As the sun peaks through the dark and gloomy clouds, Seokjin basks in the slight warmth the sunshine gives, quite the contrast from the bitter winter winds clawing at his skin. He’s wearing a pink sweater, bundling up in a scarf and a leather jacket, mittens covering his crooked fingers and hands. Though he still wears his favourite pair of ripped jeans, letting the freezing air caress the visible flesh.
He hums softly to himself as he walks the familiar route to the brothel, ignoring the people sharing the same pathway, mind only focusing on his destination. The panther’s excited to see Lisa, always willing to pay for her time, their respected jobs making it difficult to meet up after hours to catch up on trivial things such as their well being, and the latest gossip. A part of the reason Seokjin tries to go as often as he can is to settle down on one of the used and old creaking beds, to lay there and giggle quietly over silly stories. But paying for a few hours alone with her also meant it kept others away, keeping her safe and out of the hands of vile and greasy men. It’s the least he can do for her.
Entering the brothel, he barely glances around him, accustomed to the sight that greets him. It’s much classier than one would assume when first learning of its origin, the outside run down and crawling with lowlifes. The clientele varies, a place where even the richer filth can walk the halls and be escorted to rooms where pretty girls and boys await and play the role of a young submissive. His teeth grind together at the unwelcome thought, his fangs itching to slide out and show the pigs just how dirty it can really get.
Seokjin eyes the man walking in front of him, noticing the wallet sticking out of his tailored coat. The rookie mistake almost makes his chest rumble in a satisfied purr, trying his best to also hold back a laugh at the naivety of the man. The wealthy were the cruelest but nonetheless the dumbest. With quick and light fingers, he reaches forward, slipping two fingers into the pocket, keeping up with the man’s strides as he swiftly lifts the wallet out, shoving it into his own pockets before slowing his steps, a cheshire smile enhancing his already beautiful features.
He doesn’t even bother sparing the geezer another glance, instead making his way to the front desk, hopeful that Lisa is available. He ignores the other patrons as he spots the usual secretary, politely exchanging pleasantries and partaking in the typicality of small talk. Both of them simply wearing their fixed faces in this forsaken place. “What’s Lisa’s schedule like? Can I have her for two hours today or is she only available for one?”
Dean’s busy today, and it’s one of the rare instances where he’s not busy with her.
So that can really only mean one thing: today, donned in black leather pants that hugs her hips just right, a black camisole and her favourite technicolour fur coat, Jennie skips her way to the brothel she frequents. But make no mistake: the girl would rather die before voluntarily cheating on her Dean Bean; it’s just so happens that her best friend works as a prostitute.
Jennie loves Lisa with every bit of her heart that isn’t taken up by Dean—or her estranged sister, Jisoo—and unfortunately, the proportion that is leftover is quite small; so often, she finds that she doesn’t feel the impulse to spend nearly as much time with Lisa as she should. Unfortunately, shame and regret are words that cease to exist in Jennie’s vocabulary, and so she’s awfully light-hearted—but not uncharacteristically so—as she bounces her way to Lisa’s.
(She supposes this is another reason why Lisa has snaked her way into Jennie’s heart so quickly: because hardly does she find a friend who knows every part of her—the good, the bad and the ugly—and still decides to treat her no differently than before Lisa had found out the truth about Jennie’s games. In fact, Lisa had even agreed to join in on the fun. Jennie’s black heart sings with glee.)
Although Jennie hasn’t visited the brothel very often, she is recognised by the frequent customers and the staff, perhaps mostly due to her eccentric style of clothing and her characteristic exuberance. And needless to say, Jennie recognises every single one of them mostly because she’s filed her memories of this brothel under the Lisa folder, and she always brings it to the forefront of her mind when she plans on visiting her bestie. Most of the customers that recognise her are quick to turn their gaze from her—after all, it can be said that recognising such high profile members of society in a brothel would be highly damaging to their reputation—but in typical Jennie fashion, she gasps in recognition, waves exaggeratedly and greets them by name, as though they are the best friend that she has come to visit.
What finally brings her attention away from the many people she greets is the sound of Lisa’s name, hidden within the white noise that blankets the premises. It is enough to draw Jennie’s attention from whichever political figure she’s attempting to strike a conversation with—perhaps to give her two cents on which laws are absolutely stupid and need to be abolished pronto, not that she has ever felt the urge to abide by the laws of the country anyway—and look towards the direction of the sound, and it isn’t long before her eyes land on the lone figure requesting for Lisa’s company.
Behind her bright smile, Jennie gnashes her teeth. This is her time with Lisa—she can spare no other, because she doesn’t want Dean to miss her too much—and she’s not about to let her time be stolen by an attractive asshole she doesn’t even recognise.
Jennie saunters towards the counter and rudely bumps into the man’s side, a quick and insincere “oh, oops,” falling from her glossy lips before she flashes a saccharine smile at the secretary.
“Three hours with Lisa, please!” she demands more than requests, before shooting a condescending gaze at the competition, “Lisa’s going to be busy eating my hooha for three whole hours, so she won’t have time for you. Yikes.”
Jennie disingenuously inhales through gritted teeth, as though troubled by the unfortunate accident when it is clear as day that she could care less about the latter’s wants and needs. The miser in her screams angrily in her mind, for she had just spent a shit ton of money on her best friend to save Lisa from having to actually do her job, but she supposes it’ll adequately make up for all the other times she’s ditched Lisa for Dean. At least now, Lisa can never bring those instances up again, because Jennie has just done her a huge favour.
Reassured in her ways, slim fingers struggle to escape the sleeves of her oversized coat, and when she is finally successful, she waves her fingers smugly at the man.
“Bye now,” the words spill from her lips in a jovial tune and she grins wickedly as she waits for the latter to scamper off.
He’s drowning in the light haze that filters its way through the levels of his consciousness, a result of the expensive vodka that slips through his lips and down his throat. He’s drowning in her gaze, absolutely suffocating from the suggestion that hangs in the air like a dense fog and laughs at the two of them. Fate is at work here; there’s a bigger picture that is more than the indelicate atmosphere that permeates his space but Dean cannot get past his primitive urge to rip that dreadful oversized monstrosity that hides Jennie’s frame into shreds.
And if things couldn’t get any worse, the woman delves into her shoddy garment to reveal a USB. The simple action causes him to lose all compose, and he doesn’t bother to hide the fact he’s staring at her bosom rather ungracefully. Even as she harps on about the contents of said USB, his sinister glare burns into the fabric of her attire and it is here he imagine what lies underneath, and what it would be like to press his lips against every inch of it - only her mention of a certain singing career is enough to banish whatever lewd vision he succumbs to and once again, he regards her with slight contempt though it is brief.
His eyes flicker towards her own and he catches that glimmer of a look and he’s sure she knows. Denial is quick to usher away any chagrin that threatens to claim his expression, his countenance only growing more dismal as he listens to her. In all honesty, he’s tired of the talking. He could kill for her, correction, he would kill for her - if only for her to die in repetition by his hand, between his sheets. Even as her little outburst solicits his eyebrow to arch in bafflement, he is sure about one thing; she is me and she is mine. She is carnage and she is destruction - in a more well-dressed sort of way. What genius could come up with a way to murder someone, without having to lift their fingers?
Dean is utterly and undeniably smitten.
So, the hitman collects himself, brings some sort of smile to push up at the corners of his lips (which isn’t too difficult when she’s inflating his monumental ego). “Black smoke abracadabra? I don’t think I’ve heard of it regarded in such an interesting way before…” He remarks with a slight chuckle, though those who have had the pleasure of seeing him leap hardly survive to comment upon it. She should think herself very lucky, he thinks.
“You know very well I can’t refuse an offer to kill, so I’m awfully keen…” He responds, reaching over to place his now empty glass back on the table and picking up the USB. He eyes the little thing for a only a moment before closing his fingers around it in a tight fist, hearing it crunch under the pressure. “…but it’s going to take a little more convincing, doll.” And with that, he unravels his fist and shakes away the remains of the device, his eyes locking onto hers as he does so. With a playful wiggle of his eyebrows, he sinks down further into his seat and spreads his legs wide in a cocky arrogance.
There is little that exists that Jennie does not know, and as her starry eyes trace the sharp edge of his chiselled jaw—the feature bears an uncanny resemblance to that of marble—what she has gathered is exactly this: the man she is appraising is hardly a man at all, but a god on a makeshift throne. She compares his image to that of the carved statue of Roman gods, chiselled and shaped by the skilled hands of Michelangelo himself and yet, the magnificence of his sculpture does little justice to portray the true capacity of his power. He is the incarnation of the God of Mystery, with his curved lip and half-lidded eyes that beckon her closer, and Jennie is the devout worshipper who all but falls to her knees in a desperate prayer.
She matches the chuckle that falls from behind his smirk with a light giggle of her own, a consequence of the pride that fills her heart from having successfully amused him. She hangs on his every word, a breath catching in her throat as he seems to allude to his affirmation of her idea, and the already large smile that stays plastered on her lips grow impossibly wider with every word he utters. She prematurely sinks into a puddle of lovesick mush when he reaches for her USB in what she thinks is his desire to know more, and she all but hears him sing yes in her mind; so imagine her surprise when she is greeted by the disconcerting crunch of plastic instead, and if she were confused by the fact that she was rejected in any way, he is quick to provide some clarity in the form of smug words and the pitiful remains of her piece of tech falling from his opened palm.
If not for her wired personality, Jennie believes her smile would’ve been wiped clean off her face. Instead, she is burdened with the inability to ever truly express the displeasure she feels, as shown by the curved albeit thin line of her pursed lips and the gnashing of teeth underneath the poor excuse of a smile. Gone is the zealot who worships at the altar of her god; what replaces it is a believer who thinks she has been wronged and forsaken by her god, and so she returns to his altar with vengeance and thus, is fuelled with the intention of bringing his false promises to light. The rose-tinted glasses she had once worn is now replaced by the red blaze of her anger—the type that blinds both sinners and saints alike—and she feels the vicious urge to childishly stomp on his foot, or sink her pearly whites into his flesh.
(So what could possibly account for the sudden upward tug at the corner of her lips?)
The answer lies in the fact that to her, he is a wonderful enigma. He is gloriously instable, always ready to turn left where she thinks he will go right, and though his unpredictability never fails to leave her blood boiling within her veins, she cannot deny that her heart thrums at the challenge.
(Like a kid in a candy store, Jennie’s incessant whines turn to disruptive cries as she points a stubby finger at him, I want him. And the harsh screaming resembling that of a child that lives within the confines of her brilliantly unique mind will only quiet once Jennie is able to possessively hold him within her arms and call him hers.)
“Too bad I’m not here to convince you,” she snaps as she saunters closer to his throne, and she positions herself between his spread legs as her palms prop against either of his armrests. Jennie screams challenge as she bends forward to bring herself closer to his face, and as her pink lips sit a hair’s breadth away from his, she whispers, “I’m here to notify you.”
And because she is Jennie, the girl who has never once been denied anything and will surely throw a tantrum if anyone ever tried to, she raises her knee and lets her black boot forcibly come crashing down on his foot in the type of child-like flair that only she can achieve. Because as much as she wants him, she finds that she cannot deny herself the simple pleasures in life, and so her heart sings with glee and a genuine smile once again graces her features as she impatiently waits for the melodious tune of his howling in pain.
™ - for my muse to become jealous of the attention your muse is giving someone else
✔ - for my muse to respond to praise from yours
✗ - for my muse to respond to being scolded or punished by yours
♠ - for my muse to forcibly restrain yours
♢ - for my muse to introduce yours to a family member
♖ - for my muse to submit to or obey your muse’s orders
Ұ - for my muse to comfort yours after witnessing an emotional meltdown
✺ - for my muse to help yours get through a frightening situation
✤ - for my muse to wake yours from a nightmare
✞ - for my muse to talk about somebody’s death
✉ - for my muse to write a letter/send an email to yours
✂ - for my muse to rescue yours from danger
¿ - for my muse to ask yours a personal or uncomfortable question
♥ - for my muse to express physical affection to yours
ღ - for my muse to express verbal affection for yours
♬ - for my muse to hum or sing to calm yours down
Of reconnaissance. Of dressing up and dressing down to fit the backdrop of her gamers’ lives. Of rewiring personalities to become someone she’s not, but to fit the ideals of someone she longs to kill. Of smiling till her cheeks hurt, even though the bitter taste of contempt is present on her tongue. Of being stoic and hiding the effervescent joy that her late father so loves her for. Of being touched even when it’s the last thing she wants. Of pretending it’s the very thing she wants. Of having to bite her tongue and endure the odd looks like she’s not affected by it in the slightest—because such is her in-your-face behaviour, so she must be comfortable with the judgement that comes with it, right? Of being screamed at due to her persistence. Of running back to the drawing board as she blocks out all emotion of sadness and disappointment, because all she has endured may very well have been for nothing. Of never giving up regardless.
Weeks.
Of sleepless nights and blocking the release of melatonin—the hormone responsible for tiredness—released by the pineal gland. Of cans upon cans of energy drinks and an uncountable number of coffee cups of different shapes and sizes. Of cracking codes. Of breaking through the defences of anything from military databases and police files, to social media accounts. Of having to read through every painful conversation and looking at the occasional scandalous pictures, in hopes of finding that one piece of information she can use to end this suffering and move on to the next. Of having those pieces of information escape her. Of having her days and nights blur into a single moment: her, sitting at her cluttered desk as she forces the sleep out of her eyes and blink away the tears caused by the bright laptop screen. Of having to start again.
Days.
Of planning. Of dissecting the mysteries that are her gamers’ personalities. Of trying to figure out the boundaries of their comfort zone, and trying to figure out how to push them past it. Of guessing what they’re willing to do and what they’re not, and of how suspicious they are. Of tailoring tasks that are unique to their skill set, courage and respect for the justice system. Of having to piece everything together perfectly, because she is about to tangle her gamers’ lives together intricately, and if one rope happens to be faulty, the whole system collapses. Of finally avenging her father. Of finally taking revenge on her mother.
It all ends here.
Here is a boy with adventure written into his genetic code. There is an insatiable lust erupting within him that longs for adrenaline to pour under his flesh, an unexplainable need for the spark of life to run through his veins. If there is ever a man who would choose to live out of suitcases and in the snug economy seats of a budget airline in place of living in an extravagant mansion and lying on silk sheets and beds that are unnecessarily large, it would be Kiwoon. But the thing about him is neither the former nor the latter is an option: because on days when he is not off chasing the stars, he is scrubbing floors and washing dishes in a local diner.
He is the embodiment of peaks and troughs living a life of flat-line, and God, all he longs for is to escape.
And so he fills his idle moments with activities that trigger the release of adrenaline. It starts oh, so very vanilla: walking up to a pretty girl to ask for her number, or joining the local dance competition. But very gradually, it turns much, much darker: grabbing anything he can from the local mart and hiding the items under his jacket, jacking a parked car to test its control and acceleration and attempting to put it back with none the wiser. It is as though he starts to get used to the activities that once charged his bones with electricity, starts to see them as simply another part of his monotonous life, and so he begins to look for more dangerous, adrenaline-triggering things to do, and oh, how slippery he finds the slope. His heart sings when he partakes in activities that are decidedly bad, and although his mind is plagued by guilt and regret, it does little to stop his fingers from shaking as they itch to feel the smooth texture of a leader-covered steering wheel of a car his bank account most certainly cannot afford.
/
His reckoning comes in the form of a series of joyful pings from his phone while he’s busy at work, and he quickly steals a glance at the texts—surely his boss wouldn’t mind this much—but what he sees sends his phone falling to the ground due to a loosened grip and the forces of gravity. Because in it are video footages from hidden security cameras of him stealing from the local mart, as well as him breaking into a moderately priced car. It seems odd for the guards watching the security footage to have missed all of this, but perhaps it is because they had been oddly deleted, as though someone wishes to save him from the police only to exercise justice in their own, special way.
[private number] I wonder what mommy and daddy would think if their baby boy went to jail?
[private number] Maybe you shouldn’t have been so chatty with the regulars at the diner.
[private number] Wait for my instruction! xoxo
His eyes dart to the many customers in the diner as though afraid someone had caught him, and if he’s noted the ‘regulars’ comment, he doesn’t bother wondering which as he has bigger problems to deal with. He’s quick to pick up his phone, drop it into his pocket and pretend like he is not phased, but the sweat that breaks out on his forehead and the permanent wrinkle between his eyebrows betray his countenance.
/
He is awaken by the next text that comes in the middle of the night.
[private number] Knock, knock! You ready, Woonie?
[private number] Let’s go on a ride! Get dressed and be at the nearest convenience store in twenty minutes.
[private number] Might be smart for you to wear all black today. A hoodie would be good! Also maybe one of those surgical masks you use as fashion statements.
Perhaps he is angered from being rudely awaken, or perhaps he is just angered by the blackmail in general, because he is quick to slam a reply that consists mostly of cursing and threats. But he doesn’t get a reply back, and because he is truly, truly afraid of going to jail—or of having to force his parents to pay a fine when they’re already struggling as is—he decides to do as the texts say.
When he gets there, the first thing he does is scan the store for his perpetrator. Unfortunately, all he sees are two cops chatting over an early breakfast of cup ramen. Kiwoon pretends to be busy deliberating over candy bars when really, he just longs for his phone to ring so he can get this nightmare over and done with. And then, he’ll never steal again; this is enough adrenaline to last him a damn lifetime.
The phrase ‘speak of the devil and he doth appear’ proves itself to be true when his phone rings just as he had wanted it to before, but now that his wish has bled into reality, he finds that it is not as satisfying as he had imagined it to be. Still, he fumbles with his phone before reading the texts.
[private number] Anyway, you still know how to jack a car, yeah?
[private number] Show me. Black hummer parked on the far right. It’s the only car in the parking lot.
[private number] Sorry I didn’t tell you to bring your equipment. I forgot. Maybe. :P
[private number] But the good news is there are a lot of rocks! You can break the window.
When the police are this close? The person must not be aware of the situation. He texts his concerns, but he gets a simple ‘:/’ emoticon in return. What the hell could that possibly mean? After five minutes of waiting for another text, he decides to leave the store and check the car out, just in case.
The car is a beauty, there is no denying it. As his eyes land on the silver of light made by the reflection of the sleek, gloss finish, Kiwoon’s hands begin to tremble. Fingers reach out to caress the side mirror in adoration, and he belatedly pulls himself back and reaches for his phone in hopes of finding a new series of text messages that he may have missed in his haze. What he gets instead makes his heart sing, but his teeth grit in frustration.
[private number] Pick a rock for your favourite girl. I happen to like the big, sparkly ones, just FYI.
So it’s a girl; he guessed as much from her use of x’s and o’s. His mind spins as he thinks of what he could possibly do with this information, but agitation grows when he finds that he can do absolutely nothing, and so a succession of slamming the side of his fist against his forehead in frustration follows. But Kiwoon has no time to think: the cops are in the store, and they could be done with their ramen and chatter at any moment. And so he grabs a rock the size of his palm and slams it repeatedly against the window. The window shatters shortly after the alarm blares, and Kiwoon hops into the driver’s seat and reaches for the wires hidden beneath the plastic cover of the steering column. The addictive hum of the engine starting causes a wild, euphoric smile to pull on his lips, but the mood is ruined by shouts that he later realises are coming from the two cops whom have since left the store, and so Kiwoon steps on the gas and escapes with the car.
He’s driving on some small road, a large smile plastered on his lips in response to the rapid beating of his heart against chest that he is so desperately addicted to, and he is so taken with joy that the ringing of his phone does not dampen his mood. He parks on the side of the road and unlocks his phone hastily.
[private number] That was impressive! You’re so cool!
[private number] Drive the car to the address attached and leave it near the front door.
[private number] Leave the door unlocked and the engine running.
[private number] No time for sleep, sorry. :( You have a big day ahead of you!
His heart falls at the text. He’s done everything she’s asked for; is it too much to ask for her to let him go now? He types up a series of texts conveying his anger and brokenness, but he is greeted only with silence. Dejected, Kiwoon slowly drives the car towards the given destination. He’ll deal with everything else later.
There was once a girl with galaxies in her eyes. Her soft kisses could turn beast into man, her innocent heart making a sinner fall to his knees in awe and repentance. And perhaps her alluring nature has sparked the jealousy of the snakes she calls her friends, because they bare fangs that are sheathed with layers upon layers of lethal venom, and they poise to strike. It starts small: in place of Yeonjoo, they call her ‘piggy’, their thin fingers pulling back the tips of their noses as they snort in mockery. And it escalates: they catch her off guard by pinching her belly, they point and laugh, they push her down until her knees are scraped and her tears fall to the ground. It all hurts the same.
They tell her that she is ugly, and that no one is capable of loving her, and she starts to believe it; but what she doesn’t realise is that if she’d only see her true worth, she’d see that there are fairy-tales written of her, and in those stories, her love is the treasure below the x, the ethereal princess guarded by a menacing fire-breathing dragon, and still, it would not deter the many who would fight for and gladly die for her affection. But as she stares at her reflection, all she sees are their shallow words that, beneath the veil, lies jealousy in its rawest form. As she stares bitterly at the girl she so loathes in the mirror, she finds that she becomes her worst critic, and she morphs into the very girls who crush her spirit—the very villains of her fairy-tales.
In the vacuum of space, a star burns out.
/
Here is a girl with heavenly lips and an angelic face; but do not be deceived by her cherubic appearance, for she snarls and snaps at anyone who dares approach her. She is venomous tongue and biting words, and she has black holes for eyes that whisper a tale of once having brilliant stars beneath her flesh, stars that have since died and in its place, lies a petrifying vacuum that swallows men whole and leaves only their shell behind. Through secretive surgeries, Yeonjoo has now attained the shell she has always wanted, but she has lost the person she had desired to be in the process.
She blames her success—or perhaps, is it her downfall? The lines are awfully blurred—on fat camp, and she spits on all the girls who once laughed at the numbers that show up on the scale she steps on. Oh, look at her now, as her sharp heels leaves holes in the hearts of men and women alike. But she has never truly escaped the villains of her story, has she? For still, she keeps them in her presence, and still, she secretly and oh, so desperately longs for their approval. (As she looks in the mirror, the person that looks back is not her, but them.)
And that is the cause for the rapid tattoo on her chest, the gasping for breath and the way her arms reach out for something to hold as she attempts to steady herself. Because there, in her phone, lies the evidence that her rapid weight loss had been the work of doctors rather than trainers—information she was promised would never see the light of day—and there, in her inbox, lies a series of messages:
[private number] Would be such a shame if this got out and your posse hears about it, no?
[private number] This is what you get for playing nice with your stupid ex-neighbour, Kim Jinyoung.
[private number] Wait for my instruction! xoxo
And like a wilted flower, Yeonjoo falls to the ground in heaving sobs.
/
[private number] Morning, Yeonnie! Are you ready?
[private number] There’s a black hummer waiting for you outside. The door is unlocked and the engine is running.
[private number] Drive it to the next street and park in the third bay of the closest gas station.
[private number] You’ll be picking up a passenger. He’ll come to you, so all you have to do is wait!
With shaky fingers and trembling knees, Yeonjoo drags her weight to the car parked in front of her house, the low hum of the engine confirming that the text messages, unfortunately, hold no lie. The way in which she hurriedly runs towards the driver’s seat shows her desperate want to quickly get this over and done with, but the broken window that she’s first greeted with momentarily slows her pace. Slim fingers comb through her hair in disbelief as her vision begins to cloud from the tears that surface, but Yeonjoo bites her lip and pulls her hoodie further towards the front, determined to just hurry up so she can wash her hands of all this mess. She quickly slips into the driver’s seat of the car, and the other thing that catches her attention is a black, square object with a blinking red light stuck to the dashboard. If she had any suspicions that it was anything other than a camera, the confusion is quickly cleared by the loud ping of her phone.
[private number] Stop looking so glum! Smile for the camera, won’t ya? :D
An unfitting scowl graces her cherry lips, and her thumbs slam against the screen as she conjures up a reply, but as she catches sight of all her previous inquiries and pleads to leave her alone from the night before—all of which have been left unanswered—she decides that it would be wise for her to save her breath and just drive. Besides, all she has to do is pick up a passenger, yes? It shouldn’t be too hard, she reasons.
(But oh, is she in for a surprise.)
Jaesuk is a snake. There are no other words to describe him.
Perhaps there is a mistake in his genetic code, because disloyalty seems to be etched deep in his bones, and for the life of him, he cannot think about anything other than his own benefit. But he has a small mind, so he does not have the capacity to think so far into the future, and that is how he ends up angering many, many trigger happy individuals who act as though they have been given the license to kill.
Unfortunately, their weapons are all aimed at the same spot between his eyes.
But regardless of being dense, like a snake, Jaesuk’s key trait must be that he’s slippery, because he seems to be able to evade their shots and hide in places that no one would ever find him. He slithers into holes and hides between bushes, and when he thinks it is safe, he comes out yet again and hunts for his next prey.
Perhaps in an alternate universe, Jaesuk could change. Perhaps he could build friendships and strike alliances if he were only tamed into submission; but as of yet, he is like a child that has been spared the rod, and so now he is spoilt rotten. What use is it to change the only way he knows how to live, when he proves, time and again, that it is the best lifestyle for him to have?
(As said, Jaesuk is hardly the most intellectual, because as he foolishly tempts fate with rhetorical questions, he’ll find that fate always has unlikely answers.)
/
Like clockwork, at eight o’clock on a Tuesday night, Jaesuk stands in front of the window of an electronic shop with a cold drink in his hand, eagerly waiting for his favourite program to air on the many different televisions in front of him. What greets him instead is a nightmare in the form of a series of footages all staring a very familiar reptile.
There he is, slipping into his favourite hidey hole that he visits thrice a month. And there he is, slithering through the crowd and into the darkest alley of Incheon, so dark that no one—not even criminals—dares to enter. (Jaesuk had spread enough rumours of that place to keep everyone out, but it seems that his efforts are all for naught, for there it is on the screen for all of South Korea to see.) And there he is, walking towards his favourite struggling restaurant that only ever holds three customers at once. And there he is, there he is, there he is, at all his favourite hideouts that he had been so sure no one knew about.
The shrill tone emitted from his phone scares him half to death, and during that brief distraction, the screen cuts back to his favourite program, and his eyes meet with his favourite actress as she cries about a love lost. Tears build up in his eyes as well, but for entirely different reasons.
[private number] Did anyone tell you you sucked at hide and seek? Because you really do.
[private number] Relax! It wasn’t on national TV. Just on those TVs. You’re welcome!
[private number] It will be aired nationwide, though. Be sure to catch it at 8pm on Tuesday! Sorry for ruining your favourite broadcast again, oops.
[private number] You can get out of it, though. Just turn up to the Citibank across the street next Tuesday at 10am. Bring your gun and a hat. Maybe some sunglasses. Oh, also a duffel bag might be handy.
[private number] …yup. That’s exactly what it sounds like, Sukkie. :(
[private number] Probably should’ve kept your hands to yourself, and definitely off that old hag, Kim Jinyoung.
[private number] Wait for my instruction! xoxo
Jinyoung? Who the fuck is that? From the message, Jaesuk suspects it’s one of his one night stands, and if he ever sees that woman again, he’d kill her. But God, he has absolutely no idea what she looks like, for the women he shares his nights with have all blended together to make an unidentifiable face.
But whatever; none of that matters, because he’s not going to do it. To think that someone could threaten him—him, the person who has more lives than a damn feline—is laughable. So his old spots have been revealed: bad luck, but that simply means he’ll have to find new hideouts. Jaesuk texts a simple ‘fuck you’, throws both his drink and phone into the bin closest to him and leaves before his favourite broadcast is over. He’s lost the mood and besides, it seems he needs the time to look for a new spot to sleep tonight.
/
He’s lying on an old, springy mattress in the middle of some abandoned building when the bullet hits his shoulder. Screams of agony echoes through the room, but Jaesuk knows that if he were to cave to his want to lie down and baby himself, he’ll die. And so he bites his lip and roars as he pulls himself up and runs to take cover, his hand wet as he rests it on top of the wound in a lousy attempt to slow the bleeding.
A fucking sniper; and he already has a good idea of who the bullet belongs to. Why, it had been twenty years ago when he made nice with Jeongah, a girl with a penchant for falling in love: first with weapons, and then with him. But what she does not understand is Jaesuk does not make connections, he makes scapegoats; and so he had charmed her into taking a leap of faith with him, but as she jumped, she had belatedly noticed that his own feet did not leave the ground.
He left with the money, and she was left with the blame.
But now she’s back with a vengeance it seems, because there is a bullet lodged in his bone.
(And how does he know it’s her?)
It’s simple, really. Jaesuk had been drawn to her all those years ago because of it. The thing is, Jeongah is the type of girl who loves a challenge, and so she had always found sniping at a stationary target boring and frankly, thoroughly unfair for her victim. This is the reason why her first shot is always non-fatal, despite being known to never miss: it’s purely because the first shot gets them running and then, that’s when the game really starts. Well that, and because she’s the only sniper with a reasonable excuse to want him dead.
Jaesuk knows it is imperative that he leaves before she takes her second shot, because if she does, it’ll be his head. He knows in his heart that there is a small chance of survival, but still, he grips his shoulder a little tighter as he prepares to make a run for it. But just as he’s about to stand, his new phone blares.
Really?
Still, he is safe where he sits now, and he knows the second he moves will most definitely be his last. So he stalls and prays for a miracle, and then he pulls his phone out and quickly scans over the text messages.
[private number] I really have to hold you at gunpoint, huh?
[private number] Jeongah really wanted to kill you, but I’m holding something juicy over her head.
[private number] Did you know she had a son!? :o
[private number] Anyway! Tuesday, 10am. Yes or no?
Yes. Yes. Fucking yes. Blood is smeared onto the screen as he hastily types in the reply. He receives a response instantly.
[private number] Great! That wasn’t so hard, was it?
[private number] I’ve put her leash back on. You can let your guard down! Best take care of that arm before the big day. She tells me it’s rather bad.
Slowly and cautiously, he stands and turns to look behind him, just in time to see the menacing figure of Jeongah standing on the roof, a sniper rifle lax in her hand.
/
[private number] You ready, big boy?
[private number] There’ll be a black hummer waiting for you in the gas station beside the bank. Third bay.
[private number] Good luck!
The scowl plastered on his face is hidden by the surgical mask he wears. Fingers fly to the bandaged gunshot wound as it throbs beneath his clothes, and he allows himself one deep breath before paying no heed to the pain altogether. This should be quick and easy, he thinks; he’s done this once before, so it really shouldn’t be any different from the last time, right?
Without further ado, he pushes past the glass doors, pulls the gun out from under his jacket and fires at the ceiling.
Yeonjoo startles when the door on the passenger side opens, and when she catches sight of the gun in his hand, her soft lips part as a scream threatens to spill from her lips. But he had already seen what she had looked like through the broken window—had seen her fidget, her looking around nervously like a damn gazelle—and so he aims the gun directly at her forehead and screams for her to “just drive, Goddamnit, or I’ll blow your fucking head off,” and so she hurriedly steps on the gas and leaves skid marks where the car was once parked.
She sobs uncontrollably as she drives, pleads spilling pathetically from her lips as she struggles to keep the car moving at a consistent pace. It is clear to all that she is just a child with not a bad bone in her body, and so Jaesuk sighs audibly as he puts the gun away. And then come the plethora of questions that has him reaching for his gun again, if only to get her to shut up.
“W-Did you just rob the bank? Why are you— Wh— Why is this happening to me, oh God—”
He blocks it all out and instead, unlocks his phone to read the new message.
[private number] Good job! I’m so sorry you have to deal with Yeonjoo.
[private number] Anyway, I’ve attached the address to drop the money.
[private number] Leave the gun in the car and bring Yeonjoo with you.
[private number] I’ll be meeting you guys there!
[private number] Also, I can see you from the camera. So no funny business! Leave the gun, or Jeongah’ll pay you a visit very shortly.
There is fire in his eyes as they dart up and scan the car for a camera, and his jaw locks upon realising that it’s on the dashboard, right in front of the sobbing mess of a girl. In his anger, he carelessly attempts to reach for the camera for the sole purpose of yanking it off and destroying it, but the wound begins to throb at his hasty movements, and so he is forced back into seat. Of course, another consequence of his sudden movements is a scream coming from the girl in the driver’s seat, and it has him rolling his eyes so far back, they begin to hurt.
“Would you just shut up, for the love of God—” he pleads, but it only invites louder sobs. He gives up altogether and decides instead to gruffly pass his phone to Yeonjoo. It takes her a few seconds to finally take it from his grasp.
“T-there? They want me to drive you there?” she asks between hiccups, a hand reaching up to wipe the tears from her cheeks with her sleeves.
“They wants you to drive us there.”
And the sobbing returns with full force.
/
Yeonjoo had always believed she coped well with stress, but today is the day she finds out that she most absolutely does not. She doesn’t mean to be such a cry-baby, really, but try as she might, the tears keep coming. And now, the hardened bank robber who previously held her at gunpoint wants her to follow him past some trees and into what seems to be a damn forest. She’s watched enough movies to know how this ends up.
“I— please, please don’t do this! I won’t tell anyone, I promise, just please, please let me go, please—”
The gun is aimed at her once again, and Yeonjoo flinches and cowers at the sight.
“I will kill you if you don’t get out of the car right now,” Jaesuk threatens through grinding teeth, “I’d go by my damn self—I don’t need some deadweight who only knows how to cry and beg—but they said you had to follow me, so stop fucking around!”
Yeonjoo holds her face in her hands. With eyes shut, she barely whispers words of comfort and tells herself that this is not happening, that she’s somewhere else, that this is all a dream—
She feels the cold rim of his gun touch her forehead, and an embarrassing sob spills from her lips.
“Get. Out. Now. I’ll count to ten, and then I’ll blow your fucking brains all over this car! Just fucking get out!”
Please wake up, please wake up, please wake up—
Her hands fly up in surrender, and her eyes stay permanently on the ground as she clumsily falls from the safety of the car. Her legs tremble as they struggle to keep her up, and when she finally gathers the courage to look up, she sees him slamming the door shut and throwing the gun into the car through the broken window. She feels a heavy burden lift from her chest, but she is plagued with confusion.
“Why—”
He doesn’t let her finish her sentence, merely pushes her forward harshly, and she stumbles as she attempts to steady herself. They quietly walk past the trees and what seems like forever is really only a few steps, and then they arrive at a clearing. There is a lone figure that greets them.
The person turns towards the direction of footsteps and the ruffling of leaves, but Jaesuk does not give them time to do any more before he lunges, one hand wrapping around their neck to choke them. Yeonjoo screams yet again as the two fall and roll around the grass, and the situation is so catastrophic that they fail to notice the whirring of a drone camera fast approaching.
“Starting early, I see!” the voice blares from the speaker taped to the drone, and it’s enough to halt the struggle between the two men, “I like it!”
A maniacal cackle follows, and if it wasn’t obvious who the real culprit was, it is now.
“Welcome, welcome, to the game of life! As you can see, Jaesuk is carrying a black bag with lots of cash, and today, one of you will be the lucky winner!” she sings in an inappropriately cheery voice, and it causes wrinkles to form between Kiwoon’s and Jaesuk’s eyebrows—not Yeonjoo, though, she’s still sobbing and using her sleeves to dry her never-ending tears, “the rules are simple: kill, or be killed. The last one standing gets the gold! So don’t say I never reward good behaviour! You have 20 minutes to beat each other to the pulp, and if there’s more than one of you alive by the end of it, I’m afraid I’m going to have to publish all those dirty, nasty things you’re trying so hard to hide. So if you’re thinking of holding back, don’t—”
“Just fucking post it! Tell them! I don’t care! Just let me go, you bitch—” the scream grates against Yeonjoo’s sore throat after having gathered enough courage to fight back.
Jennie growls in anger at the rude intrusion, but she gives herself a second to calm down before she replies in a comforting tone that is very obviously fake, “Yeonnie, dear. Oh honey, you were an accessory to a bank robbery! Remember the camera? I have all the footage I need to send your cute butt to jail! You don’t want to go to jail… do you?”
A loud sob follows.
“I figured as much! Anyway, let’s not waste any more time. Now, Jaesuk and Kiwoon, please get off of each other; we want a fair fight, alright? Surprise elements are a no-no!” Jennie chastises, before once again getting back on track, “anyway, without further ado, the game starts in 3, 2, 1. Your twenty minutes start now!”
Kiwoon clenches his hands into fists and brings them up as he assumes a Southpaw stance, but the trembling of his lips and the rapid blinking of his eyes as he fights his tears reveal that he is not at all skilled in fighting. Adrenaline flows through his veins, but as he readies to fight for his life, he wonders why any of it ever mattered so much.
/
Bloodied hands reach to grab the black duffel bag on the ground. His eyes are reduced into thin slits, swollen and bruised from receiving punches. A small chuckle escapes his lips as the words, ‘you should see the other guy’ flies past his mind, but the chuckle slowly morphs into a whimper, and his once confident stance now melts to the ground gracelessly.
He hears the sound of police sirens through his heaving sobs, and what follows are thunderous footsteps and a shout, “freeze! Hands in the air where I can see ‘em!”
Kiwoon doesn’t struggle.
They say that he was so tired of his life, of being poor, and he was so desperate to turn his situation around that he resorted to going above the law and taking what he needed forcefully. A quick fix. They say he was the mastermind behind it all: that he had found unlikely alliances with a wanted criminal and a beauty queen, and that he wasn’t willing to split the money three ways, so he murdered them all in cold blood once they had done most of the dirty work for him. They say that he was an adrenaline junkie, and this was his biggest rush yet. Some try to put themselves in his shoes and say that he did all this for his sick mother and struggling father—that he was desperate to get her the help she needed but could not afford—and others counter, “but at what price?”
The media paints him in a tragic light, a victim of circumstance, and the masses criticise the news stations for glorifying a murderer. Some praise the media for being able to read between the lines. There are mixed reviews, but whatever the verdict is, time goes on, and soon, everyone forgets about a friendly guy who once worked in a rundown diner, who had monsters dancing underneath his skin. Instead, they talk about how scandalous a dress a certain actress donned on the red carpet, or speculate how accurate it was for a certain high profile CEO to be accused of embezzlement.
(And as for the phones? The text messages? The evidence of another possible explanation? Why, they cease to exist, because Jennie has already hacked into phone companies and deleted any archives kept.)
Everyone forgets, but Jennie always remembers. A sinister smirk graces her lips as she stores the video recording of the fight—of her games—onto a disc, and she places it on the shelf beside the many others. Just in case she ever finds herself bored, and is ever in the mood to relive her success.
She clears her desk of the empty cans of energy drinks, coffee cups, and shreds the many documents she has on her deceased gamers and she burns the evidence. And then she fills her empty desk with new energy drinks, full coffee cups, and her printer once again gets to work as she prints documents upon documents of information on her newest victims.
Today has passed, and dawn breaks, signifying the arrival of a new tomorrow.
Jisoo was no fool. In fact, out of the many, many words that comprised up all languages alike, ‘foolish’ would still be the last word anyone would use to describe Kim Jisoo.
No, Jisoo knew better than anyone else that starting from the first moment she set foot on Incheon soil, she would be entirely exposed to the omnipresent technologic eye of her sister. Nowadays, with the likes of CCTV and computer records, Jisoo imagined that it would be pitifully easy to find her, especially considering Jennie’s cyberpathy. Perhaps that was why Jisoo didn’t bother to keep a low profile, nor did she utilize any of the skills she earned through blood, sweat and tears during her time in the military. Instead, Jisoo placed herself nonchalantly in plain sight.
(And perhaps, just perhaps; a little part of Jisoo also longed to see Jennie’s face again, despite the younger’s forefront role in propagating the terrible event that was their father’s death. But no, Jisoo was not ready to forgive nor forget, and so these thoughts were stored away for another rainy day.)
Therefore, Jisoo decided that if there was no way around Jennie’s annoyingly all-pervading eye, then Jisoo might as well wrap her grand entrance like a gift, and send Jennie a message card while she was at it. And so that was why Jisoo’s first day back in Incheon wasn’t spent doing frivolous things like catching up with friends; but rather, Jisoo occupied her time with putting their mother’s face at the business end of her sniper scope. Oh – Jisoo intended to send a message, alright.
To Jisoo, the reason for Jennie’s downward spiral lay within their mother’s continued existence. And thus, the solution seemed to be very simple. Terminate the root cause, and Jennie could go back to being her normal, bratty self, and maybe then – if Jisoo could see that part of Jennie again, the smiling, happy, innocent Jendeuk, and maybe Jisoo could finally forget the haunting visage of Jennie with swollen eyes and wet tear tracks; her continuous tears spelling a silent plead of ‘Don’t let me take his place, please, Jisoo please’.
(Though if Jisoo was honest with herself, she was well aware that she also had a role in their father’s death. In fact, her own helplessness and immobility as she watched their beloved father get beaten to his death still haunted her to this day – but it’s always easier to have someone else to blame, isn’t it?
Why, isn’t ironic that whilst the sisters were complete opposites in almost every way, they were still fundamentally similar at their core? Indeed, they both had a ubiquitous sense of righteousness that they were not above utilizing: Jennie with her games directed at their mother, and Jisoo with her ‘older sister knows best’ attitude.)
And so, as Jisoo traveled down to what became her routine walk, she wasn’t surprised to see Jennie in the middle her path, her hands straddled on her hips like a child trying to grow up before her time. “Hello, Jennie.” Jisoo said coolly, forgoing the younger’s nickname. As Jisoo allowed her gaze to linger on Jennie’s form, however, a part of her ached at Jennie’s still chubby cheeks, and for a moment, Jisoo entertained the thought of reaching out to fold her darling sister into an embrace – until it passed, and Jisoo chose to merely smile tightly in response.
“I hope you got my message.” Jisoo continued, folding her arms as she gazed knowingly into Jennie’s eyes. “Now that she’s dead, stop whatever idiotic thing that you’re doing and get yourself together, for goodness sakes.”
After only a few seconds in Jennie’s company, Jisoo could already feel a migraine forming at her temples. “And now, if you’ll excuse me; I have better things to do.”
Naturally, Jennie’s expectations for a sister who had willingly walked out on her in her time of need isn’t tremendously high, but Jennie had expected a reasonable response, at the slightest—even an inkling of sisterly love will do, really, but Jisoo doesn’t spare her even that. No, when Jisoo first glances at the sister she’s forsaken five years ago, the only emotion that reaches her eyes is boredom.
(No matter; Jennie has enough love and excitement for the two of them, she argues.)
Sister dearest doesn’t even bother to call her by the usual affectionate nicknames, and to that, Jennie scoffs at Jisoo’s pettiness. But she’s quick to recover from the slight, because Jennie likes to think she is forgiving when it comes to family, and instead, she makes many excuses for her older sister.
(Perhaps she is merely hardened by war. Perhaps she’s forgotten momentarily; five years is a long time. In fact, five years is also a long time to grow out of a childish nickname.)
And true enough, Jisoo proves her right by confirming Jennie’s suspicions: that is in, in fact, Jisoo who had murdered their dear mother. Her grin grows brighter at the confession, and Jennie takes a few steps closer to her sister’s form as she sings, “that’s right! I left her just for you!” thinking that Jisoo has finally come around, dropped the callous act and is truly ready to become an older sister again. But she is stopped dead in her tracks when words continue spilling from her sister’s lips, and Jennie processes them as Jisoo chastising her.
(This is good, right? Older siblings chastise their younger ones, right? Sadly, Jennie does not have much experience to compare, but she’s sure she’s seen this in movies before!)
And then Jisoo’s sharp tongue rolls to form the words ‘idiotic’, ‘get yourself together’ and ‘better things to do’, and just as quickly as the words are spat from her sister’s unkind lips, Jennie finds herself disillusioned from the image of what her favourite person in the world is supposed to be like. All that’s left on the floor is tatters of a veil that has blinded her since she could remember; that, and perhaps, if one listens closely, they’ll also suspect that amongst the indecipherable mess lies the shards of Jennie’s shattered heart.
(It can be said that the ‘better things’ that Jisoo has to do once referred to keeping Jennie company. She supposes five years is a long time for Jisoo to shift one’s priorities. Odd, because five years seems to be a blink of an eye for Jennie; as far as she’s concerned, her priorities have never drifted from family. It’s a shame Jisoo doesn’t feel the same.)
But it doesn’t deter Jennie’s spirit, and she is fortunately able to block out any negative emotion with the use of her mutation before it gets too damaging.
“No, you’re not excused!” she exclaims childishly, a faux pout on her lips as she finally finds the courage to close the distance between her and the person she’d do anything for, “I just got you back; I’m not letting go of you so easily!”
And then Jennie’s slender arms are wrapping themselves tightly around Jisoo’s form, and Jennie is quick to notice that Jisoo’s once slender body is now more athletic, and she absolutely loathes any changes that has taken place since the last time she saw Jisoo. But she supposes it fails to matter in the grand scheme of things; packing on a bit more muscle is not going to change the fact that Jisoo is her one and only sister.
“I missed you soo much, sissy!” she hums, her arms squeezing Jisoo’s form that much tighter, and it’s strange because Jennie cannot think of a time she’s felt this happy since her father’s death, despite wearing a smile much more often these days, “I knew you’d come back for me! I knew you’d never leave me behind…”
(And you know what they say: in ignorance, lies immeasurable bliss.)
One would think that news of their mother’s death would come as a shock to them, and the rest of the day—month, or even year to most—would be filled with grief upon remembrance of fond childhood memories. But Jennie was neither shocked nor miserable. That’s not to say that she felt nothing upon hearing the news; in fact, she had been swept up in a flurry of different emotions.
First comes joy. As someone who’s blamed her mother for basically every bad thing to ever occur in her life, and has thus dedicated her life to making her mother feel as empty as she truly is inside, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the smile on her lips only grew wider as she read of the death of her mother on the news.
Then comes irritation. Because of her mother’s death, her pool of potential gamers have suddenly become limited, more so than they already were due to the precautions her mother was forced to adopt upon realising that her daughter would kill every man and woman she ever befriended, platonically or otherwise. At the start, Jennie had initially reserved her games for the men that her mother was romantically involved with, but with old age and the curse that Jennie’s put on her mother, men visiting Mrs Kim’s household has gotten significantly less, so Jennie’s had to tweak her rules a little. Now, she doesn’t even have that. It’s annoying, because what started out as a game to make the rest of her mother’s short life miserable soon became Jennie’s secret obsession, so now with the objective of the games basically completed, Jennie fears she’ll have no valid reason to continue hosting it.
But no matter, she’ll find a way to overcome the issue, as she always does. Besides, the matter should be put aside—at least for today—because of her well-founded excitement. Because there’s only one other person who hates her mother just as much as Jennie does. Coincidentally, Jennie likes to think that she killed off all the men in her mother’s life and saved the biggest kill—that being her mother—just for said person, as a token of her appreciation.
That person was her very own half-sister, Kim Jisoo.
The very sister who doted on her, along with her dad, and gave her a childhood worth remembering. The only person alive who a person like Jennie could ever truly love. And the only person who voluntarily abandoned Jennie when she needed Jisoo the most.
(No matter, Jennie loves Jisoo too much to hold a grudge.)
Shortly after the death of the mother, Jennie had been working days and nights trying to look for her sister through hacked police cameras around Incheon. And when she had finally found her sister, she studied the latter’s routine to a T, because their meeting had to be perfect. And from what Jennie could see, Jisoo’s routine often involves her walking through this specific road at approximately 10am every day.
So there Jennie is, at 9.55am, standing in the middle of said route. She stares impatiently at the watch on her wrist—she wore one just for today—and grits her teeth in annoyance every time she looks up to see that her sister has not yet arrived. Jennie’s watched many movies, and found it extremely cool when villains would show up unexpectedly in a hero’s path to say, “surprise,” so since she had enough information, she had decided to mimic the scenes she deemed cool.
(But no one ever broadcasts what the villains were doing the minutes and seconds before said ‘cool’ scene, so Jennie’s had to wait and, in the meantime, do exactly nothing.)
After what feels like decades, she sees a familiar face approaching her, though her sister doesn’t seem to notice her at first. Jennie almost drops her happy personality due to the many emotions she’s swept up in, upon seeing her sister after all these years—God, she better not be teary eyed—but she manages to keep her composure. Hands on hips and a characteristic grin on her pink lips, Jennie leans forward and calls, “hey, sissy! Did ya miss me?”
The only plausible explanation for the mess is that a tornado must’ve swept in and blew the petals of every red rose in Incheon into the bedroom. At least, that is the excuse Jennie is going with, never mind the stolen delivery truck parked just outside Dean’s house.
There she sits, legs crossed and on his bed, just inches from his sleeping figure as she noisily flips through the pages of a book she must’ve taken from some corner of his house. On her face, she wears a blasé expression as she scans past every printed word through fake prescription glasses; and as for her body, Jennie dons a pristine white robe that is poorly tied, and through its parted hems, whispers hints of a white corset underneath. They are the image of domesticated bliss; except for the minor fact that they’re both full-blown criminals, as well as Dean having exactly zero idea of the goings-on in his room, if his slow breathing is anything to go by.
(Oh, but not for long; or at least, not for another three more seconds, two, one…)
The alarm blares, and amid the chaotic scene, Jennie snaps her book shut and grins.
“Mornin’ honey!” she sings after promptly turning the alarm off, and then she rolls over to catch his eye, causing the robe to slip from her shoulders, “you really, really, really need to change your security system! Sneaking in was a breeze— get it?”
(And if he needs any more help understanding her pathetic excuse of a joke, she gestures towards the petal-covered bed and floor, suggesting a whirlwind that whizzed through the room in the middle of the night.)
She rests her crossed arms on his sculpted chest and leans forward to plant a small kiss on his lips, briefly scrunches her nose in fear of morning breath, but then melts into his figure anyway. She spoils herself with staying in this position for what seems like hours—but really only amounts to a minute—as she admires his perfectly chiselled jaw and handsome features; and then like an energised bunny, she jolts up and shrills, “happy Valentine’s Day, Dean Bean! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go; I have so much planned for today!”
Jennie quickly props herself up on her knees and clasps her hands together as she stares into the distance, her eyes sparkling as she reveals, “we’ll get heart-shaped eggs for brunch, take some art classes and paint portraits of each other, maybe even kill someone… it’ll be so romantic! Oh, oh, we could even get some dinner after! Dinner under the stars…”
And with a satisfied sigh, Jennie is lost to the world, held captive by the perfect scenarios conjured up by her wild imagination. She rests her chin on her clasped fingers as she wears a dreamy expression, and the only thing that shakes her from this haze is the thought that her daydreams have the potential of becoming reality: if only her baby gets his lazy ass off the bed and squeezes his cute butt into some well-fitting jeans. And so Jennie flicks her gaze towards him, and as she flutters her eyelashes for added effect, she pleads, “please, daddy?”
It is the first Valentine’s Day that Jennie has celebrated in a long time, and she’s got to admit: already, this has got to be the best one yet.
the groan that emanates from soft pink lips sends a pleasant shiver down dean’s spine and it takes everything in his being not to want to elicit more of them. the thought of having that pretty little mouth of hers cry out for mercy in his name seizes him and before any involuntary chemical reaction could cause trouble for him, dean banishes it to the far recesses of his mind. as if on cue, her smile suddenly causes his to falter and he’s amiss at what she could possibly be smiling at. surely she’s at a loss here… he could draw her life to an unfortunate end, he’s certain she’s aware of what he can do. somehow, her actions translate to him as her being fearless and this strikes a rather discordant chord within him. it’s not entirely jarring, in fact he fails to place a finger on what he feels towards her. perhaps an amalgamation of contempt, admiration, and he even dares, desire.
as she closes the single iota of space between them, dean’s fury seems to subside and curiosity takes its place. her words reek of confidence, a trait he holds ever so dearly to his marble heart, and in the face of danger, he must give it to her; she’s making quite the impression. so, he takes in her iron gaze and her declarations to match, allows them to sink in as he attempts to make sense of what this situation will exactly transpire to. she definitely cannot do without his help, that much is evident in her persistence, and of course he finds a way for that fact to elevate his ego. which is why he filters her comment about his insufficient customer service, refusing to let such a slight make any place in his thought processes, the hitman already on cloud nine.
yet the sudden touch solicits a small smirk to shift across his lips and he has half a mind to bite at the appendages that graze his skin before they disappear from range. her audacity is one he can reckon with; in any other instance, an offence like this one would render her fingerless but dean laps her outlandish behaviour up, the woman before him an exception to the rules. “don’t tell me you’re getting all soft for some pussy” a voice inside his head taunts him.
would that be so wrong? he retorts inwardly.
chuckling, he finds it amusing how she has to tiptoe to find his ear, yet the words she utters into them coaxes more of throaty laugh to escape him. how cute. she thinks i can be killed. with a roll of his neck, he releases her before black smoke engulfs him once again and he appears a few paces away from her. that smile on her lips, oh the many ways he could wipe it off clean. he wonders, if she could still maintain that smile if he had her luscious locks wrapped around his fist as he ravages her neck with his lips, his teeth… but before he could picture the scene any further, his curiosity piques at her next set of words.
“what are you proposing?” he demands, regarding her expression with an acute irritation that taints his words. he notes how she pairs killing and fun in the same sentence and for a second he wonders if he’s looking at his female counterpart. sure, there’s people who kill for fun, but there are very few for that matter.
“you have my full attention… if i remember correctly, it’s jennie, right?” he asks, an eyebrow arching. now that his rage is nonexistent, clarity assumes. a plethora of questions deluge him instantaneously, but most importantly his interest lies in who’s life, or lives, he’s going to end.
“take a seat.” he orders, rather than requests, and with another step (at this point the peacock is immersing himself in a flashy display), he resumes his seat on couch, a leg draping itself over the other. taking his glass in his hand, he gestures towards the adjacent sofa, not once casting a look in her direction. “this better be good, jennie, because i’ll be honest with you; killing you seems much more ideal.” he remarks playfully, although his words come out all too sinisterly, failing miserably to to achieve its desired effect.
Jennie is a passionate lover of mysteries.
She is addicted to the thrill of the chase; the bittersweet realisation that she has hit a dead end and then the electrifying adrenaline that follows from scrambling to find a new way to solve the problem before the timer runs out; and ultimately, the sweet satisfaction of having found patterns in places where they shouldn’t exist. She has an unhealthy obsession of dissecting conundrums all the way down to the level of their grating gears, and even after finding out exactly what makes them tick, she’ll prod further until she finds more, whatever that may entail.
She is the riddler’s very own personal nightmare, and he is a mess of misplaced smirks and laughs, of black smoke and disappearing acts, and of passionate stares one minute and having the countenance of utter boredom the next.
Jennie finds herself atop a very familiar tipping point, and unfortunately, she is known to be quite clumsy.
And so she stares at him with the kind of fervency that is expected of someone who is faced with a difficult puzzle, and upon hitting a roadblock, wills it to solve itself. It is why she belatedly realises that he’s shown some semblance of acknowledging her original request—oh yes, that is what she’s here for, she’s uncharacteristically forgetful as of late—and so she shakes herself from this trance that only he seems to be able to lure her in.
“Blackmail! It’s really easy to control people once you find out their deepest, darkest secrets. They might even kill for you,” she sings, and the short giggle that spills from cherry lips can be described as her very own version of maniacal laughter. At his request, Jennie moves towards the spot he gestures to, albeit painfully slowly. She fidgets in her seat as she gets herself comfortable—even tugging at the hem of the large, grease-stained shirt from under her butt—and then she crosses her legs and rests her hands gently on her knee. Once that entire episode is over and done with, dark eyes flick towards his stoical figure, and she finds the intensity of her smile dwindling ever so slightly.
One beat. Two.
Ivory teeth sink into pink lips.
Three.
Oh yes.
“Oh! Sorry, I was distracted,” she pipes up, and the smile returns with vigour. She doesn’t offer up a reason for her distraction, merely slips pale fingers under her shirt and into her bra. What surfaces is a tiny, black USB held lightly between her fingers, but she raises her hands up in surrender lest he gets the wrong idea; because something tells her that he’s the kind who shoots first, then proceeds to spit the questions at a limp carcass later. How exciting.
“I come bearing gifts!” she informs, her fingers giving the USB a playful shake before she tosses the item onto the coffee table between them, “you’ll find really cool videos of people beating each other to death. The video’s home-made, though; they’re not really professionals. But the gist is still there! Oh, they’d just do anything for me to keep their secret, whether it’s a troubled past, a secretive surgery, an underground singing career…”
The side-eye is a brief, ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ affair, and if he happens to miss it, it’s never brought to his knowledge again. She finally brings her hands down and places them to rest on the armrest, her pink tongue darting out briefly before she begins her complaint, “but sometimes, they get a little optimistic, and they try to escape. My games are a gamble, so if they get any ideas like that, they’ll be free—at the price of their secrets being exposed, of course.”
She scrunches her nose up in distaste, and in a sudden burst of anger, she slams her fist against the armrest, “but I don’t care about their secrets! I want them to be desperate enough to kill, and I want them broken!”
Her chest rises and falls with each heaving breath, and Jennie is forced to halt her rant in order to calm her rapidly beating heart. Upon success, with her large smile ever-present on her lips, she continues calmly, “that’s where you come in. If they get any stupid ideas, I want someone present as a threat, just to sweeten the deal. And if they run, I want them dead.”
Jennie’s eyes brighten in excitement, as though a moment of realisation hits her, and she jumps from her seat and paces in front of him.
“Omigosh, and you’re perfect for it! With your black smoke abracadabra, you could kill them and get away clean! No one would ever know it was you, and they’d never be able to tie it back to me! We’d get away scot-free, and the games will continue running!” she gasps, hands flying to her lips as she halts in her steps and pivots to meet his gaze, “you— you’re perfect. Say you’ll do it, oh my gosh please—”
From the tipping point she trips, and down the rabbit’s hole she falls.
It happens when Jennie is standing in the middle of a typical dark alley.
(But what business could a girl like her have to be found in such a notoriously clichéd spot?)
The answer is a lot, apparently.
You see, Jennie has been on a wild goose chase as of late. It is almost as though she has been chasing a ghost, and she supposes that if there were any term she’d use to describe him, it’d be that. That’s the thing about criminals: they are awfully slippery, and for someone whose closest experience to hunting criminals is the occasional malcontent teen who dabbles in petty crime and leaves too much evidence behind, Jennie often finds herself following a fake trail created to throw her off.
And oh, how her heart sings at the challenge.
Ever since the subject of her games has shifted from her dear father to her Dean Bean, Jennie finds that her potential pool of gamers have drastically changed, too, because now they consist mostly of hardened criminals, as well as the occasional civilian with a knack for pissing the wrong people off, and so, have adapted and become adept at running and hiding.
Honestly, Dean spoils her far too much.
But back to the story. Jennie had been following the man’s trail for two weeks now, and she’s come to realise that the only consistent pattern in his schedule is him coming into this specific alley every day at six in the evening, like clockwork. And so here she is an hour before he supposedly arrives, trying her hardest to find some kind of opening to the place where he rests his head. Her eyes are immediately drawn to the manhole cover, and as if on cue, the smile grows larger on her lips.
She intends to move closer to uncover the treasure beneath the dotted x, but midnight black shrouds her vision and the last thing she remembers is a blood-curdling scream that sounds awfully like her own.
/
It’s the longest sleep she’s had since forever, but that’s probably because she never sleeps. And that’s perhaps why she finds it so unfamiliar, so she jolts up and looks around as she tries to wrap her mind around the situation. This is where her eyes land on a familiar face that she may not have seen in the flesh, but Jennie has spent hours upon hours looking at every angle of his chiselled face in countless of different pixel qualities as she attempts to squeeze every bit of information from many archives and databases, in order to better prepare Dean for the alliances he chooses to strike up. Her baby is far too impulsive, but that’s okay: that’s what she’s here for.
“Seunghyun?” she spits like it is a bitter taste on her tongue, and she scowls as much as she possibly can, what with the hindrance of her reprogrammed personality, “oh, you— you’re so de— you are actually sooo dead.”
Her hands shrink into fists and they fly up to make a Southpaw stance, so it may seem like she knows exactly how to cope with the situation, but the rapid beating of her heart says otherwise, “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted you! When Dean hears about this, you are soo going to die. Come at me, you big oaf! You’re never gonna catch these hands!”
And yet even though her words are meant to intimidate him, somehow, she finds that she is the one getting intimidated instead.
(God, he’s a damn skyscraper. Would her fists even be able to reach his face?)
dean’s not entirely sure when his obsession with retaining his private living quarters, private, was born into existence. hardly submitting himself to the confines of his own apartment, dean is the enigma who mostly frequents clubs to formulate plans and schemes rife with mischief and anarchy. his lullabies thump into his skull with every beat of the bass, soothing him into the passage to his mind mansion (which, to no one’s surprise only features the imagery of scenery akin to Ruben’s “Massacre of the Innocents”). none of his subordinates possess the knowledge of his location, nor did they really know where the hitman goes to rest his head, should it ever be weary. most of them rely on their limited imaginations that feature the male in a salacious haven or between some lover’s sheets.
for the most part, they have the right of it. if he isn’t spending lusty nights in some acquaintance’s bedroom, or roaming the rooftops of incheon in search of his prey, he’s usually sat in his luxurious apartment, doing… ordinary things. yet to this day, no one but himself (and the real estate agent who sold it to him the day he moved in) has ever set foot in his apartment. which is why when his security system springs to life, uttering a chime of acceptance, he almost succumbs to a heart attack. his biological response to fight or flight fail him, instead opting for the “freeze” alternative, as he witnesses the door open to behold…
the woman.
he almost feels sick to his stomach upon recognising the intruder, his eyes widening in pure perplexity. how did she even find out the code to the apartment door, let alone this location? knowing very well his personal space is essentially a safe house, he could not get past this individual accessing what he thought is completely clandestine and secure. what did secure even mean at this point? he comes close to dropping the glass of vodka that precariously situates itself in his grasp but he calms himself as he places the glass on the coffee table before him, a voice in his head reminding him of who exactly he is. you’re a god remember?
however her blatant rejection of the common courtesy to remove one’s shoes before they enter an abode, along with the way she callously kicks his door to a close, provokes the dormant beast into a quick rage. he barely makes it on to his feet before he’s flash stepping towards her, his eyes, from his scleras to his pupils taking on the likeness of obsidian. the charcoal smoke clears and dean bridles before her finger gun. her complete disregard for the danger she has willingly put herself in irks him, along with the use of his birth name. she doesn’t seem to fear him at all, and that’s what makes him want to unreservedly eviscerate her yet at the same time, learn everything there is to know about her. it’s a paradox of sorts; underneath the vicious inky glare and the cruel grimace that contorts his expression, underneath all the fury and lust for blood, her blood; there’s this hint of fascination.
just how did she do it?
but no amount of fascination can surpass the wrath that surges through him. his hands reach out to clutch at the other’s rather loose garments, pushing her petite frame against his door with such a force, one would think he is trying to push her through it. lips pulling back against teeth, he presses her against the door, almost lifting her off the ground. “have you ever danced with the devil my dear?” he snarls, before his lips crack into a smile. all the beast wants is to hear her release a bloodcurdling scream into the air, beg for mercy he was wont not to give. but deep down he knows he won’t get the submission his fiery ego aches for.
“since you’re so willing to pay in your own blood, i will very much oblige. that is why you’ve offered yourself to me, right?” he questions her hopefully as his eyes resume normality, tilting his head to the side. this calm he assumes is only a front; one that conceals his musing on the many ways in which he could torment this curious being.
It all happens in a blur of midnight black.
One moment, there he calmly sits, fiddling with the drink in his hand, and the next, he’s in front of her, his black orbs dancing across her figure like a demon appraising its human prey. (God, she doesn’t think she will ever get used to this Goddamn mutation. He seems to have come straight out of a horror movie, and thus, jump scares are only part and parcel of those damned things.) Jennie has half the mind to scream, but she knows better than to give off the impression of distress. She is sure that he is no different to all predators, and like all predators, they are attuned to the scent of fear.
And really, there is no reason for her to be afraid. Because Jennie has this all planned out, as per usual. Killing her only guarantees his death in the hands of her current moderators who may be subpar at actually moderating, but make no mistake: the reason she had employed them in the first place is because they are all natural killers too, much like the man in front of her.
(So why, oh why, does her knees scream threats of giving way? Her teeth sink into her curved lips to the point where she is almost sure they will draw blood.)
A pained groan spill from her lips without her permission as her back is brutally slammed against the door, and for a moment, she entertains the thought that perhaps, she’ll actually die here. It is a brief flash in her mind before she shuts off the stream of noradrenaline that pours into her brain, giving her the calm mind and courage to match the smile on his lips.
“No, but I have a feeling you’re about to show me,” she snarks as she brazenly meets the bottomless pit that is his eyes, and her teeth finally relents in its abuse against her lips as she edges forward in the little space that she’s given from him holding her in place, “and as much as I’d love to find out, I think you got a little lost in translation. The blood that will be shed is not mine, and I’m not offering myself up like some gutted pig.”
The smile cemented on her lips can only be described as having a hint of condescension, and despite the rapid tattoo of her heartbeat against her heaving chest, she doesn’t give into the want to struggle against his hold. She has a clear enough mind to realise that it’s no use to even try; in terms of strength, she is sorely lacking, but her tongue is as sharp as a knife tipped in lethal venom, and so she charges forth with the weapon.
“I’m making an offer, and it’s best you accept it! But while we’re on that, I’ve got to say: your customer service really needs improvement!” she complains, and her lack of self-preservation can only be blamed by her immense confidence in any situation, given that she is a careful planner, “how about you let go of the poor lady, big boy, and we can get to the business part of the deal? Hmm?”
Slim fingers reach up to pat his chiselled jaw twice, as though signalling for him to move, because such is her audacity. Jennie moves on tip-toes as her lips edges closer to his ear, and she barely whispers, “oh, and if you kill me here, I hate to break the news to you but you’re probably gonna die, too. I’d hate to kill you, hot stuff, but we gotta do what we gotta do!”
And then she assumes the original position he’s put her in, her back firmly against the door and her teeth tugging at her bottom lip as she curiously awaits for his reaction. She looks up at him through her fluttering lashes, and the innocent smile that tugs at her lips is aimed to taunt him. She waits a beat, two beats, and then because Jennie is overcome with impatience, her once perfect posture sinks as she whines, “oh, come on. Please? I haven’t even gotten to the part where everyone kills each other! You know: the fun part!”
A cutesy pout and furrowed eyebrows that grace her feline features do terribly at expressing her annoyance at the situation, and for that, she has her wired personality to blame. But it doesn’t stop her from the semi-glare she throws his way as her eyes study his handsome features in disdain.
large, dark and empty spaces are wont to be draughty and hold cool temperatures, so its no wonder the warehouse is tantamount to dean’s own chest. whilst he muses over the news of one his own being incarcerated, the only pressing thought that brings his eyebrows to meet each other in disdain is, how much would he have to pay his mother to keep the kid from speaking? perhaps not much. but it’s all such a blip in his well-designed plans. a silent rage furls from the pit of his stomach yet a few deep breaths is all it takes to stifle the rumbling inferno within him.
it doesn’t stop him, however, from hurling his phone across the vast space, finding repose in the sound of some sort of destruction.
he’s not one to dwell. what’s the point? dean likes to think that men are dispensable and when one falls, another rises. though the thought irks him to an extent. is he not man? does that statement not apply to him?
but some consolation comes from the very fact that he knows he’s far from the piles of flesh that report to him with their cruel expressions and mindless mantra of “yes sir” and “how high sir?”. that’s why he hired them of course; the more typical and inane, the better. he begins to pace, the corners of his lips stretches taut, something akin to a smile decorating his features. how utterly boring the world is! a god walks among them, sanguine and savage…
only a god could destroy a god.
the sound of someone else entering the warehouse draws him from his headspace, although he doesn’t think too much of it since he’s sure its one his henchmen. they come in and out to his dismay, as they see fit. there’s only so much he can take of the cretins which is why dean finds himself in his own quarters when they decide to all congregate at the warehouse. today it’s rather quiet, everyone seems to be in hiding knowing that one of their own has been taken. like roaches they all wait in their grungy corners where the light doesn’t shine until darkness resumes. then’ll they return.
its the displeasing din that usually comes with heels on concrete, however, that has the killer pivoting on his heels, only to meet eyes with a woman. this stranger’s words are perhaps a tad too chirpy for him at any time of the day, and the apathetic look he graces her with turns increasingly stony. he hides his bafflement of her presence since no one except those who work for him actually has the details to this location. it’s either someone’s tongue has been a little too loose and needs fixing, or he’s not being discreet enough. dean cannot fathom anything other than the former statement.
“what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he questions, completely ignoring her deluge of questions. “if you know anything about me, you know that that is not how i do things.” his tone is monotonous, where it is usually full of unnecessary mirth and inflection. his displeasure of her being here, this jennie, adds more fuel to his fire. he finds himself wondering whether it is necessary to kill her and just how easy it would be to snap her slender, rather attractive, neck. no one would know. though someone must have seen her walking around here, strutting around as if this is some sort of fashion outlet. a smirk betrays his countenance. he refuses to take anything that’s happening right here seriously. his smirk soon transforms into a sneer and he inches closer to her.
“i can tell. jennie, is it?” he allows a small throaty chuckle to escape him before he continues, “if you would be so kind, my dear, and get the fuck out of here.” he punctuates his sentence with a wide grin that quickly dissolves back into his prior straight face. you could say dean fails to hold the concept of manners, though he would fail to recollect ever learning them. with that, he side steps around her and ambles towards the door. he doesn’t even look back. he doesn’t really see the need to. her existence and also the existence of the warehouse are soon to be a complete myth to him. how easy it is to remove the unfavourable from his life. with a smug smile, he teleports into the distance, leaving nought but a flurry of charcoal smoke in his wake.
Perhaps the destroyed electronic that can only be described as out of place on dry cement or the fact that a warehouse that typically boasts of hosting the worst criminals in Incheon is eerily quiet at the moment are all telling symptoms of Dean’s anger; and that one should beware where they tread, lest they step accidentally on his toes and invite a bullet between the eyes as a result of his revenge. But Jennie is more self-absorbed than any other human being is capable of being, and so she misses all these tell-tale signs as her mind focuses only on what she wants, and what she is most definitely going to get.
It is why she has the cheek to be surprised by his angered tone, to which she cocks a perfectly plucked eyebrow, although her tight smile still tears at her cheeks as it usually does.
“‘The customer is always right’ doesn’t apply here?” she asks simply—stupidly—as she compares hitmen to customer service at her favourite coffee shops, which she argues is equally important. Her lips crack open to reveal the glint of her pearly whites as she drawls, “anyway, this is how I do things. So watch and learn, tiger!”
In her mind, she imagines that the next scene goes a little like this: her fingers forming the shape of guns as she playfully shoots him, a childish “pew pew!” rolling off her tongue; and him, admitting defeat and promptly accepting her proposal. But evidently, absolutely nothing goes as planned, because before her fingers can even move, she’s entranced by the sinister smile that tugs on his lips.
Odd.
The falter in her smile reveals that she’s caught off guard, but Jennie is quick to bounce back, her smile regaining its distinctive brightness once more; but apparently not quick enough, because he promptly vanishes and Jennie is protesting in a loud, “hey!” at a cloud of black smoke.
So he’s a mutant, she discovers. They are awfully pesky beings—she’s one of them, she should know—because everyone is always extremely careful about keeping archives on the existence of mutants on any existing network. As a result, her discovery of one’s abilities is often unplanned and thus, heavily unprepared for. This is a gross oversight, a mistake that will see the light of day ever again, she promises.
She runs towards the exit in the fastest pace her pink pumps allow, but the only thing that greets her is the blinding light of Sunlight reflected by white snow. Jennie stomps her foot in anger, and when she’s done with her childish antics, she sulks her way home, back to the drawing board.
/
She opts for her black combat boots this time round. She’s learnt, from their previous encounter, that Dean is a slippery fellow. (And yes, that is the only thing she’s learnt; she has not yet extrapolated from his broken phone and hostile words that he is all too trigger happy, or the way that his eyes rest on her neck is a testament to his bloodlust, or that all of these summed up together tells a tale of danger, his possessive lover.) So she’s ready to chase him down with her trusty boots, as much as someone like her is able to catch up with someone like him.
In an extra effort to lure him into her trap, she’s put on the work attire she stole from the pizza delivery guy down the street, too.
In hindsight, the effort is wasted because it is highly doubtful that someone as low profile as Dean would ever order pizza and voluntarily offer up the address of his home, but nevertheless Jennie is humoured by the way the attire drowns her small figure, so she supposes that is a good enough reason. As she approaches his residence, feline eyes zoom onto the blinking light beneath the number pad of his security system, and her pink lips tug into a cocky smirk. How careless of him to rely on such a pitiful device to protect his home, when said device can so easily be hacked by even hacker novices. It takes her a mere moment to gain access into his house, and the high-pitched ping signalling access granted is like music to her ears.
Hands reach up to push against the door, and her eyes rest on his seated figure on the couch, the corners of her lips tugging further into a shit-eating grin.
“You don’t mind if I don’t take off my shoes, do you?” she breaks the silence as she saunters further into his space, one leg kicking the door closed behind her, “alright, let’s try this again, shall we?”
And then Jennie forms her fingers into the shape of a gun and points it directly between his eyes, a childish “pew pew” rolling off her tongue. She giggles at her display, mostly basking in the fact that she’s successful this time round, and before she loses track of what she’s come here for, she finally requests, “as I said before—but you probably already forgot about it so I’ll say it again—I’d like to hire your services, Dean-Hyuk!”
Neon pink pumps slam against wet tar as a wild Jennie is found sneaking around a site that hosts factories, warehouses and the like. She is a girl possessed, feral eyes quick to react to the slightest of movements as she all but runs towards the different entrances of the many warehouses that are within a close proximity, only to hurry out when she realises that it’s not the right one yet again.
It seems odd for a girl like Jennie—who prides herself in knowing just about everything—to be stuck in such a situation (this ‘situation’ being that she’s lost), but in all actuality, she knows exactly what she’s doing.
(Perhaps not exactly, but mostly.)
Because here is a girl who’s just about to end her wild goose chase with the recruitment of the latest moderator for her games. She had found out about him through hearsays, his name mentioned in passing during one of her recons involving a particularly dangerous criminal. She remembers being bored half to death by the muscular giant, whose record and appearance boasts a challenge, so imagine her surprise when she finds out that he is a walking cliché of a henchman in every children cartoon, one who lives in his mother’s basement and has a brain that’s devolved into the equivalent of an ape.
Imagine her disgust when she finds out that the idiot had gladly went to jail for his boss, as though it’s the highest honour.
(Truly, he is the definition of an idiot.)
But most importantly, imagine her intrigue—the parting of her pink lips into a wicked grin—upon finding out that his boss, the true mastermind behind all the crimes that made her interested in the dimwit, and she suspects more, is up for hire.
Jennie is like a rabid dog who, upon sinking her fangs into a brand new stranger, will never let go until she finds out everything there is to find out about them. So naturally, she begins her research on this Dean character, hacking into every network and obtaining archives of the many criminal organisations for even a trace of him, and what she finds hardly disappoints.
When she’s certain that it’s him she wants as the last addition to her group of moderators, she begins to look into his location, and her mind goes wild with options. Perhaps a seedy apartment room located on the ground floor, or a popular hotel or club used as a front, or a—
Nondescript warehouse, hiding in plain sight. A great plan, because it draws little attention to itself, and the space should be big enough for whatever he intends to do; but annoying as all hell, because all the warehouses look the fucking same, and so that is why Jennie is undeniably lost.
(Perhaps she should’ve gone with the combat boots today.)
Sweaty palms press against the door handle as she enters yet another warehouse, and because she is overcome with pessimism at this point, tired eyes that land on the lone man’s back widen in surprise because him, she’s sure it’s him. Her features adopt their characteristic grin once more, and then her pumps are making a disruptive crack against dry cement that bounces off the walls of the empty warehouse with each step as she saunters towards his direction.
“Hellooooo!” she sings a little too loudly, “you’re the hitman, aren’t you? Dean? Or Hyuk?”
She slows to a stop as she furrows her eyebrows, a quick, “why do you even have two names?” muttered under her breath—for her own ears, but Jennie has never understood the concept of an ‘inner voice’—but she shakes the inconsequential inquiry away and says instead, “anyway, I’m Jennie! I wanna hire you! But it’s not really just one target, it’s many, and I don’t actually know if I need you yet, but— is there a long term thing that you do, or do I have to keep coming back when I need you? Do you have a ‘standby mode’?”
A light giggle bubbles from her chest.
“I don’t really know how this hitman thing works, oops.”
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