowing of the shadow that looms over his desk. His eyes have been trained on his work computer for the past two hours and a quarter, as soon as he had stepped foot in the building with a lone thought standing out amidst millions in his head.
Something is missing, one that he knows would be of a little detail, negligible at first glance but one that is likely to be of great gravity to the case.
As he skims over the report of the day’s operation, his stomach tightens at the thought of the casualty count the report holds.
A small 24 written in one section of the paper, branded in bold red ink. Twenty-four lives had been unjustly taken without so much as a bat of an eye nor a remote indication of contempt.
Jeon Jungkook is a man of his words and particularly, his promises. He had planned the team’s incursion on the filthy brothel for months, weeks and weeks of thorough run-throughs of blueprints and raid schemes. And yet, as it turned out, it’s all flushed down the gutter in mere minutes, leaving the department to chase after their own tails once more, all ends tied in a loose blunder.
They had disposed of the instigating handler, a pudgy man of fifty-three named Kang Sojin, the man as their files had read to be disgustingly trafficking minors from overseas, snatched no doubts from the streets and smuggled for sex. Minors. Children. The underground brothel, in disguise of a churchof all things, had been crawling of it, men and women of all ages, lined at the counter waiting to be picked as if they were meat. Jungkook has a strong stomach, one that had held in sheer terror; but one look at a kid barely ten, dragged in a room with a thirty-year-old, his stomach curled and he had threatened to heave.
He knows that taking down Kang Sobin is not an inch, not even a fraction of it, close to taking down every single illegal prostitution ring in the city, much less the country; but taking down one was better than none, at least. Kang Sobin had been a mere dirt on the nail of one finger, a mere pawn used in the game of chess that can easily be replaced – a position that Jungkook is certain had already been filled the minute the bullet had been lodged in between Kang’s eyebrows.
Instead of a bow, Jungkook spreads the photos on the desk, cutting right in the center of the chase. “Somebody was there. In the brothel. Someone higher than Kang in position, significant enough to power thirteen more men than what we had initially anticipated. We guessed it had been the son, or Kim himself, but these pictures—”
His pointer finger descended on the older man’s forehead before pressing on the younger Kim’s chest on the glossy paper, “—clearly show that that had not been the case. Kim had been in China and his son in Vietnam the moment the operation was green-lighted. So, who exactly was that person everybody else just abandoned Kang for the moment bullets flew?”
“Higher than Kang? The asshole held a position that might as well be next to Kim himself,” Seokjin scoffs, “He’s a trusted man of Kim senior and spearheaded most of their filthy business in the vicinity of Seoul, so how is that? Surely, Kim’s men are not turning on him?”
The younger only shakes his head, tongue pressing against the wall of his left cheek, “It’s definitely not that. His men wouldn’t just risk losing their heads for a mere rebellion for Kim’s right-hand man. He would have them dead, heads on a silver platter - quite literally - for the dramatics of it before they even have the time to consider a revolt.”
Jungkook hates the catatonic silence that ensues save for the bothersome static hum of the digital clock that is positioned at the head of the door of his office – not that he needs one as he mostly goes on operations that warrants the use of guns, so having been presented with a desk and a leather office chair within the grey walls of his said office had definitely been one for a huge laugh. “It was definitely someone who possessed power that’s equal, if not more, to Kim’s son.”
“A dark horse, then?” Kim Seokjin does not spare a glance on the empty leather chairs that offer their function as he heads straight for Jeon’s desk, bottoms pressing against the edge as he sits comfortably.
Jungkook had always wondered, still does, out of pure curiosity of course, on what goes on daily in the head of his chief officer – because in contrast to the diurnal activities that comes with the job of being an agent, Kim Seokjin is too much of an optimist and a self-proclaimed pacifist to be perched in the middle of it all. Not that he was underestimating him, no, because eerie as it may seem, Kim Seokjin remains as such amidst cases that would have even Jeon Jungkook on his knees.
“Perhaps.”
The fact that Geum Yong Pa is, yet again, one step ahead of the game he supposedly created has him derailed off the tracks he thinks had been firmly established. In case comparison, Jeon Jungkook had previously expected the Korean syndicate to be merely an ingrown to the Russian Triads case they had a year prior, but they had clearly undervalued it to be some illiberal gang activity when it had been in fact a steady-growing multinational cartel – one that has grown enough to become a nearly invincible empire with numerous hole-and-corner connections and influence that no doubt bestowed them impunity in the present.
Geum Yong Pa is the biggest, most dreaded syndicate empire within the country, rising above undeserved titles such as ‘gangs’ which are all under their hold, with numerous powerful roots that extends to international nations but mainly to Southeast Asian countries, Russia, Europe, and the United States. They are known for their wide expanse of illegal activities; extortion, theft, and fraud carried out by smaller street groups through burglary, embezzlement, and scams. Underneath such are the smuggling of untaxed products and bribery of corrupt law enforcers and public officials with administrative and judicial roles, because really, who would deny a monthly fat paycheck quadruple the original? With a strong connection to the inner circle of a corrupt government, Geum Yong Pa is untouchable.
Along such comes the crimes Geum Yong Pa is truly known for: white-collar crimes, drug trafficking, human trafficking – under which are slavery, human smuggling, and prostitution – but most of all, drugs, violence and murder; one that expresses their power and authority for retribution to competition, not that there are many that dared.
“Is there an operation issued yet?”
Kim Seokjin is a confused mess when he looks over at the younger man, fingers stilling on the papers it's skimming. “For what?”
“Geum Yong Pa.”
At this, the older man stills. He shakes his head, lower lip being trapped between two rows of teeth, “It’s still under my inspection.”
Seokjin then places the paper down on the table once more, finding the conversation to be jumping over the fine line of serious and sensitive.
Pushing himself off the desk, Jungkook finds his senior to be leaning over the table by the heels of his hand, “If an operation is to be released, it will be dangerous, Jeon. This is a whole empire we’re talking about, one that held the Triads which we barely survived. Now, with all that that we know, it will be much bigger than that. It will take months – years even to just infiltrate their lowest circle and climbing to the top will be much harder. And I think you know that there is only one man in this damned team that would be capable of even trying it. The only man I think would even have the chance of surviving, no matter how slim.”
The last sentence has been said so quietly that Jungkook stiffens in his seat, the implication behind the statement clearly not missed, “One man’s life would be worth a million of others.”
Seokjin’s fingers spontaneously fumbles on his tie clip. “Even if it’s yours?”
“More so if it’s mine.”
Seokjin studies the younger man for a moment before glancing at the files in his hand. One signature is all it needs – his, precisely – and Jeon Jungkook will be taken under the wing of Park Kwanghui, a year in the unit’s ‘mob academy’ specializing in mobster tendencies because where else can he get adequate instructions on how to hit ground running with seasoned murders and dealers? With the education – that he’d like to gladly skip on but can’t – comes the rigorous training, which in fact would actually, in comparison to what he will be going through after the mere drills, by the hands of Kim Jinho would feel heavenly.
Park Kwanghui had been a Geum Yong Pa man, as he still is albeit undercover, with a position that gives him enough knowledge about the Kims. But after certain circumstances – as to which he is left with a beheaded wife and a blown-up family, he had sworn reprisal by pledging allegiance to the organization, providing just enough information to keep the backstage operation going.
“I’ll let you know,” With that, Kim Seokjin is walking out of his office, a pair of pursed lips behind the Styrofoam cup of the acidic office coffee that tastes nothing but black tar.
Jeon Jungkook is dedicated, the man knows that, his indifference and nonchalance in jeopardizing his own life in exchange for the peril of Kim Jinho’s empire is a massive proof of it. Yet, Kim Seokjin also knows that the kid’s devotion runs far more personal than just work. It is certainly beyond that.
Seokjin reckons that to him, the reason the operation release of the case is hard to let out is because of the biased reason that Jeon Jungkook is not just a mere agent, to him anyway, no. The kid has grown to become someone the older man considers to be a brother, or whatever term it was that entailed caring for him.
He can still remember when Jungkook had first taken shelter to the unit when the kid had been aged twelve at most, with Seokjin edging close to legality; mere months since he had started to work for the organization. The ghost of innocence that had coated the doe-eyed boy when the glass doors of the elevator had revealed him – wrapped in a wool blanket that they had used to comfort case survivors, his pouted lips quivering as the cold air of the headquarters engulfed his shivering wet frame – was something that the boy had traded along the way in exchange for an identity of a man who did not even blink as he pulled the trigger; that of a man who’s willing to risk his blood be painted on the streets than let his country be pulled under the shackles of Geum Yong Pa.
It is in Kim Seokjin’s knowledge what the case that is stashed somewhere in his office entails – it's a danger for Jeon Jungkook, and yet he cannot deny that that is what exactly the latter thrived on.
The elder cannot suppress the whirlwind of emotions, feelings of dread and the fear of the unknown the very moment the younger is to enter the circle of Geum Yong Pa. His identity will not be that of the coffee-addicted, villain-hunter Agent Jeon anymore. He would be Jeon Jungkook, a twenty-three-year old Geum Yong Pa man in the palms of Kim Jinho, a rabbit thrown in the middle of the jungle run by blood-thirsty lions.
He knows that Jungkook will be able to go in. He is Jeon Jungkook after all.
And Seokjin is afraid that once he’s in, there would be no way out.
Geum Yong Pa is a one-way destination with no return ticket. A one-way destination to hell.
He trusts Jungkook in doing the task, of course, the man is one of the very best for a reason – the plaques in the younger’s office realizes that. But he also cannot deny the brains of the adversary – the very one that had outsmarted the latest brothel bust lead by Jeon himself. If they are to go through with the operation, they will be fighting a battle blind-folded.
Yet, Seokjin thought, as he grips the expensive stylus, this is exactly what agents like him are for – they need no deliverance, they embody it for people who possess no power.
With his personal sentiments shoved to the very back of his brain, he presses his pen against the paper.
He shifts on his seat just as he finishes his signature with a strong point at the end of the curling scribble, eyes dragging away from the files spread out on his desk towards the unhinged entrance of his office where Kim Namjoon stands, no mere words needed to further his frantic eyes, “This is about the brothel bust. Agent Choi.”
In the mere mention of the still-missing agent, Seokjin is pushing himself off his chair, coat long forgotten on its back as he makes his way to Jeon’s office. Surely, the kid will not want to miss this.
Jungkook barely spares the slightest of attention to the frenzied tap Kim Seokjin leaves on his door as he passes by before he’s on his own feet, hot on his superior’s tail as they make their way to the board room – where they usually hold meetings if cases are urgent enough to be in need of a talk-through as everyone else is seated on the oval mahogany table that sits in the middle of the square room.
Jungkook takes notice that there is nobody else surrounded by the sound-proofed walls, save for himself, Seokjin, Kim Namjoon, and two of his team members that had been in the bust approximately three hours beforehand – Jihoon and Mina. In the middle of the table sits a black rectangular box, no written or printed hints attached as to where it could have possibly come from save for a small white envelope sitting atop the object.
“I left my lunchbox at our apartment—” Namjoon starts to speak and at this, Jungkook sees Seokjin throwing a pointed glare at the other, “–and on the way back, Sanghoon, the building keeper—“ He clarifies, “He gave it to me. It’s on your name, Jin, he said somebody dropped it for you.”
If anybody else mentions ‘Jin’, the chief officer would have been livid but it’s Namjoon, and the man has an extremely soft spot for the spectacled tall man, hence the ring on his left hand. Jungkook moves to prop his hip against the edge of the table, the position offering him a closer distance to the box.
“Was this inspected already?”
Namjoon nods, “The Security department wouldn’t say anything about it though. Only that it’s safe but they didn’t dare touch it further.”
Jungkook moves to pluck the envelope from the lid of the box, placing it on Seokjin’s hand. His eyebrows twitching, furrowing as he reads, “’Precious Choi Youngsik had a valuable tongue indeed’ what is that supposed to mean?” Seokjin drops the envelope on the table, pulling the box closer to the edge, finger delicately moving to lift the lid.
In the middle of the box, in the middle of a velvet cushion lies a tongue – a freshly cut one, Jungkook concludes as he eyes the wet blood the flesh sits on; red and thick. Glancing at the envelope, he plucks it from the table, fingers skimming through the surface before it pauses on a certain corner, “Give me a phone.” Jihoon slides his on the table, already having an idea as to what Jungkook might be on so he had already turned on the light of the device. As Jungkook hovers the light over the smooth paper, the hidden symbol – that of a golden dragon – stands out from the normal white hue, a perfect faint glimmer of gold, “Just as I had thought.”
From the side, Mina scoffs, “Fucking Choi. May his tongue-less body rot in hell.”
As there is goodness in humanity, there is the bad – immoral, unlawful, and evil; both coexisting that one precisely cannot solely be without the other – balance, if one must. Just as it is depicted in the yin and the yang, two opposite yet purely complementary energies that are interdependent, the ancient symbol of harmony serves as a reminder of the duality of life – that in every evil there is goodness, and beyond certain goodness lies wickedness somewhere within.
There are those who go such great lengths to achieve deeds in the name of goodness – to do good to others regardless of their respective places in the social hierarchy and economic status, persons who are only wishful of nothing else but to be able to help those in need, the kind of people who promote and foster the well-being of others even before themselves. However, as there are many philanthropists in the vast space of the entire societal crowd, the opposite of such are as abundant; the kind of people who, very much unlike the former, go great lengths to inflict harm not only to the welfare of others but to society as a whole.
Human persons are given the privilege to have their own choices – to each their own, they say – gifted with the gift of counsel to discern the right from the wrong and judgment, to know what to rightly act upon if viewed through Christian doctrine. As those who chose to aid in charities and volunteer works, there are those who choose a different path, those who commit crimes for their own living and survival – a life for a life, in which one dies in order for another to prosper – because what some deems as choices are luxurious privileges not everyone can afford.
“Three minutes. They’re going to be here in three minutes.” Resigned, he leans against the cushion – fingers mindlessly twitching against the grey material, uncut nails slightly dragging across the diamonds encrusted on the leather. A streak of red light reveals a portion of his face, enough to highlight the shimmer of the thin layer of sweat he sports; every pound of bass against the wall of the disguised building a church bell that signifies every second that approaches his death sentence, “Tell Master Kim it was a pleasure to work for him.”
“Kang Sojin,” The utterance of those two words are kind yet a contrast to the evident drop of silence in the dimly-lit room, “a name highly praised. Let me tell you, my father does not usually play favorites but I could definitely say you are one of his. You’ve done your duties exceptionally well, and it’s a pity it has come to this. Daddy really does love his theatrics, doesn’t he?”
“I was starting to believe you were a myth, but indeed, you’re real – an ace, a phantom gracing me with its rightful presence before my death.” An airy laugh escapes the mouth of the executed man, “But of course, he does.”
“Too bad you became his sacrificial lamb.” The sound of a door being unhinged is loud then, despite the loud music, “I trust it has gone as planned?”
A nod is given, confident despite the ghost of death hanging above his head, “Those who are left upstairs are…take-aways, all twenty-four of them, they won’t be of any use to Master Kim. The rest of the hundreds are on the plane halfway to Mexico by now, ready to be transferred to Cancun by dawn.”
A thunder of gunshots is heard as the man sighs with a roll of his eyes, murderous footsteps and yelling echoing right after.
“Your family will be in good hands, Kang. My father does not break his promises.”
“I know you will,” As if he has all the time in the world, he smiles, graciously leaning deeper into the cushions, “Agents are a pain in the ass. Now, by all means—” He lifts a hand, gesturing to himself, “—I’d rather die by the hands of a Kim than theirs."
Loyalty and integrity – two things your father prides his people on.
No more words are needed to be said for the trigger to be pulled, a golden bullet embeds itself to the walls of Kang Sojin’s skull, right in the middle of his forehead – a dark hole that now oozes of thick blood, dark and richly red similar to the walls of the establishment – just as the glass wall breaks with a strike of a bullet from the outside, the tiny object barely hitting the glass table, tiny sparks shattering into hundreds of pieces.
Pairs of feet are quick to move at the sight of a slight tear on your left cuff. You wave them off. “It’s fine.”
It is with a scoff that you hand the gun over to an older man who receives the weapon with a graceful bow, “
This is what the people of our country pay for? Shitty operation agents with dysfunctional aims? Shame.”
“We’ll make sure to take care of the rest. Master Kim himself has requested your immediate presence.”
Oh, you always have time for daddy dearest.
With a flippant wave, you walk towards the hidden elevator, “Save your time and yourself a bullet. Let them think it was them who killed Kang.” And then you’re gone – engulfed by the metallic doors before you start humming along to the tune of Duke Ellington’s Satin Doll, a cheerful classic jazz that is an immense disparity to the thunderous breaking of glass and the murderous sounds of bullets being fired on the other side of the silver doors.
Idiots.
Just then, your phone rings and you have no hesitation in picking it up.
“Enjoying Ho Chi Minh, dear brother?”
“Want to fly out here for dinner?” You laugh, slightly weary and half-breath that reflects the accumulation of today’s errands, “Ooh, I can still hear gunshots. You okay, lil phantom?”
“Kim Taehyung, you astound me. How’s it going with the casino?”
“I’ll fly home at midnight. Stay up ‘til dawn and I’ll let you know how it went.”
“You’re a cheat. You know just how much I love to see that bitch propel down to the pits of hell.”
“I figured you’d want evidence from her downfall. Solid evidence,” The implication behind his voice isn’t hard to miss and you smile. Overbearing assholes deserve to get a piece. Or more like be in pieces, “Anyway, I’ll see you soon with a gift. Love you. Let’s eat lunch together with father tomorrow.”
With a slight hum to stand as an acceptance to his dinner invitation and an irritated (but unforced) affirmation that you loved your brother back, Taehyung ends the call.
As you stand stationary in the solace of the lift’s corner, underneath the golden hue of the slightly flickering bulb lights that are probably worth a couple thousands and the cold feel of the gold handle bar beneath your fingertips, you look down on your hand. The glistening lights above reflects against the surface of the band around your middle finger, slowly running down its golden surface as you twist it back and forth, a fleeting thought occurring as you mull over the number of bullets you have buried underneath human flesh as well as the seconds you have spent waiting for a heart to stop beating.
Compassion is a weakness, says those around you.
But as ironic as it is, your father is the one who always firmly opposes the proverb.
“Compassion is not a weakness, darling, never. And if it were to be, then might as well make yourself as weak as you possibly can,” You remember him saying, words heavy on the accent, the embers of his tobacco flaring an angry orange as he inhaled, the smoke released in slow soft wisps that coiled in the winter air. “Being compassionate about something is not a weakness—”
“Misplacing compassion is.”
HELLO I'M BACK ♡ This fic is my priority for now mwa.
