storymonger (80s child) 🔞 @yoongihan - Tumblr Blog

Street Demon (b.sk)

PAIRING: Mafia!Seungkwan x f. reader SUMMARY: You’ve been street racing since you could reach the pedal of a car - it’s the only thing you’ve ever been good at. When Seungkwan shows up to make an offer you can’t turn down, you realize it isn’t about racing anymore - it’s about life and death. WORD COUNT: 27,988 AU: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Semi-strangers to Lovers GENRE: Romance, action, smut RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. WARNINGS: Due to the nature of this fic, warnings are under the cut. A/N: If you have not, I recommend reading the three previous works of the Syndicates Collection. While it's not totally necessary for this fic, it adds so much color/context to this world and it's characters. I do my best to provide context so this can be read as a standalone, but I'm not perfect. A/N 2: Thank you to @daechwitatamic for beta-reading this - without her, I would have left the word 'murmur' as 'murder' and this story would have had a very different scene entirely.

M. LIST | ASK | FULL COLLECTION | ▷ NOW PLAYING | THE SYNDICATES INFO GUIDE

WARNINGS: General criminal behavior and violence including power struggles, bribery and mass killings (reported on the news), display of disparity between wealthy classes and general population, light themes of classism, threats of murder and assault (not by the main cast), vehicular manslaughter (intentional), political assassination depicted on live broadcast with some graphic elements, unsettling Jeonghan (sorry jeonghan everyone fears u), Seungkwan is a general menace, illegal street racing, mild misunderstandings of relationship status. depictions of fear/anxiety in some spots (light mentions), moral ambiguity all throughout by multiple characters, reader serving as the getaway car to a murder, reference to someone being tortured, explicit language, explicit sexual content including oral (m. receiving), vaginal fingering, vaginal sex w/ no condom because fuck it we ball, light dom/sub themes but not expressly stated, light hand on throat without choking.

RAIN SLUICES DOWN THE WINDSHIELD LIKE MELTED GLASS, BURNING THE NEON LIGHTS OF THE LOWER DISTRICT INTO STREAKS OF ELECTRIC BLUE AND BLEEDING RED. Your wipers can’t keep up, but at this speed, the rain slides off the glass faster than your wipers can clear your field of vision. You don’t need to see, anyway.

You know these streets better than you know anything else in Hyperion.

Every gutter, every dip in the asphalt, every place the the rain pools deep enough to send lesser drivers spinning into a building or parking garage. You’ve mapped out each turn and corner with your bones, the streets singing under your tires.

The engine growls as you downshift, fingers feathering over the gear stick with the ease of instinct. The car responds like it’s part of you, like it knows the rhythm of your pulse and matches it beat for beat. Wet concrete slicks beneath your wheels and you feel the slip in the back tires, but you don’t falter.

Another corner comes up and you cut it without breaking, letting the back end of the car slip enough just to flirt with the edge of disaster before catching it again with a flick of the wheel. A spray of rainwater fans behind you, scattering the reflections of signs and tail lights into a mess of shattered color.

Somewhere behind, you hear sirens. The flash of red and blue as the Hyperion City Police catch you illegally racing through the heart of the Lower District.

You don’t care. You press the gas harder, hearing the whine of the sirens that struggle to keep up, tires screeching a second too longer, the telltale over-correction of someone who doesn’t know how to keep up with you.

It’s not about speed so much as it is knowing when to push and when to pull, when to kiss the edge of what your car can do and when to take caution. The money at the end of your win will be well worth the danger, but it’s not the only reason you’re here, downshifting again as you slow to take a corner before flying on the homestretch back to the docks.

You’re also here for the quiet, because the only time you can find silence is with your hands vibrating on the wheel and the hum of the engine to lull you into a focus.

The city around you is alive, rain hammering down on corrugated roofs, steam hissing from manholes, lights flickering like a pulse in the concrete veins of the city. Advertisements and holograms nearly blind you as you cut through a corner of the Pearl District, but they fade as you gun it for the Warehouse District.

Near the open water and old freight bridge, the finish line sits waiting, half-swallowed by fog. You know you’ve won before you see the crowds of people and headlights from cars. No one can touch you in these races, especially at night, especially in the rain.

Instead of easing off the throttle, you blow past the finish line in a streak of color. The headlights of other cars and the crowd of people smears by you until you near the sharp curve carved into the road around the bay. You ease into it, finally slowing down until you’re looping back toward the finish line through narrow streets at a normal pace.

Your tires hiss as you slow into the Warehouse District, the acrid smell of burnt rubber coming through the windows of the car as you crack them open. It’s humid and wet here, still drizzling as you pull toward the crowd of people.

The city is different out here. Gone are the neon-drenched storefronts, traded in for the dark ribs of empty warehouses, rusting shipping containers and old cranes that loom over the bay like hooked fingers.

A few years ago, city officials had moved the official Port of Hyperion across the bay to the Civ District. Now, the old shipping yards are left to those who don’t have the money to move to a new space provided by the Yong-owned port authority. Or if you were a member of the Choi Syndicate who refused to relocate to enemy territory.

The politics and finer points of the Syndicate War are lost on you. All you know is that you come here, you race, you take money home to your shoebox apartment at the north end of the Lower District. It’s nicer than most homes in the Lower District, not shiny enough to be considered middle class but far better off than you’d be anywhere else without connections or education.

You’ve barely parked the car before people start emerging, clapping and cheering you on. There are cars littered around the empty gravel lot, hoods up, lights on the trim of their vehicles glowing. You have many rivals among them and who are just now crossing the finish line, late to finish the race after fishing their pride out of a rain-slicked gutter.

You kill the engine and sit in the stillness for a second, hands still on the wheel. Winning doesn’t bring peace - it’s the driving that brings you that. But for now, it keeps your pride fed, your bills paid, and it keeps you in good tires and spare parts.

The car door creaks as you open it, the smell of salt and brine thick under the heavy, humid air. You’re close enough to the bay to hear the waves slapping lazily against the dock nylons just beyond the empty ribs of the buildings. There are no shipping boats moored, no one waiting to unload product. Just black water, a place for bodies to get dumped and never come back.

Music blares from scattered cars, the deep basslines competing with each other, mixing with revving engines and shouts from the crowd. The gravel crunches beneath your boots as you accept congratulatory slaps on the back and handshakes before heading toward the shipping container near the edge of the fence line.

Lorro has turned the old container into an office of sorts. Rusted red walls, a flickering floodlight above it, and the ever-present sting of cigarette ash and coolant.

Though the race circuits rotate to dodge law enforcement, some places - like this corner of the Warehouse District - feel permanent. Like the city forgot about them entirely, or have given up trying to patrol them with the Syndicates warring elsewhere.

Inside, the container sweats. Condensation drips down the metal walls, the air thick with too much sound and too little space. The interior pulses with LED light strips and the occasional static flicker of Lorro’s five-monitor setup. He’s perched behind a better desk, chewing the end of a stim pop while scratching the side of his hooked, beakish nose.

“I’m gonna stop letting you race in the rain,” he grumbles without looking at you. One of his grease-streaked hands lifts in your direction, waiting.

You pass him your phone wordlessly. He scans it over the credit transfer machine, grunting at the total. “You make for bad betting. No one wants to bet against you and the odds are shit.”

You smirk and accept your phone back. “Find better drivers.”

“Like I said. You’re an odds-killer.

Rolling your eyes, you look at the total on your phone. Your heart dips a little, the number lower than you’d hoped for a high-stakes rain race. Lorro is right, though. For anyone else, rain would up the stakes. For you, it’s just another thing to get excited about, another way to prove how good you are.

“Maybe if you would let me race against Güey.”

“I don’t like you, but I'm at least trying not to let you get stabbed and dumped off the dock.”

“So he can keep winning but I can’t?”

“You know why, Demon.”

You do. Güey is a Syndicate man. Not high up, but tied to the Yong family, which means he walks with a shield anywhere he does. No one really races him or tries to win, and Lorro, for all of his posturing, isn’t in a position to make enemies that large.

But you? You’re unaffiliated with no threat of the Syndicate to back you when Lorro turns you down from a race because you fuck up his odds. He can make you stop and start racing at his leisure, basing your entire life on the flow of his business.

You fold your arms across your chest. The LED strip above you flickers and pulses. “So you’re saying if I go get the backing of a Syndicate I can just do whatever I want?”

He doesn’t respond. He just writes down move numbers in his archaic betting book, preferring paper and pencil over anything that can be hacked or logged.

Outside, the music shifts. The volume climbs, swallowed by the familiar cheer that always comes right before a pair of engines roar into the night. You don’t turn to look. Unless they’re lining up beside you, they’re not worth your attention.

But then something changes.

A flicker in the air. A pull at the back of your neck. The unmistakable ripple of silence that only happens when someone important shows up.

You step out of the container, boots crunching into wet gravel. Rain beads down on your jacket, more of a mist now than the deluge you’d raced in. At first there’s nothing out of place, just the usual tangle of cars, fire barrels, and half-drunk spectators yelling into the dark.

Then the crowd starts to shift, a slow parting at the edge of the lot, like the tide being pulled by something heavier than gravity. A sleek, black car rolls through the parted crowd, headlights off, engine so quiet it you can barely hear it. The vehicle comes to a stop and the driver kills the engine.

It is a car far nicer than anything anyone owns around here, and very out of place.

The door swivels upward, opening like a butterfly wing. A man steps out, the hood of his jacket pulled over his head, hands shoved in his pockets. He’s got dirty blonde hair that's damp with rain, the tips clinging to his forehead. The flickering neon from nearby cars catches on his skin, throwing golden light across sharp cheekbones, his mouth already curved in amusement.

Seungkwan.

You haven’t seen him in over a year. He used to race the circuits back in the day - loud, cocky, and fast enough to leave everyone chasing his tail lights. But ever since the Syndicate War tore through the city, he's disappeared from the races.

Seeing him is strange.

You blink, just once, as he scans the lot and catches you watching him. His head tilts slightly, expression sharpening, that grin blooming into something cocky and a little dangerous. He nods as he passes, a silent greeting, and then slips past you into Lorro’s container without a word. You stare, surprised. You didn't think he knew who you were, but he looked at you like he does.

A shiver slides up your spine.

Seungkwan pulls the heavy metal door to the container shut with a heavy thud, sealing you off from whatever conversation he’s about to have with Lorro. Whatever it is, you can’t help but feel like it’s important. Like Güey, Seungkwan is a Syndicate man. You’re not sure what exactly Seungkwan’s rank is, but you’re pretty sure you’ve heard a rumor that he’s best friends with some of the most dangerous Rooks in the Choi Syndicate.

Which means Seungkwan is here for something.

You’d love to know what that something is.

-

Rain taps lightly against your window, a slow and steady murmur that blurs the city skyline into something distant and ghostlike. You’re not quite in the worst part of the Lower District, but you’re only two blocks from the dangerous streets that belong to a mix of Syndicates. Your location is luxurious enough to have an ounce of comfort, but still crushed beneath the boot of the behemoths in the Upper District.

Your apartment is clean, at least. Small but yours, with a security system and a working elevator. You can’t say the same for most homes in the Lower District, and even though the rent is a number you can barely afford and sometimes the power goes out, it’s still worth every penny to not live shoved in a shoebox with other people in your space, danger lurking around every corner.

It’s a single bedroom apartment with a fold-out bed, a corner kitchen barely big enough to boil noodles in, and a window that sticks every time you try to open it. You leave the curtains drawn most days anyway in an attempt to keep the blinding light from neon advertisements out.

The kettle whistles on the stove. You move through your morning with practiced motions: cup of tea, followed by pulling on boots, jackets, and a single knife you keep on your person at all times. The power flickers once while you’re lacing up your boots, the dull hum of the building’s old coolant system cutting off for a split second before it staggers back to life.

Outside, the rain has turned the streets to slick veins of oil and neon. Though it’s midday, the cloudy skies make it feel like late evening.

People move quickly outside, hoods on jackets pulled up as they dash out of the rain or huddled underneath umbrellas with scintillating lights around the edges. They’re not moving to get out of the rain, though. Getting drenched in Hyperion is inevitable. It’s the knowledge that anyone who lingers too long anywhere becomes a target, even here in the safest block of the neighborhood - especially here.

You tuck into yourself, pulling the hood on your jacket up and start off toward the train. You prefer to go without an umbrella, hand wrapped around your knife just in case. An umbrella is too much to calculate for when you’re jogging down wet tiles to the subway and past people lying in wait to mug you.

On the walk, you pass a massive holo-display stretching across the side of a decrepit building. It flickers, disrupted by the rain, but the feed is still visible. The headline scrolls slowly at the bottom in red: THREE DEAD IN PEARL DISTRICT DISPUTE. CITY COUNCIL CALLS EMERGENCY SUMMIT WITH SYNDICATE LEADERS.

Footage plays behind the text, an aerial drone footage of a scored convoy of cars, civilian vehicles reduced to a slag on a highway near the Pearl District. Medical personnel pull bloodied bodies from the wreckage while automated drones fly around looking for signs of lingering hostels.

A grainy image flashes next, showing the City Council’s Chancellor standing with three Syndicate representatives at a long, steel conference table. Your eyes jump between the three figures, recognizing only two of them. One is the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate, Yoon Jeonghan with sleek, black hair that brushes his shoulders and an angelic face that belies the violence underneath. The other is Kim Nari, who makes you imagine there cannot be a more beautiful woman on the planet, if not just the city. The third is a man you don’t know, but assume is from the Yong family.

You turn away, uncaring what the Gods of the City are up to today. You’re not unaffected by Syndicate War, of course. Everything in the city is more expensive, there are more people making risky power grabs, and low-level criminals who aren’t affiliated with anyone have used the warring factions as an attempt to earn some credit for themselves. Either way, you don’t really care who wins or loses, so long as you keep winning races and keep to your small corner of the world.

The subway station stinks of wet metal and sweat. You’re careful on the stairs as you skip down, not wanting to slip and crack your head on the concrete. Flickering lights cast your shadow in and out of focus across the stained floors. The air’s thick down here, hot and damp and full of static, the low thrum of too many lives packed underground.

You hop over the turnstile, the alarm going unanswered as you refuse to pay the toll. Only half the sensors in this part of the Lower District work, and no one seems interested in fixing or policing them. Not when half the cars on the train still rattle like they’re going to fly apart at the next curve.

Nothing here is a priority.

The subway platform is a dull roar of noise. Boots splash in puddles, vending machines with loud holo advertisements warble, someone in the corner playing synth music from a speaker tucked in their coat. You step into the next open car and grab a handle just before the doors hiss shut behind you.

Lights flicker as the subway shoots into darkness. Flashes of light and graffiti-tagged tunnel walls become the view outside the condensation-covered windows. You’re one of three people in your car, the other two sitting at the far end leaning over a holoscreen as they point and talk quietly about something. You let the sway of the train car rock you into a lull for a three stops before letting go of the handle as you reach your stop.

Deeper into the Lower District now, you’re on higher alert. Here, it’s busier. People move together in groups, vendors pulling out carts as the rain subsides to hawk their wares. The auto parts shop you’re looking for is two blocks down and buried behind a defunct noodle stand and wall of shuttered businesses.

Most people don’t know it’s there, which is the entire point.

You find it by muscle memory, ducking under a rusted security gate and slipping into the shop through a side door barely marked with a flickering red glyphs. Inside, the air smells like motor oil, ozone, and wet leather. The walls are stacked with salvaged mods, half-stripped engine parts, and neon-lit displays of filament wire and gear cores in mismatched packaging. The back of the shop glows with a makeshift forge setup, which is impressive but most likely illegal - the City Council regulates all manufacturers and the materials made here aren’t up to their code or legalities.

Fine by you.

“Thought I saw a rat,” Jinmae says when he sees you. The shopkeeper is wire-thin with goggles perched on his sweaty forehead like a second set of eyes. “Racing or rebuilding?”

“Both.” You toss him a damp piece of paper with your list. “Under five hundred.”

He snorts, taking it immediately and frowning. “You’re not getting this shit for under five-hundred credits. Supply’s tight. The ports are locked down with the Syndicates and-”

“Don’t lie, old man.” You level him with a look. “You’ve had three coils of copper filament in the back for weeks. You want me to tell everyone in the Warehouse District you’re sitting on back stock?”

His lips curl, not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “Four-twenty.”

“Three-seventy and I don’t mention your name if law enforcement sweeps the docks like they did a few weeks ago.”

He stares at you. A beat passes and he sighs, shaking his head as he shuffles toward the back. “God damn rat.”

You grin as he disappears into the back, muttering curses in a dialect you don’t recognize. You tap your fingers on the cracked counter, eyes drifting toward a beat-up security monitor glowing in faint blue in the corner.

Movement on the screen catches your eyes. You watch as the newcomer walks through the door, causing you to turn, though you already know who it is as you do.

Güey.

He pauses just inside the doorframe, soaked from the rain, jacket unzipped to show the gleam of a weapon tucked into his belt. His lips curl when he sees you, like he’s baring his teeth but trying to be polite about it.

“You look like cat soaked through,” he greets.

“And you look like a wet dog.” He laughs at that, stepping further into the shop. You see the barest hint of the tail from his dragon tattoo peaking from the collar of his shirt, denoting his allegiance to the Yong family. “Didn’t know Syndicate lapdogs shopped with the rest of us.”

He doesn’t seem bothered by the jab. Instead, he scans the shop slowly, eyes landing on where Jinmae has disappeared. “This place has potential. Shame it’s sitting neutral during a Syndicate War.”

“Neutral isn’t the same as unclaimed.”

He looks at you, grin sharpening. “This is Choi territory, right? You’re not affiliated though.”

“I’m not.”

“So what do you care who it belongs to?”

He has a point. Still, you feel unsettled by the thought of this becoming Yong territory - or anyone associated with Güey, for that matter. “This shop has been here for longer than any of the current Towers have had their positions,” you point out. “Jinmae has survived multiple shifts in power. He doesn’t need to swear allegiance to anyone.”

“You say that like he has a choice.” Güey steps closer now, slow and casual, like the conversation hasn’t shifted to something more dangerous. “Man’s old. Tired. Smart, hopefully. Look, the Yong family seeks to protect those important to me, and Jinmae’s shop has been important to me since I was a kid racing piece of shit cars.”

“Then you know that being here and asking him for allegiance will destroy his business. You’ll bring the Choi family right to his doorstep. They’re not going to let you try and turn someone in their territory.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I suppose we’ll find out.”

The creaking of the backdoor interrupts you. You turn around to see Jinmae, whose eyes are on Güey. From the look on the shopkeeper's face, he’s not surprised to see him here. Your stomach drops at that, wondering how many times the Yong’s lapdog has already come here to try and get Jinmae to fly the dragon’s crest outside of his shop.

Jinmae squints at you, holding a wrapped package of parts out toward you. You step up to the counter and take it from him, reaching for your phone to pay when he says quietly, “Tabs clear. Go home.”

“Jin-”

“Go on,” he says tightly. “You’ve got better places to be than here right now.”

You glance at Güey, who watches impassively before looking back at the thin man behind the counter. “You sure?”

“Mhmm. I’ve been dealing with this shit since long before you could spell fuel injector.” He squints at you. “In fact, you probably can’t spell fuel injector.”

You can’t, but it’s not his point. He’s hiding his nervousness with jesting and you’re hesitant to leave him, eyes lingering. He gestures toward the door and you nod, reluctantly backing toward the door. The air hangs heavy as you do, Güey lifting his hand to wiggle his fingers in a goodbye.

As the door shuts behind you, Güey shuffles toward the counter, voice sickly sweet.

-

You’re elbow-deep in grease, head under the hood of your car when your phone buzzes. You jump at the sound, banging your head against the metal underside of the hood. A string of curses floods from your mouth as you press an oiled hand to the top of your head to rub, not caring what you’re smearing into your hair. Growling, you wipe your fingers on your pants and pick up the phone, green holographic text flickering to life.

L: You’re running tonight. New format. Upper District. Lot behind Prism. Don’t be late.

That stumps you. No one races in the Upper District. People actually give a shit what’s going on on their streets there. The few times Lorro has risked running races through the Upper District have been through tiny edges or slices of streets that could barely be considered Upper District, but when you look up the location he’s given you, you’re surprised to see it’s right in the heart of the elite.

Interesting.

The Upper District is a world of high towers, clean air and private security drones that fly around the streets. People like you don’t even belong up there with a transit pass, let alone an engine that could split lanes at 150 mph. Which means tonight is incredibly stupid or unbelievably important, and you’re not sure which one.

A smile kicks your mouth sideways as you type in a confirmation that you’re in. The thrill of it shoots through you, fueling you through the rest of the afternoon prepping like a soldier headed to war. You double-check your tires, mod your coolant injector, calibrate the heads up dash inside the cab.

Showered and clean of all grease, you slip into a slick, black driving jacket, zipping it up to the throat. It’s plain and the sleeves are scuffed and stained with oil, but it’s supple and nice. It feels like your own personal armor. Your boots come last, and you finish off the laces with barely time to spare. You grab your keys and head out the door, phone in hand.

Your apartment is the only one in the Lower District with a secure parking garage. While it isn’t the high-security of an Upper District home, it’s enough for you and the only reason you decided to live here. Plus, no one in your building really has cars to store, so you’re able to carve out an entire section for yourself to work on your car like a mini garage space.

The roar of the engine vibrates against the concrete walls. The steering wheel vibrates with the hum of the car as you drive down to street level, your excitement already sparking. You’re unsure what to expect, but you can feel that this is different somehow. That the stakes are higher.

It’s not far to the Upper District from where you live. It gleams around you like a fever dream, all polished chrome and glass towers tall enough that they vanish into low-hanging clouds. The rain has stopped for the night, leaving the streets slick and reflective.

You weave through the pristine avenues, your car a stark contrast to the sleek, elegant vehicles that belong to the residents here. Your car is put together in pieces and painted reflective and flashy, while the subtle wealth of the other cars make them look like beetles.

The lot behind the Prism Tower is tucked between two monoliths of wealth, a rare patch of open space usually reserved for corporate deliveries or private galas when it’s not pouring rain. Now, it’s been turned into something else with cars lined around the perimeter, sleek and modded to hell, the under glows casting eerie neon pools of electric light.

You pull into the lot, tires crunching on clean gravel. There’s a shift in the air and you look at the cars as you drive by slowly, recognizing racers and onlookers alike. It’s a much smaller crowd than you’re used to, and the gathering is understated. Quieter.

Parking in a free space, you get out of the car, scanning the lot for Lorro. You spot him leaning against an old fashioned car you know he treats like his baby, a table filled with laptops around him. He chews on a stimpop, looking through his screens furiously as you approach.

It’s not Lorro that holds your attention, though. Seungkwan is next to Lorro, leaning against the car. You imagine if it was anyone else, Lorro would freak out, but he says nothing to Seungkwan, who watches you approach. He’s all casual confidence in a damp hoodie, eyes looking you up and down. His blonde hair catches the light, reflecting back pinks and blues.

You’ve never seen Seungkwan oversee a race before. Lorro has always been the one barking orders, taking bets and setting odds. Seeing him here makes your skin prickle, like you’re standing too close to a live wire or a fire that’s about to burst.

“Signing in,” you say, eyes flicking between Seungkwan and Lorro. You’re unsure who to address. “This is… interesting.”

Lorro looks up. “Good, you’re here. We’ll get started shortly. Entry fee?”

You tap your phone to send him credits. He confirms on his end and nods before hesitating. “Look at your competitors. Pay attention.”

That makes you frown. Before you can ask questions, Seungkwan clears his throat. “Glad to see you here. I was interested if you’d accept or not.”

“I’m still a little confused about the format. Why are you here?”

His smile is sharp and sends a thrill through you. “Suppose we’ll find out.”

Seungkwan’s words leave you feeling equal parts uneasy and excited. You’re not sure they were meant to soothe you anyway, but you turn from him with a sense of foreboding, feeling his gaze on your back as you drift toward the center of the lot.

Your gaze drifts between the other drivers, and you realize there’s a pattern. The other competitors are the best of the best, people who have won races over and over again the last few months. You recognize Mira leaning against her sleek, silver car; Jiro, who has been racing since he was old enough to steal a set of keys from a valet; and Güey.

Güey leans against his car, grinning at you. The memory of the parts store is heavy on your mind as you ignore him, turning to wait by your own car. You’re surprised to see him - mostly because Lorro has been adamant about not letting particular people race against him.

The racers around you aren’t just drivers - they’re winners, people who have won their circuits every single time. These are the people - yourself included - who make betting pools useless and have fragile egos, forcing Lorro to be strategic with who he invites to what race. Seeing them all here in the same place sets your nerves on edge.

Lorro claps his hands, the sharp sound drawing you from your thoughts. You look up as he walks toward the center of the small crowd, drawing drivers off their car to walk over toward him. He looks nervous, rubbing his hands on his pants as he looks at each one of you.

“Listen up,” he says. “New format tonight. You’re not just racing for credits, you’re racing to impress a special guest of mine.”

When Lorro looks at Seungkwan, the other man grins. He strides over, arms crossed over his chest. His grin is lazy, eyes sharp. You feel a prickle at the back of your neck as he passes by Lorro, clapping the other man on the back as he stands in the middle of the loosely formed circle of drivers.

“I’m looking for drivers,” Seungkwan explains. “The best. Not just fast, but smart. The kind who can handle pressure and have good instincts. You do well tonight, you’re still in for consideration. You don't well, you’re out. Trust me… you don’t want to be out.”

Seungkwan pauses. His eyes fall on you and the corner of his mouth twitches. His eyes drift away as he addresses the group again. “The route’s specific. Start at the point I’ve marked on your GPS systems. You’ll loop through the Upper District’s main arteries. Full traffic. Winner gets a fat stack of credits.”

The group of drivers shifts and mutters, tapping one another excitedly. You’re focused on Seungkwan. His gaze flicks to you again and for a split second, you see something in it - amusement, maybe. Or a challenge. You’re not sure, because it’s gone before you can pin it down. It leaves a spark in your chest, a mix of irritation and something you can’t quite place.

As the drivers drift apart and head to their cars to ready themselves, you step closer to Seungkwan. “What’s the catch?” You ask. He turns to look at you, the air crackling with new energy. “No one races in the Upper District for fun. What’s this about?”

Seungkwan tilts his head. “You’re sharp. I like that.” He leans in conspiratorially. You catch his scent, something like rain and jasmine. “No catch. Just a job that needs doing. If you want answers, you’ll need to win and move to the next round.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’ll wish you had.” He grins, eyes twinkling. “So don’t fuck it up.”

You turn away from him, heart racing. So he’s looking for someone to do a job. You’re not sure that you want that. Seungkwan is allied with the Choi Syndicate, which should disqualify Güey outright, but it apparently doesn’t. Which means Seungkwan desperately wants a driver for something. You’re just not sure what.

Pulling up your phone, you look at the map. It’s an easy enough drive, but the added element of traffic always makes things harder. You race with traffic all the time, but it’s not raining tonight and you don’t have the advantage of the other drivers being more cautious.

For a moment, you hesitate at your car door. Do you even want to compete? There’s a choice in front of you - money, but something tied to the Choi Syndicate, or go home peacefully. You think of Jinmae and his shop, and the way Güey had shown up to give him the same choice. You don’t think he had much of one, but you do now.

You look at Seungkwan. He’s leaning against the hood of his sleek Phantom of a car, watching you. He raises his brows as if to ask what you’re waiting for, and you feel a spark of the challenge, the need to prove you can win this. The best of the best.

The interior of your car smells of leather and oil when you slide in, grounding you as you start it and drive out of the lot with the other cars. The starting line is the street in front of the lot, wide enough to accommodate for all five cars. You fall into place, hooking up your phone to your dash to display the route. It’s a straight shot for two blocks before a hard right, and you’re on the far left, a tough place to start.

Beneath your hands, the wheel vibrates with the hum of the engine. The thrill of the race is in your blood now, sharpening your focus. You want to win, you realize. Not just for the credits or the job, but just because you want to be the best. And if it draws a bit of respect from Seungkwan, you wouldn’t hate that either.

You breathe in. Seungkwan and Lorro stand on the sidewalk before walking in front of the cars, making sure that no one is pulled too far forward. They push Güey’s car back a few inches and you roll your eyes. You know he’ll take any advantage he can, especially here, with the promise of some mystery winnings on the line.

As Seungkwan passes your car, he winks. You narrow your eyes but your heart seizes a little. You tell yourself it's from the nerves and you focus on the road in front of you, waiting for the crack of the pistol to tell you go. You rest your hand on the gear shift, your attention narrowing to a needle point.

When the crack comes, you shift and punch the gas. You feel the engine roar, the tires screeching as you peel off and shoot through the alleyway. You barely blink as you cross an active street, thankful it's a green light as you zag in front of Güey, cutting him off.

The route is tight. Mira’s on your left, her silver car a blur while Güey’s dragon-wrapped vehicle looms in your rear view, his headlights blinding. You ignore him, readying for the sharp right up ahead. You feather the wheel, letting the back of the car slide just enough before snapping it back under your control.

Jiro is in front of you, but he’s too cautious, put off by the amount of cars on the road. You don’t care, trusting your instincts as you shift and weave through two pedestrian cars, closing the gap between you and the race leader within seconds.

You jerk in front of him, careful to maintain the control of your car. The other cars on the road force you to shift and move, driving in the oncoming lane and back into yours. Horns blare as you pass by and you see heads turn as you hop the edge of a curb to take a turn faster, the chassis of your car scraping.

Someone steps out onto the street and you’re forced to brake, swerving. Güey cuts on the outside of you, shooting by. You growl, shifting to chase him, close on his bumper. His red taillights taunt you, making you grit your teeth as you press your foot further on the gas, feeling the engine growl.

Güey keeps you on his ass. You try to pass him twice, but the oncoming traffic is a bitch. You’re nearing the end of the circuit, your eyes darting to the map. You notice a tiny cut through, a construction road that is closed to through traffic. But it’s a straight shot that would put you in front of Güey.

It’s not an official route and it might be too narrow for you, but no one said it was against the rules. Seungkwan wanted smart - so you drive smart. Your gut screams to take it and you do, braking and sliding into the alley. You nearly slam your car into the wall, but you gain control and shoot down the alleyway, aware of how close the walls are to your car.

Cones explode on either side of you as you run through them, ignoring the thud against your bumper. Your heart hammers, adrenaline flooding your veins as you push the car further, your side mirrors nearly scraping the walls of the alley as it narrows toward the end.

The shortcut spits you out into the road, tires screeching and cars swerving around you. But you’re ahead of Güey, a grin cutting your face as you punch across the finish line, screeching down the road you started on and into the parking lot, gravel flying.

You slow to a stop, heart slamming against your chest as you lean your head on the back of your seat rest, laughing breathlessly. The drive leaves you shaky and it takes a few minutes for you to kill the engine, hands trembling.

When you exit, the others are parking and getting out of their cars. Güey is already screaming at Lorro, pointing in your direction. You don’t care, rolling the tension out of your shoulders, shutting your door behind you.

Lorro is heading your way, annoyed with an angry Güey trailing him, face near purple with rage. You stand and cross your arms, letting them approach.

“You’re out,” Lotto growls. “You deviated.”

“No one said I couldn’t take a shortcut.”

“The route was specific.” Lorro crunches his stimpop. “You don’t listen, you don’t race. Güey wins.”

You open your mouth to protest, rage igniting but Seungkwan interrupts, walking over with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “Güey can take the win - I don’t want her out, though. It wasn’t in the rules and she drove smart.” Seungkwan looks at you and winks, same cocky grin on his face. “I just said they had to win. Didn’t say how.”

Güey tries to protest but Seungkwan silences him with a look. You notice the way Seungkwan adjusts the hoodie around his neck, loosening it so that the tip of the mountain tattoo is visible. Güey sees it too, his protests falling to silence as he glares over Lorro’s shoulder with steely silence.

“Jiro is out for coming in last.” Seungkwan glances at you again. “See you next race. And stick to the script.”

Seungkwan’s eyes hold yours, that same electric tension sparking between you again. He’s challenging you, daring you to push harder, to prove yourself. Despite the disqualification, he wants you at the next race to compete for whatever he’s looking for.

You’re determined to prove that you’re it, broken rules or not.

-

Fluorescent lights hum above, buzzing against the humid night air that slips in the door behind you. A blaze of advertisements and jingles call to you from the convenience store shelves, each product equipped with a holographic display to lure in customers to purchase them. You walk past them, shaking the rain off of your slicker as you go.

The aisles of the store are cramped and sticky with spilled energy drinks and neon wrappers. A robotic cashier is behind the register, its digital eyes blinking as you walk toward the back of the store. A group of men lounge near the fridges. One of them is actively drinking a can of some alcoholic beverage he hasn’t yet paid for, and the others are pursuing the aisle.

You ignore them, scanning the fridges for your own choice in energy drink. You feel them glance your way. In the reflection of the glass, you can see their faces. One had modded eyes, glittering and unnatural red that you suppose is meant to intimidate. Another has tattoos that wend up his temples, twin dragons.

Yong Syndicate.

A chill goes up your spin but you ignore it, pulling open one of the fridge doors to retrieve your items. You’re in Choi territory and those three men shouldn’t be here. Not your problem, though. You close the door and turn toward the front but one of them whistles at you.

“Whatcha got there?”

You glance at them. “I’m just grabbing a drink. I don’t need trouble.”

The one with the modded eyes chuckles, a low sound that makes your gut tighten. “Trouble? Who said anything about trouble?”

“Right. Well, have a good evening.”

Dragon Tattoo slinks forward, tilting his head as you take another step. The other two flank him and you pause. Glancing at the front of the store. There’s no one else in here but you and them. The robot at the front isn’t going to help you. Sighing, you turn to face them fully, heart fluttering.

“What is it that you want?”

“Our cut.”

“Your cut?”

“The robot at the front doesn’t protect this store from theft, you know? We work hard to make sure everyone pays.”

“Okay, well why don’t you watch me pay at the front, then.”

Dragon Tattoo shakes his head and slithers forward. You almost take a step back, but you stand your ground. “That’s not how it works. It’s costing us to protect the store, you know what I mean?”

“Well the store isn’t yours to protect. This is Choi territory.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. They fan out, forming a triangle around you. You don’t move, eyes flicking between the three of them. They’re strapped with knives and as Dragon Tattoo puts his hands on his waist, you see his gun, a deliberate move. You’ve got a knife in your jacket pocket, but it’s all you’ve got. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline biting at your nerves as you ready to move.

This is the part about Syndicate War you hate. The fucking low lives of the Syndicates come out, exerting power in places they don't belong over people they never would if the three Syndicates of the city were at peace. And you, unaffiliated, have no one to help you. No one to call to take care of this if these men leave you alive. No one to make sure you're taken care of.

You just have you. It's always been that way and though you admire your independence, it's moment like these that make it hard. You've managed to come out unscathed before, but as your hand drifts toward your knife and Dragon Tattoo's fingers drift toward the gun, you know this isn't one of those times.

The door swings open and all three of you turn, alert. Six figures step in through the door, all of them dressed in varying degrees of black. They fan out among the aisles, two of the women skipping toward the front as one hops up onto the counter and cocks her head while the other starts wandering down the tobacco aisle to get behind the three Yong members.

Your eyes stick to Seungkwan, though. He stands with his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his hoodie, blonde hair clinging to his forehead. The hood is pulled up like that first night you saw him a few weeks ago. His eyes drop to you and then drift to the men around you, none of them daring to move.

You have no idea what he's doing here. Well, no, you do. This is Choi territory and Seungkwan belongs to the Choi family in some capacity. As your eyes flicker over the people who came into the store with him, you see mountain tattoos on all of them, some peaking out of collars of shirts, others on full display, inked across biceps and forearms.

“Excuse me,” Seungkwan calls, voice smooth. “Mind if I steal her for a moment?”

Dragon Tattoo doesn’t move. He glances at the other two Yong members with him. For a second, you think they’re going to draw and open fire. One of the men who’d walked in with Seungkwan appears behind you from walking down an aisle. He leans against the fridge glass, his dark hair turning blue in the light. He’s got a box of cherry sours in his hand, tearing it open and popping one into his mouth.

Another man walks down your aisle. His gait is casual, boots scuffing on the floor as he looks at the different variety of snacks. He seems to not be paying attention to you, but there's a tension about him that reminds you of a cat ready to pounce on a mouse.

“Come with me,” Seungkwan calls to you when no one answers.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second before taking one unsure step forward. The Yong members do nothing but shift closer together, their eyes on the members of the Choi Syndicate who have fanned out in the store. You take a few more steps, each one of them feeling like your last until you’re past the brunette man looking at snacks.

You head toward the counter to pay, but Seungkwan makes a noise and waves his hand. “Don’t bother. On us, tonight.” He looks at the girl sitting on the counter. “Can you swipe for her, Angel?”

“Mhmm.”

The woman - Angel - holds out her phone toward the register and it flashes green. “Uhh. Thanks.”

Angel grins and you shiver, her teeth too white and smile too wide. Turning toward Seungkwan who beckons you, you follow him out of the store and into the drizzle. It smells like wet pavement, the distant sound of a train passing echoing down the empty street.

You open your mouth to say something but Seungkwan leans close enough that you catch the faint scent of jasmine as he says, “Please get home safe.” He winks. “Keep an eye for an address tomorrow, yeah?”

“What about-”

“All good here.”

You glance at the store. “Seungkwan-”

He turns serious. “Go home.” He softens. "Be good for me and get out of trouble, yeah? I'll see you soon."

Nodding, you step out further into the drizzle, cool mist hitting your face as you pull your hood tighter. Seungkwan nods and winks at you a final time before he steps back inside, the door chiming as he does. The door shuts behind him, muffling the sound of voices.

Your heart is still racing. You take a few steps down the crack sidewalk, boots splashing in shallow puddles that reflect the neon glow of the Lower District. You’re barely a few steps away when the sound of muffled shouting erupts from the store behind you. Glass shatters, followed by the sound of an electric charge of someone’s weapon.

Instead of turning around to see the chaos, you quicken your steps as the rain picks up. It’s a steady patter now, soaking through your jacket as you weave through the narrow streets. Your mind churns, replaying the scene in the store. You hadn’t expected anyone from the Yong Syndicate to be stupid enough to be in the store, but then again - what did you know about the Syndicates?

Not much. You don’t know what would have driven them to camp out in a store that was obviously under the Choi banner. You think back to Jinmae’s parts store and how Güey had let himself in to talk business, despite the fact that Jinmae was neutral and very much on Choi turf.

Somehow, you’re sure it means something bad for the Choi family if other Syndicates think they can squat on their territory.

You’d known Seungkwan belonged to the Choi’s. You weren’t sure in what capacity, though. From the way he entered the store, you’d guess at least middle ranking. The complex nature of positions and tiers of the Syndicate elude you, but you remember hearing that while he is considered on the fringes of an official position, Seungkwan is valued by those that mattered. Friends with the right people.

It makes a shiver go up your spine.

The streets grow busier as you near the heart of the Lower District, the rain doing little to deter the crowds. People huddle under flickering awnings, their faces lit by the glow of the holoscreens plastered across every building. You glance up at one as you pass, its massive display stretching across a crumbling high-rise. The headline crawls in bold letters: CITY COUNCIL BROKERS FOR CEASEFIRE.

Your thoughts drift back to Seungkwan. What’s his game? He’s scouting drivers, that much is clear, but for what? A job, he said, but the Choi Syndicate doesn’t recruit street racers for delivery runs or petty errands. Whatever he’s planning, it’s big. Big enough to risk racing in the Upper District, big enough to pit the best drivers against each other. And he wants you in the next round, even after you broke the rules.

Your lips twitch into a half-smile. Seungkwan’s dangerous, sure, but he’s also intriguing. You can’t shake the way he looked at you, like he saw something worth betting on. You’re not sure if you trust him, but you trust your instincts, and they’re telling you to see this through.

As you turn the corner, another holoscreen shows a recap feed of the City Council press conference a few days ago. The Head of the City Council stands at the podium flanked by drones, his voice clipped and polished.

“The safety of Hyperion’s citizens remains our top priority,” he promises. “We’re in active discussions with Syndicate leaders to ensure stability and prevent further escalation.”

It makes you scoff. You think back to the convenience store and the way those Yong men were ready to rob you blind in territory blatantly not theirs. You think of the way the Choi Syndicate walked in and fanned out, ready for violence over a convenience store. Whatever was going on with the Syndicates was beyond escalation.

And somehow, Seungkwan is in the thick of it.

-

Cool air drifts through the Pearl District. It’s different than the Warehouse District that you’re used to, made up of sharp edges and glittering facades. The streets here are lined with high-end boutiques and holo-advertisements for clubs and casinos, all of which have a price you couldn’t dream of paying to get in.

The rain has stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and reflective. It smells cleaner here, tinged with the faint ozone of overworked air purifiers. You always find the scent of clean air jarring, forgetting that the elite of this world pay for massive churning purifiers to filter out the smog and grit and dust.

You pull into the designated lot behind a sleek tower, the engine of your car rumbling as you ease into a spot among the other racers. The crowd is smaller than usual, the onlookers more discreet. You recognize some drivers from the Upper District race, Mira and Güey among them. Güey tosses you a smirk that makes your skin crawl as you kill the engine to your car.

Scanning the lot, your eyes land on Seungkwan. He’s standing next to Lorro, who’s hunched over a car hood with his laptops, muttering about something. Seungkwan’s in his signature hoodie, blond hair catching the light of a nearby holo-sign. He’s talking to Lorro, but his gaze flicks to you as you step out of the car. The same cocky grin spreads across his face when he sees you and he nods in greeting before turning back to say something to Lorro.

You check your phone, pulling up the race route. The map glows green, and your brow furrows. Its the same distance and shape as the Upper District race from two weeks ago, a tight loop with sharp turns and a long straightaway. Only the location is different, trading in hi-rises and businesses for luxury and glamour.

You wonder if it’s intentional, a test to see how you adapt to new terrain with the same rules. Or maybe Seungkwan is just lazy with his planning.

You don’t think it’s the latter.

Stray rocks crunch under your boots as you approach the two men. Lorro barely acknowledges you, too busy with his screens, but Seungkwan turns, his grin widening.

“Glad to see you’re back for more.” He tilts his head, looking you up and down. “Ready to play by the rules this time?”

You ignore the tease and cut straight to the pint. “What was that in the convenience store the other night?”

Seungkwan’s smile doesn’t vanish, but his expression pinches a little. He leans in slightly, the scent of jasmine hitting you again. “Focus on winning the race, yeah? Plenty of time for questions when you’re holding the credits.”

You grit your teeth, tempted to press him, but the other racers are already moving toward their cars. You let it go for now and head back to your car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, you sync your phone to your dash to display the route. The familiarity of the layout settles your nerves. You’ve already done this once, you can do it again.

No deviations this time.

The starting line is a wide street frame by towering buildings, their glass facades reflecting the neon chaos of the Pearl District. You line up on the far left again, Mira to your right, Güey to your left. The other drivers settle into place, engines idling. You flex your fingers on the wheel, the leather creaking under your grip, and let the world narrow to the road ahead.

Seungkwan and Lorro step onto the sidewalk, Lorro holding the starting pistol. Seungkwan’s eyes find yours through the windshield and he raises a brow, a silent challenge. Your pulse kicks up and you scoff, trying not to let him get to you.

The pistol sounds and you hit the gas.

The Pearl District is different than the Upper District, its streets a maze of tight turns and sudden obstacles like delivery drones, pedestrians and lines of people waiting to get into clubs. You shift, weaving through the traffic trying to avoid killing everyone that screams as you race by.

Mira’s silver car darts ahead, her driving aggressive but clean. You stay on her tail, waiting for an opening with Güey right on your ass, his headlights flashing. The first sharp turn comes up and you feather the wheel, letting the back end of your car fishtail just enough as Mira hesitates and breaks too hard. You cut on her inside to take the lead, shifting to a higher gear as you punch it.

People blur past as you shift and brake through turns, always braking at the last minute for an aggressive corner. You almost lose yourself to a hair pin but straighten back out, shifting up as you hit the straightaway.

The speed of your car presses you into your seat, heart beating as you thread through traffic and lights. Güey tries to close the gap, his car inching closer but you hold the line, forcing him back off as you approach the final turn.

Holo-billobards flash above you. You glance at your dash and grin, pushing the gas as you fly toward the finish line. The spectators are a smear of color as you fly over the line with a screen of tires, adrenaline flooding you. You let out a manic laugh, shifting down and letting the car spin as you turn the wheel hard before coming to a stop in the lot.

The other cars pull in behind you, Güey nearly clipping the back end of your car. You roll your eyes and kill the engine, getting out of the car with a wide grin. The cool night air hits your flushed skin, the small crowd clapping. Your eyes immediately land on Seungkwan, who’s walking over with a smirk.

“Thanks for not breaking my rules.”

“Racing the same route is easy.”

His eyes glint. “So you noticed.”

“Would be stupid not to.”

He shrugs. “No one else said anything.”

“Mira wouldn’t care. Güey is stupid.” The thought of Güey makes you think of the convenience store, an uneasy feeling rippling through you. “I won. Now talk. What was the deal at the convenience store?”

“Persistent, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

He hums, pleased. “Meet me for a bite to eat tomorrow. Noodle shop, edge of the Lower District. I’ll send you the address.” His grin turns playful. “Dinner's on you.”

He pulls out his phone, tapping it quickly before slipping it back into his pocket. Your own phone buzzes almost immediately, no doubt with the promised address. Before you can respond, he’s already turning away, heading back to Lorro’s setup with a casual wave over his shoulder. You watch him go, a mix of triumph and curiosity buzzing in your chest.

-

The ramen shop sits on the frayed edge of the Lower District, neon spilling across the grim-streaked concrete. The building itself is a squat, unassuming building, the neon a dull glow as it runs out. Rain-slicked awnings sag over the entrance, dripping steadily onto the cracked sidewalk, the shallow puddles underneath reflecting holo-advertisements towering above.

Inside the air is humid with the scent of simmering broth. It’s a narrow shop, a single corridor of space lined with a worn wooden counter on one side and a row of mismatched stools bolted unevenly to the floor. Behind the counter, a lone cook moves with mechanical precision, his apron stained with a splash of miso and oil. Above, a single fluorescent strip buzzes overhead, casting a hard light over the counter.

You slide into a stool at the far end of the counter, away from the other two patrons hunched over their bowls at the opposite end. The vinyl cushion creaks under your weight, the edges cracked and curling. Your boots stick slightly to the floor, making a faint sucking sound as you shift.

Tugging off your damp jacket, you drape it over the back of the stool. The knife in its pocket bangs against your back, a reassuring weight. You don’t think you’ll need it here - this is deep in Choi territory where the Yong and Kim family wouldn’t dream of coming, the streets crawling with people tattooed with the great mountain of the Choi's.

You're early to meet Seungkwan, but not by much. The anticipation of seeing him coils in your gut, a mix of curiosity and unease that’s been bubbling since the incident at the convenience store. You’re not naive enough to think he’s just a charming street racer turned Syndicate, but you’re curious, especially when you feel like the last two races are tied to it.

The door chimes, a tiny sound that cuts through the low din of the shop’s ovens and friers. Seungkwan steps inside, shaking rain from his hoodie. His blonde hair is damp as always, ends curling slightly. He’s in his usual attire - dark hoodie, jeans that look expensive, and boots that shine in the light. His hands are tucked into his pockets, but he’s relaxed, almost lazy as he greets the man behind the counter. The worker bows deeply.

When Seungkwan spots you, an easy grin blooms into something sharp and playful. He heads over, gait easy, and plops into the seat next to you, spinning in the stool to face you.

“Early bird,” he teases.

“You said don’t be late.”

“Fair enough.” He leans forward, elbows on the counter, and waves a hand at the cook. “Hi Lars. The usual - extra chashu. My tab.”

“I thought you said dinner was on me.”

He looks at you and winks, brown eyes dancing. “Changed my mind. Consider it a congratulations.”

The cook grunts in acknowledgment, not bothering to look up as he starts prepping the order. You study Seungkwan from the corner of your eye, trying to parse the layers beneath his easy charm. He’s too comfortable here, too at ease in a place that feels like it’s one bad day away from being boarded up. It makes you wonder how often he comes to spots like this, slipping between the cracks of the city’s underbelly.

You’re not sure how deep you want to wade into Seungkwan’s world, but you’re here now, and the weight of his gaze tells you he knows it. There’s a pull to him, like the undertow of a strong current.

“So,” you start. “You gonna tell me about what all this is about? Or are we going to pretend you didn’t save my ass at the convenience store?”

He grins, but it’s less cocky now. He leans back slightly, one arm draped over the back of his stool. “Straight to business. No wonder Lorro doesn’t like you.”

“Lorro likes me fine.”

“I’m a runner for the Choi Syndicate,” he continues. “I get things - people, parts, information. Whatever the Tower needs, I make it happen.”

The word Tower lands heavy between you. The Towers are Syndicate leaders, the untouchable gods of Hyperion who pull the strings from their grand estates in the mountains. You’ve never been close enough to their world to care, but hearing Seungkwan say it so casually like it’s another job makes your stomach twist.

“Were you at the convenient store to acquire something?”

“No.” He examines your face like he’s looking for something there. “They were just in the wrong territory. We were already on the way before you got there. I was surprised to see you there, to be honest.” His smile turns soft. “Lucky.”

“Lucky,” you deadpan.

You’re briefly interrupted by the cook sliding two steaming bowls of ramen across the counter, the broth sloshing slightly against the rim. The noodles are simmering with slices of chashu, green onions and a perfectly jammy egg, the yolk glistening under the light above.

The smell hits you, rich and savory, and your stomach growls. Seungkwan picks up a pair of chopsticks, snapping them apart with a practiced flick as he starts to eat. You don’t take your eyes off of him, letting your bowl steam.

“Did you kill them?” The question slips out before you can stop it. You’re not sure why you ask. “Those men in the convenience store?”

“We did.” He twirls a noodle around his chopsticks, studying it for a moment before he glances at you. “Does that bother you?”

The question hangs in the air, the steam from your bowl curling between you. You don’t know the answer. Part of you wants to say no, that you’ve seen enough of Hyperion’s underbelly to know that violence is just another currency here, traded as easily as credits and flesh. Those Yong men were ready to hurt you, maybe worse, and Seungkwan’s intervention saved you from finding out their intensions.

But the ease with which he admits to killing them, the way it rolls off his tongue, makes your skin prickle. You’re not sure where you stand on the ethics of murder and when it’s right or wrong, and you’re not sure how quick you want to explore your own thoughts on it.

You pick up your chopsticks, buying time as you swirl the noodles in the brother. The heat from the bowl warms your hands, grounding you as your thoughts churn. You’re not stupid. Survival heres comes at a cost. You’ve seen bodies pulled from the bay, drivers shot over disputes - you’ve been threatened and hunted more than once. But knowing it and sitting next to it are two different things.

“I don’t know,” you admire. “I guess I’m not really used to deciding who should live or die. They were going to hurt me, but it feels weird to so casually assign them death.”

“No shame in that.” He nods and takes a bite. “It’s not personal. It’s just business. Those guys knew the rules and they paid the price. Sometimes you gamble and lose.”

You take a tentative sip of the broth, the rich and salty flavor coating your tongue. It’s good - better than expected - but does little to quell your nervousness. You think about Jinmae’s shop, about Güey’s veiled threats, about the way the Yong Syndicate seems to be creeping into spaces they don’t belong. You think about Seungkwan, about the job he’s scouting for, about the way he’s watching you now with measured silence.

“Why me?” You ask, setting your chopsticks down. “You’re not just scouting drivers for fun. Why am I still in the running even though I broke the rules the first time?”

Seungkwan leans back, wiping his mouth with a napkin. His grin is gone now, replaced by a serious look. His eyes are still glittering with something, but he seems reserved now.

“You’re a good driver,” he says. “Better than good. You’ve got instincts other drivers don’t. I need that for a special job.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

He chuckles. “Patience, Demon. You’ll find out if you keep winning. For now, just eat your ramen.”

The nickname catches you off guard, a reminder of Lorro’s grumbling complaints about your racing. It feels strange coming from Seungkwan, intimate in a way. Your cheeks warm and you duck your head, focusing on your bowl. You’re not sure if you’re ready to dive into his world, but the pull is there, undeniable.

It’s quiet in the shop now save for the low drone of vents and frying. Outside, the rain has started again, a soft patter against the windows that blurs the neon lights into streaks of color. You glance at Seungkwan, watching the way his throat bobs as he sips his broth, the way his fingers tap idly against the counter.

You don’t know if you trust him. You don’t know if you should. But you know you want to win - not just the races, but whatever game he’s playing. You want to prove you’re the best, that you belong in the driver’s seat.

You just don’t know if you want the driver’s seat to be in the shadow of one of the Towers of the city.

-

Outside Hyperion is another world. The highway cuts through the outskirts of the city like a jagged scar, flanked by overgrown industrial ruins and the skeletal remains of old factories long abandoned to the wilderness. The city’s neon haze fades into the rear view, replaced by the inky blackness of unlit roads, broken only by the occasional flicker of distant lighting over the bay.

The race has taken you out here beyond the districts where the roads are cracked and left to rot, trees looming on either side of the road with branches twisting over the road. The asphalt is slick with recent rain, turning every curve into a potential death trap with a simple slide off the mountain.

You’re in the thick of it now, engine roaring as you downshift into a tight bend, the tires gripping just enough to keep you from spinning out. Mira’s silver car is ahead, a sleek shadow taking a turn dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. Güey’s dragon-wrapped beast is right on her tail, his headlights flooding her rear end. You’re third, close enough to feel the spray from Güey’s tires against your windshield.

The route loops back to the city after this stretch. This time, the route is different. You don’t ask why. Seungkwan’s grin tells you that he won’t tell you even if you ask. So you press the gas, nearing the hairpin turn that will route you back toward Hyperion.

Mira takes the next curve sharp, her car hugging the inside line with the precision of someone who is perfect at turns - it’s why she’s in the lead. Güey accelerates, closing the gap between them. You watch it happen in fragments: his bumper clips her rear quarter panel, deliberate and vicious, sending her into a spin. She over-corrects, tires screeching in protest, but the road is too wet. Her car veers off the asphalt, slamming into a rusted guardrail that crumples like paper.

Metal screams as the car flips, rolling end over end off the edge of the road, sparks flying from the chassis. The impact explodes in glass as the car slides down the side of the cliff and you barely hear yourself scream as her car hits the road some seventy feet below.

Horror hits you in the gut. Your hands tighten on the wheel until your knuckles ache, but you can’t stop. You hit the gas and try not to look at the destroyed guardrail as you chase Güey’s taillights back toward the starting line, barely seeing the road. You’re not even racing now, dropping pace and taking your corners slower.

Mira’s gone. Just like that. You’d raced her a dozen times, traded nods and smirks in lots, respected her as a decent driver. She wasn’t Syndicate, wasn’t playing any other games - she was just a driver like you, chasing the thrill and the credits.

And Güey. He’d done it on purpose. The nudge. The calculated aggression. Rage boils beneath the shock, hot and blinding, but it’s the horror that lingers. Death on the streets isn’t new to you - Hyperion chews up people spinning out of control on the road all the time. People crash and bump into one another and send cars into buildings.

But that bump had been avoidable. It had been murder. Casual. Cruel. And for what, a win? Your mind reels, thinking about the conversation you had with Seungkwan, about if it bothered you that they had killed those men in the convenience store.

In the aftermath of Mira’s wreckage, you decide no. It doesn’t bother you.

The finish line blurs into view as you crest the final hill. The makeshift lot at the edge of the city lit by floodlights and the glow of parked cars. You cross it after Güey, tires screeching as you skid to a halt, gravel flying. Güey is already out of his car giving himself a round of applause.

You don’t even think. You kill the engine and throw open the door, boots hitting the ground hard. The air outside is cool - fresher than in the city - laced with the scent of pine. It does nothing to cool the rage in your veins. The small crowd doesn’t realize what’s happened - that there are only two cars pulling in.

“You fucking killed her!” You scream, words ripping form your throat.

Without thinking, you shove Güey against his car. He stumbles, surprise flickering before his expression hardens and he shoves back. His hands fist your jacket but you’re in a blind rage suddenly, your fist connecting with his jaw with a satisfying crack.

Hands grab you from behind - Lorro’s rough and insistent. He yanks you off and shoves you away from Güey, whose face is covered in blood. Seungkwan is there too, stepping between you and Güey, any trace of amusement gone from his face.

“What the fuck happened?” Lorro demands.

“You’re dead,” Güey spits, blood flecking his chin. “I’ll make sure you end up like her, you little bitch!”

Before you can lunge again, someone shoves by you. It’s the girl from the convenient store - you think Seungkwan called her Angel. She steps in like a shadow, slipping past Seungkwan to crack her fist against Güey’s nose with a wet crunch. He reels but she doesn’t stop, kneeing him in the gut, then sweeping his legs out from under him. He hits the ground hard, gasping.

“Make that threat again,” she whispers. “I dare you.”

Güey coughs, rolling to his side. “You Choi scum think you own everything.”

Angel kicks him hard in the ribs and you hear a crack. “I own you right now.”

A group of men surge toward your group. Angel is faster, drawing her gun in a single, fluid motion. The gun lights up red, primed to kill and aimed square at Güey’s head. The crowd goes still, the air thick with tension.

No one breathes. Your heart pounds in your chest, suddenly caught between the Yong and Choi Syndicates for the second time in a handful of days. You realize that any proximity to Seungkwan will always bring a risk of this - this constant state of death waiting for someone to do the wrong thing, to say the wrong thing.

Thunder rolls in the distance. Lightning flashes a moment later, the light painting Angel in a wicked shadow. You suddenly think that the nickname Demon belongs to her, not you. Seungkwan slides up next to her, his eyes flashing with danger, hand hovering near the back of his hoodie where you assume he has a gun stashed in the waistband of his pants.

“I will blow his head off if you so much as sneeze,” Angel promises the group of men. "And then I'll go find your wives and-"

“Enough!” Lorro goals, pulling at Seungkwan who has flanked Angel, hands twitching. “No blood at my races. This isn’t a Syndicate battle field. Güey, you’re disqualified for intentionally killing another driver. You know the rules - no killing to win.”

“That’s bullshit,”

Angel’s gun hums.

“Get the fuck out,” Lorro swears. “Or I‘ll let her finish it.”

Güey hesitates, glaring. He spits blood onto the gravel and slowly climbs to his feet. Angel doesn’t budge, her weapon tracking him the entire time. You stare at her, fascinated. She has an alien sort of beauty, her eyes manic and focused at the same time, something rippling in her face that reminds you of the monsters hiding under your bed. Pretty. But terrifying.

Seungkwan looks feral in the light of the cars. You've never seen him so intense, his eyes focused, pupils blown. A flicker of something you can't name goes through you, fixated on the tension in his neck, where the delicate outline of his Choi Syndicate tattoo is inked into his skin. It's beautiful work, all thin black lines and small details with stars above the peaks and a single crescent moon, covering the entire side of his neck and parts of his throat before vanishing into the hemline of his clothes.

Heaving, Güey limps toward his car. His friends get into theirs, all of them giving you a lingering look before they do. If they didn’t associate you with the Choi Syndicate before, they do now. You know that, a sinking feeling in your gut when you realize what it means that Angel and Seungkwan defended you.

The Choi's only defend the Choi Syndicate. Period. End of discussion.

Later, you’ll be annoyed. For now, you watch as the members of the Yong Syndicate peel out the lot, the horror of Mira’s crash hitting you again as their tail lights fade. Your hands are shaking, the adrenaline ebbing into a hollow ache. You wipe your sweaty palms on your jacket, trying to ground yourself.

Seungkwan steps toward you, his expression unreadable. He turns back to Lorro. “We’re done here. I’ve got my driver.”

Lorro grunts, chewing his stimpop. “Fine. But keep your Syndicate shit off my circuits next time. Now I’ve got a dead driver to deal with.”

Rage flashes through you. “She was a person!” Everyone glances at you, fists balled. “She was a human being and she raced for you for almost three years. Mira is - was - a human being. Don't be so glib about it.”

He deflates. “I know. And we will go take care of the accident, and ensure anyone she cared about are taken care of.”

Before you can respond, Seungkwan jerks his head toward his sleek black car. “Come on. We’re leaving.” Angel holsters her weapon and winks at you, walking toward your car. “Angel will drive behind us in your car. You’re not in a state to drive. Let’s go.”

“No I-”

“She won’t crash it. There are no convenience store windows around, trust me.”

Seungkwan says it like it’s a private joke. You hesitate as the other woman gets into your car, starting the engine. It roars to life and you can barely make out her grin as she idles the vehicle, waiting. You don’t like the idea of her driving your car, but your hands are still shaking and you feel the after effects of the adrenaline high coming quickly.

Instead of arguing, you nod, following Seungkwan to his car. You slide into the eat, the leather cool even through your jacket. The car purrs when he starts it, smooth as he pulls out the lot. The other cars fade behind you, the tail lights of your car flashing as Angel pulls out after Seungkwan.

The landscape shifts, the winding roads leading to the next city over giving way to the industrial mess of Hyperion, all neon and grime and rain. You say nothing as he drives through the city at a reasonable speed, the cool air of his car calming you down as you try to breathe.

You barely see the smear of neon as you drive through the city. Pressed against the cool glass, you replay the crash over and over again. You weren't close to Mira, but she was someone familiar. Someone nice to you, usually. Death is somewhat of an inevitability when racing the way you do, but you hadn't expected it out on an empty road. Not so abruptly and not at the hands of fucking Güey.

Rage blooms inside of you, hot and ravenous. You hate him. Always have. But you think of his predatory grin in Jinmae's shop, the way he and the people he's associated with try to crush people in their way under the weight of their boots. You hate it. Hate the power they have, the power a stupid dragon tattoo gives them.

You suppose it's no different for the Choi Syndicate, but they seem different. Perhaps it's just a matter of perspective, but you have a hard time picturing Seungkwan bullying someone from neutrality into forced loyalty.

Thinking of his companion Angel, though, reminds you that the snippets you've seen of Seungkwan are brief and idealistic. You have no idea what darkness lies beneath the charming exterior and the wicked smile.

Mountains of dark green rise up as Seungkwan drives toward the Estate District. You don’t know why you’re surprised. The road to the Choi Estate snakes through jungle mountains, a ribbon of asphalt swallowed by dense, tropical sprawl. Towering trees loom over the narrow path. You cringe away from the window, the sight and sound of Mira going over the guard rail fresh.

Seungkwan notices. “You’re safe.”

“I know,” you bite out. “People die in racing all the time.”

He pauses. “Still hard, though.”

“Yeah.”

Mist clings to the slopes, curling around moss covered rocks. The city’s neon pulse is a distant memory now, a smudge down below as Seungkwan makes a turn. Your car follows close behind, its familiar growl a faint reassurance through the hum of Seungkwan’s engine as he drives in silence the rest of the way.

You watch him in the dim light of his car. His side profile is shrouded in darkness, his blond hair catching the faint glow from the dashboard. There’s a quiet weight to him now that is new, the charming trickster replaced by someone serious and quiet.

A massive gate makes Seungkwan slow. He rolls down the window as guards step out of a guard house to greet him. You hold your breath - you don’t know why - as they search around his car and then yours. You can hear Angel’s voice through the windows as she hollers at them, but it sounds teasing.

The gate rolls open and Seungkwan pulls through, tires hissing on gravel. Trees hide the world from you as Seungkwan drives. Trees of heavy vines dripping with orchids cast jagged shadows in the headlights. The faint sound of unseen insects and croak of frogs is muted by the windows.

A massive estate emerges from the jungle like a mirage. The main house looms at the center, a fortress of dark stone and glass. Cascading vines and flowering creepers cling to its walls, shining under the full moon above. Smaller guest houses dot the surrounding grounds, half-hidden by dense foliage, their roofs peaking through the canopy.

Winding paths of crushed stone connect the buildings, lit by low, flickering lanterns that cast pools of amber light. Seungkwan pulls up to the main house, the gravel crunching on the drive. Angel parks your car beside his, hopping out with a bounce that feels out of place after the night’s violence.

Outside, the air is charged with the scent of jasmine. You glance at Seungkwan and wonder if that’s why he always smells faintly of jasmine. Angel tosses your keys to you with a wink, her grin sharp.

Seungkwan leads the way, his boots silent on the stone path as he heads toward the massive double doors of the main house. The entrance is flanked by two stone lions, their surfaces worn smooth by years of rain, their eyes glittering with embedded sensors.

Someone opens the door and you flinch at the light that floods out. You hadn’t expected so much warmth in a home like the Choi family, but as you step inside, you’re surprised to find all gold light and drifting chandeliers. The opulence sits at ends with all of the violence that belongs to this family, making you blink in wonder as you look upward at the glittering lights.

The home is not empty. There are people moving about, none of them paying you any mind. It reminds you a bit of an office, your head dizzy as Seungkwan leads you through a maze of hallways, each more lavish than the last. Silk rugs muffe your steps and you gape at the art on the walls - real, paintings and drawings.

It's bizarre. You thought that it might be a cold and lifeless home, brutalist in design. It's anything but, warmth and thoughtfulness seeping from the walls. Like someone curated this home, each thing thought out. Someone with the luxury of time and patience. And money.

Seungkwan stops at a heavy wooden door carved with intricate mountain motifs, pushing it open to reveal a study. The room is vast, its walls lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with leather-bound books and data drives. You blink in surprise - you don’t think you’ve ever seen a physical book before - but your attention shifts to the man sitting behind the massive desk.

Choi Seungcheol looks up when you walk in. The Tower of the Choi Syndicate is prettier in person. You’ve seen him on holo-screens, but his presence fills the room like a storm cloud. His dark brown hair is swept back, framing a face that’s all sharp angles and authority paired with a mouth that is softer than you think it should be. He stands, revealing that he’s dressed in tailored slacks and a tight-fitting black shirt that clings to his arms.

Your eyes dart to the black ink on his arm - jagged mountain peaks and the crawling inferno of a phoenix on fire. His dark eyes lock onto you the moment you step in and you shiver, immediately on edge. There is no warmth or kindness in those eyes, just calculation.

Seungkwan steps forward, his posture relaxed but respectful. “Seungcheol, this is the driver I’ve been scouting. I figured it would be her, but had to be sure.”

Seungcheol. You realize with a sense of doom that Seungkwan is on a first name basis with the Tower of the Choi Syndicate. You turn to look at him, accusatory. He isn't just a runner for the Tower, despite what he said. He is obviously welcome here - a friend, perhaps family. Someone who can bypass what you understand to be a rigid form of Syndicate decorum and titles.

The Tower doesn’t respond immediately. He leans against the desk, arms crossed over his chest, tattoos shifting with the flex of his muscles. His gaze never leaves you and it’s like being pinned under a spotlight. He doesn’t invite you to sit. Doesn't say anything. He just stares at you, that pretty face so focused and firm that it makes you dizzy.

“Name,” he says eventually, his voice low.

You give it, your voice steadier than you feel. He nods and immediately launches into a barrage of questions, delivering each one rapid fire. “Family? Where are they? Who raised you? Any Syndicate ties, past or present? Who do you know in the Lower District? When did you start racing? How well do you know Lorro?”

Each one is fast and relentless, and you answer as best you can, keeping your responses clipped and honest. You tell him about your apartment, your lack of family, your life built on racing and nothing else. You have no affiliations and no debts, though you’re pretty sure you’re a target of the Yong family now.

You can feel Seungkwan watching you, his presence a quiet anchor. But it’s Seungcheol’s scrutiny that keeps you on edge. He’s testing you, digging for cracks, for any reason to deem you a liability. The Choi Syndicate doesn’t survive by trusting easily, and you’re a nobody.

The weight of that presses on you. They could kill you and be done with you in a minute.

You’re mid-answer, telling them about the incident tonight when the door swings open without a knock. A woman steps in as you turn and you blink in surprise. She is beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes all thoughts gutter out of your head. You stare at her, lips parted, and suddenly you think Kim Nari isn't the most beautiful woman on the planet - whoever this person is, beats Nari by light years.

“Angel,” the woman says, voice smooth. Her voice is deeper than you expected, like velvet. You think you might be in love. “Soonyoung is looking for you. A… guest. He’s making a mess already in the east wing.”

You turn and look at Angel in surprise. You hadn't even realized she was in the room, which puts you on edge. When did she slip in here?

Angel peels away from the shadows of a bookshelf, a grin on her face that makes your skin crawl. “Oh, he’s going to owe me for that.” She skips over to Seungkwan and kisses him on the back of the head. It surprises you, so intimate that you think you've imagined it. “Be safe.”

The door shuts behind her, leaving a charged silence in its way. You glance at Seungkwan, your mind snagging on the kiss, on the easy familiarity between them. You realize maybe they’re together. The thought twists something in your chest, a mix of curiosity and something you don’t want to name.

Seungcheol clears his throat, pulling your attention back. “Something on your mind?”

You shake your head. “No. Just taking it all in, I guess.”

He studies you a beat longer and then nods. “Seungkwan trusts you. It’s not enough permanently, but it's enough for now. Understand that the second he doubts you, you’re dead.”

It isn’t a threat. It’s a matter of fact statement. You’ve known that since the moment Seungkwan and the others defended you at the convenience store, but hearing it now is like the distant tolling of a bell.

You sigh. “Yeah. Understood.”

Seungcheol dismisses you with a curt nod and Seungkwan gestures for you to follow him out. The hallway feels colder now, the opulence less dazzling than before. You wait until you’re a few steps away from the study before you ask, “Are you and Angel dating?”

Seungkwan stops dead, then bursts out into laughter. It’s loud and unrestrained, echoing off the polished halls. You don’t join him, watching him as he doubles over like you’ve said the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

“Fuck no,” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “Angel? She’s insane. Like a pet serial killer if we had one. She’s engaged to my best friend, Vernon. He’s probably the only one who can handle her without losing his mind.”

“Good to know.”

“Why?” He asks, grin spreading. “Jealous?”

“No, she just seems like someone I don’t want to cross. I don’t want to step into some Syndicate soap opera.”

“Oh, we’ve got plenty of drama, trust me.” He winks. “Come on, let’s get settled and chat. You’re in deep now, Demon. We’ll put you up in a guest house tonight.”

“Why? To see if you trust me?”

He frowns. “No, it’s so Güey doesn’t murder you in your sleep. Let’s go."

"Oh." You blink in surprise. "That makes sense, I guess."

Seungkwan grins and beckons you. You follow him back through the hall, mind snagging on all of the details and the things that have occurred tonight. It doesn't feel real. In fact, it feels like it's happening to someone else, like it's not even you following Seungkwan through a home filled with more luxury than you've ever imagined, like it's not you seeing that same woman again, your eyes stuck to her, thoughts fizzing out.

Outside, the rain is falling heavier, the patter on the roof overhead and the distant waxy leaves of the trees a soft hush. The air is permeated with the scent of jasmine. Seungkwan leads you down the steps and into the rain, unbothered by the patter of it. You follow him, surprised that the rain here feels different. Cleaner. You tilt your face up as you walk, feeling the cool mist hit your face. Normally, when it rains in the city, the air turns to rot and decay. Here, it just smells clean, like earth and vetiver.

Tilting your head back down, you hurry to follow Seungkwan down a gravel path. "Who was that inside?" You ask him, a little breathless. He turns to you, confused. "The woman. The one who came to get Angel."

"Oh. That's Seungcheol's sister. She's the Architect."

"That's her?" You ask. You blink in surprise.

"Why do you sound so surprised?"

"That is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

Seungkwan laughs. "Fair. Too bad for you, she's recently engaged."

"Hope it's to someone deserving."

"I wouldn't call Soonyoung deserving, but he's good for her. She's good for him."

You don't know who Soonyoung is. You don't ask. You just follow Seungkwan down a dark, wet path, listening to the rainfall around you.

This world is alien to you. The trees are greener than anything you've ever seen and the night is full of sounds - rain on the trees, birds hidden in the branches. It's a dream come to life, and you can't help but reach out as you brush your finger along fan shaped leaves, feeling their waxy texture beneath your fingertips, wet with rain.

Seungkwan notices and smiles. "Weird, right?"

"This world is unfamiliar to me."

"I get it."

"Do you?"

He turns down a path and you see a small cottage up ahead. It's only a single-floor home, but you see the blurry gold lights burning behind the windows. Seungkwan leads you to it, the wooden steps of the porch creaking underneath your feet as you follow.

"I do," he laughs, sticking the key in the lock. It's an old fashion lock, made of brass with a fitted key. No digital pad. No way to hack it. "Believe it or not, I was not born into the Syndicate. I found my way here."

"Oh."

Seungkwan leads you inside. The air is warm and you're immediately met with the scent of jasmine and something warm like amber. He shakes himself off like a dog, making you cringe away from the stray droplets. He smiles and toes his shoes off, gesturing for you to do the same.

The home is small compared to the main house of the Choi Estate, but it's bigger than your apartment or anything you've ever lived in. The entryway alone is large with a high ceiling and an entryway table full of Seungkwan's personal items, which makes you frown.

"I thought you said this was a guest house."

"It is," he answers, padding down the hall toward a shaft of gold light. "It's my guest house. I'm a guest here."

"Well it seems like you live here."

"Kind of." He turns and vanishes, his voice carrying from another room as he asks, "You hungry?"

As soon as he says it, you realize that you are. Tentatively, you follow the sound of opening and closing cabinets. Though Seungkwan is calling it a guest house, there seems to be evidence of his permanence all over the walls - pictures of him with people you don't know. Pictures of him with Angel and the Architect - even the Tower. You inspect them all as you pass before drifting into a small kitchen.

Despite it being small, it's beautiful. The counters and cabinets are made from a dark brown wood that is polished, each handle and draw knob brushed brass. There's a single window overlooking the rainy trees inlaid in a wall with beautiful green tile back splash. Plants sit on the corner of the counters and the room - hang from the ceiling in spots, too. You think maybe Seungkwan must like them, spotting a watering spout near a bowl of apples.

Seungkwan moves with familiarity in the space. You stand in the corner, unsure what to do with yourself as you watch. He smirks but doesn't look at you, letting you know he's amused but makes no move to tell you what to do.

He takes out a packet of noodles and boils water, pulling open a cabinet that you realize is a fridge. He tosses ingredients on the counter before he sighs and looks at you, the sterile light of the fridge casting him in an eerie glow.

"You know how to chop vegetables?"

"I'm not an idiot."

He looks like he might disagree, but he points at a knife block. "Get to it. You can cut right on the counter, it's made for that."

Ruffled, you do, walking over to the knife block in question as you huff. There's no real heat in it. Seungkwan saved your life tonight, even if he's signed you over to something far more dangerous than Güey.

Taking out the knife, you start to chop what Seungkwan has given you - green onions, bamboo, enoki. The rhythm of it lets your mind drift to the danger in question - Choi Seungcheol and the Choi Syndicate. You would have never imagined yourself here in a kitchen of someone allied with the Choi's, much less employed to do a job for them.

You don't even know what the job is. It doesn't bother you as much as you thought it would. Something about it feels right, like you were meant to take it. You know it like the way you know the streets of the Lower District, like the familiar hum of a car engine. You don't believe in fate or destiny, but there's a certain feeling of rightness that you feel standing in Seungkwan's kitchen.

Seungkwan's presence draws your attention. He slips closer to you, smelling like jasmine and rain as he peers over your shoulder to look at your work. He hums his approval before he gently nudges you out of the way to collect your work and add them to the boiling broth on the stove.

You watch him. He's soft in the light of the kitchen, young in a way he hadn't seemed that night in the convenience store or tonight when confronting Güey. You study the long lashes that frame his eyes, the round apples of his cheeks, the way he purses his lips when he adds salt to the boiling pot, careful not to splash himself.

"You're staring at me," he notes, stirring the mix. "I know I'm pretty but it's unnerving."

You snort. "How did you get involved with the Choi's?" You ask, leaning against the counter. "You said you weren't born into it."

"Right place right time." He pauses. "Maybe wrong place, wrong time, depending on how you look at it. Most people probably see Syndicate members and think we're terrible people." He shrugs. "Point of view, I guess. I became friends with Vernon when I was young. His family was far more privileged than most, but I got a scholarship to a nice school and he went there."

"You mentioned his name earlier."

Seungkwan nods. "He's one of my closest friends. He's engaged to Angel." Seungkwan smiles briefly. "She takes some getting used to. I've known her since I was a kid too. They've been together since we were about thirteen."

That surprises you. Angel doesn't seem like the romantic type. Then again, you know nothing about her beyond the fact it seems she likes violence.

"Anyway," Seungkwan continues, "Vernon would bring me around a lot. I just sort of fell in with them. I'm good with my hands too so I would help out in the garage a lot. When Seungcheol became the Tower, I got promoted."

"You must be close to the Tower, then."

"Closer to his sister." He glances at you, teasing. "The woman who wowed you." You fllush and he flicks the stove off. "Baby has that effect on people. She's only ever had eyes for Soonyoung, though. He's the Sentinel.

Steam wafts toward Seungkwan, shrouded him in mist for a moment. You watch him, chewing the inside of your cheek. Tower. Architect. Sentinel. These are titles of positions you can barely grasp, people who are so high up in their respective Syndicates that it makes you dizzy.

Seungkwan notices. "I'm not anything important," he murmurs. "Not like that, anyway. No official title or position. I mostly do things Seungcheol needs me to."

"You don't need a position to be important." You push off the counter as he pours a bowl of broth and noodles. "You're on a first name basis with some of the most powerful people in the city. That's not nothing."

He shrugs. "True."

Bowl in hand, Seungkwan leads you out of the kitchen into the living area. The ceramic bowl warms your hands as you follow him, eyes flicking around to drink in the room.

Again, you're surprised at how homey it is. The guest house is shrouded in lamp light, orange globes on the floor and hanging from the ceiling turning everything the color of a setting sun. It's warm in the room but not stifling, the faint smell of jasmine and something woody heavy in the air as Seungkwan sits on the floor, cross-legged at the coffee table.

You join him, peering at the space. There's a fireplace without a fire, a couch and some arm chairs, plants filling the corners and most surfaces, and posters and artwork you've never seen on the walls. You see a stack of books and it makes your mouth go dry at the casual luxury.

Reckoning with the kind of casual comfort and the man in front of you is difficult. You knew Seungkwan was well off from his car alone - it was the kind of car that was rare. A collector's item. But you realize he's wealthy in other ways that most people of Hyperion aren't - he has friends who are like family, a home that is lived in, and hobbies.

You don't know anyone with hobbies. Everyone you've ever met is driven by the dollar and the need for it to survive, no time to rest, no time to enjoy much. You suppose to someone like Seungkwan, street racing might be a hobby. For you, it's the only way to keep the lights on.

You eat in silence. Seungkwan seems content with leaving you to your thoughts, only the sound of gently slurped noodles and the occasional puff of air as you blow on them breaking the silence.

The ramen is good. It's a little salty, but you don't mind, crunching into a bit of enoki as Seungkwan finishes his bowl and leans back against the foot of his couch, sighing, hand on his stomach.

"So what now?" You ask, biting into a bamboo shoot. You let the crunch distract you, chewing absently. "What am I driving for?"

"You're going to be a getaway car," he says, crossing his arms. "I don't want to tell you more than that. The less you know, the less nerves you'll have."

"Ominous."

He grins. "Most things are in the Syndicate." He pauses for a moment, his dark eyes drinking you in. You put your chopsticks across your bowl, eyes flicking up to meet his. He seems serious, which is rare. "I know I've put you in a dangerous position."

You shrug a single shoulder. "What I do is dangerous."

"Downplay it if it makes you feel better. I saw your face when we met with Seungcheol." He winces. "You're terrified of him."

"I know very little of the Syndicates, but I know who the Tower of the Choi Syndicate is."

"He is dangerous. You're right to be afraid of him. But so long as you do the job and don't betray us, there's nothing to worry about."

"And if he decides to get rid of me when it's over?"

Seungkwan frowns. "That is not the kind of Tower Seungcheol is. He doesn't think people are disposable. It's why the Choi family is able to hold off two powerful Syndicates that have joined to take us on. The only thing holding this operation together is the fact that the Choi family believes in loyalty, taking care of their own, and ensuring that even the lowest ranked member feels valued."

"Do you practice that speech?"

"I mean it. I hold no title. No official position. I essentially run errands for the family." He shrugs. "They love me. Not because I do them favors, but because they love me. Even when I'm annoying."

Seungkwan says it with such vindication that you believe him. You'd come here expecting to see the cruelty and chaos of the Syndicate, but the normalcy of these people, the way that Seungkwan is honest and passionate in professing his loyalty to them - it's unexpected. Strange.

You take it with a grain of salt but nod. There's no sense in trying to spiral on what if Seungkwan is wrong - or worse, lying. All you have is his word and what you can observe around you, and for now, it has to be enough.

Just like the very minimal information he's given you about this mysterious job he needs you to be a getaway driver for.

Sighing, Seungkwan stands and collects his bowl. He holds his hand out for yours and you pass it up to him. He cradles them to his chest and gestures with his chin to a hall that offshoots from the living room. "Guest room is the first door on the left. There's an en suite bathroom. Use whatever is in there - clothes, skincare, anything. Baby keeps everything stocked for all manner of guests."

"Baby?"

He smiles. "Seungcheol's sister. Childhood nickname."

"Ah." You stand. "And Angel?"

"Should change nicknames with you, Demon."

You smile. You'd thought the same thing. Seungkwan dismisses you with a wink and turns to walk into the kitchen, humming under his breath as he goes.

Standing, you follow his direction into the hall. Like the entryway, there's art on the walls and rugs on the floor, a warmly and carefully curated space. You wonder if it's Seungkwan's touches or the aforementioned Baby.

The guest room is small but nicer than anything you've ever stayed in. The bed takes up the middle of the room, glowing orange track lights kicking on as you enter. The same track lights line the ceiling, casting the space in the same warm glow as the living room.

One of the walls is a digital screen, the time slowly flicking by in orange texts. You wonder if it's one of those screens that let's you view images of other cities and environments, your interest piqued as you walk across the soft carpet.

Green plants hang from the ceiling - Seungkwan's touch for sure, you think. When you enter the bathroom, you make a small sound of surprise. The shower is a marvel, big enough to host a party with several different shower heads and a control panel that looks far too complicated to use. The mirror lights up when you approach and you blink in surprise as a digital rendering of your biometrics and qualities pop up with a list of alerts of all the things you need: Vitamin D deficiency. Iron deficiency. Magnesium deficiency. Low blood sugar levels.

You frown. Rude. Instead of thinking too hard about it, you follow Seungkwan's advice and strip out of your clothes, hurrying over to the shower panel to smash a few buttons and turn the water on. Thankfully, you manage to get hot water from the ceiling that smells like eucalyptus and lavender.

Stepping under the water is like instantly melting away the night. You close your eyes and let the water hammer your eyelids, warm and firm. You let the water wash away the memory of Mira's headlights going over the side of the mountain, the look on Güey's face as he threatened to kill you, the tension in the crowd as Angel and Seungkwan faced off Güey and his goons.

Fear of the Tower still sits in your heart, a tiny sliver, but not easily ignored. You try to take Seungkwan's comfort to heart, try to believe that so long as you don't do anything that puts them in danger, they'll protect you.

You stand under the spray until your fingers prune and the eucalyptus stream is thick in your lungs. When you finally shut it off, the silence is heavy. The mirror is fogged over, but the biometric panel is still glowing faintly. You ignore the deficiencies listed, grabbing a towel that is softer than anything you've ever used before.

The guest room is quiet when you step out, the orange track lights dimmed to a low ember. You rummage through the drawers until you find a pair of loose shorts and a faded tee that smells faintly of detergent and tug it on.

You crawl into bed, the sheets cool and crisp against your skin. The mattress swallows you, softer than anything you've ever laid on before. It's a little disorienting, feeling like the world is swallowing you. Hyperion feels like a lifetime away, the grime, the neon and the constant hum of sound gone in a moment.

The weight of the night presses in - Mira's car tumbling into darkness, the Tower's cold stare. Seungkwan's words echo - so long as you don't betray us, there's nothing to worry about.

You're not so sure. You're in deep now, tied to the Choi Syndicate whether you want to be or not. A getaway driver for a job you have no intel on for one of the Gods of the city. The thrill lingers in your veins, but so does the fear, a quiet, gnawing thing.

Tomorrow, everything changes. Or ends, you suppose.

You close your eyes anyway, letting the darkness pull you under as the rain taps against the roof.

-

Morning light filters through the canopy of the jungle around you, turning the rain-soaked leaves into shards of emerald glass. The estate's gravel drive crunches beneath your boots as you and Seungkwan walk to the main house. He's dressed somewhat nicely today, ditching the hoodie and jeans for black, slim-fitted slacks and a black button down shirt with the sleeves rolled. Without the hoodie, his tattoo is on full display, the ink dark in the bright morning.

You can't help but fidget. You'd woken up to the smell of coffee and Seungkwan dressed and ready in the kitchen, telling you to dress and get ready for a meeting. He hadn't answered any of your questions about what kind of meeting or why, but you assume it has to do with the job.

The job he doesn't want you to have details about.

"Listen," he murmurs as you walk up the steps. "Sit where I tell you to. Don't speak unless spoken to. You don't ask questions."

"Lots of rules, Seungkwan."

He smirks as he opens the front door. "Listen, Demon. I know you like deviations, but none today, alright?"

You nod, throat tight.

The foyer is quieter than last night. There are no footsteps or echoing voices, just the soft whir of the air conditioner and faint sounds of people moving about the house. Seungkwan guides you down a side corridor, boots silent on the silk runner. He opens a heavy wooden door, revealing a small antechamber with soft, velvet couches, a few bookshelves, plants and a holographic display that shifts through topographies of Hyperion's districts.

Seungkwan points to a couch. "Wait here."

Sighing, you do. He gives you a wink before he walks to another door you didn't notice beyond the holographic display. He gives you a single look as though to say stay put before he opens the door and vanishes inside, the brief murmur of voices there and gone again as he shuts the door.

The display's light paints the walls in rippling blues and violets. You wipe your sweating palms on your knees, looking around the room. It seems old and lived in, like it's been standing here for generations. It probably has, if the worn imprints on the couch and the cracked leather books are anything to go by.

It smells heavy with incense in the room, and though you don't see any, you imagine there's some sort of high-tech device making it smell calming. You appreciate the gesture, blowing out a shaky breath as you lean against the back of the couch and glance at the door.

You cannot hear a thing beyond the door, which is frustrating. You know you're more of a pawn than a player in this scenario, but you would like to know the details of what you're supposed to be doing. If it's even worth the risk.

Not that you have a choice. Seungcheol could decide to pay you nothing and you'd have to do this anyway, now. Though it makes you uneasy, there's still a spark of thrill there, the promise of something new, of something more than what you had before. Credits from races have always paid your way to keep yourself safe and fed, but you think of the possibility of what lies ahead, the idea that maybe, for once, you'll have more.

Extra.

That's never happened to you before. Your entire life is a careful plan of spend and earn, each credit earned having to be a carefully planned credit spent. You wonder what it must be like to be a member of the Choi family in this opulent estate without having to do such rigorous math to make it through each day.

It would be nice.

Minutes stretch by. The holo shifts into a 3D wireframe of the Pearl District, red nodes pulsing at intersections. You lean forward, squinting. Delivery routes. Drone patrols. A convoy path highlighted in gold. You realize it's a live feed of some sort, but you don't know where or how it inputs data or what it's tracking.

Before you can think about it too hard, the door opens. Seungkwan steps out, expression unreadable. A group of people exits the room, barely giving you a second glance as they file out of the antechamber into the hall beyond.

When they're all gone, Seungkwan nods. "We're ready for you."

You stand up and wipe your hands on your thighs one last time before stepping around the hollow to follow him into the room.

The space is a vault of dark wood and leather. A circular table made of smart-glass dominates the center, its surface alive with layered holograms of topographical scans, thermal overlays, and live feeds.

Four others are sitting in the room. Seungcheol sits at what you can only imagine at a circular table is the head, arms crossed, the tattoos hidden by a long sleeve sweater. His sister is sitting next to him, flicking through a tablet. She looks up at you and gives you a small, unreadable smile, your heart jumping, still unused to her proximity.

To her left is a man you don't recognize with sharp cheekbones, dark black hair that falls around his ears in a mullet, and eyes like polished onyx. He taps a stylus against a floating schematic, turning it. He barely glances your way.

It's the man across from him that catches your attention. Yoon Jeonghan lounges in his chair, fingers steeped. His gaze slides to you and lingers, cold and amused. Your blood goes cold at seeing the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate, a man whose reputation of fear nearly precedes his boss.

Seungkwan pulls out a chair. You sit down, the silence pressing in heavy around you. Seungcheol flicks a finger and the table erupts into a 360-degree holographic map of the Legal District. You recognize the towering spires of glass and concrete, a district you've only seen on screens but never been to. It's the political center, a place only the wealthy and the government go.

The projection pivots as Seungcheol taps the table. It shows the Grand Atrium, a brutalist dome of white marble and force-glass, ringed by sky bridges and drone perches. You've never been there, but the marvel of stone and glass is where the gods of the city meet to play politics.

"Ceasefire summit," Seungcheol says, voice clipped. "All three families, the Chancellor, and the full Council will be there. Live holo-feed to every district. Security grid goes live at 16:00. All public transport to the Legal District from all Districts will be paused and all streets will be shut down."

Seungcheol swipes and red lines appear all over the grid, showing the shut down streets. "Avenue of Accord, Spire Loop, Skybridge 4 through 9 - it'll all be inaccessible and guarded heavily by the Hyperion Police Department and the City Council guard. No vehicles in or out starting at 16:00."

He leans back. Seungcheol's sister leans forward and points to a non-red point on a map a few blocks away, looking at you. "Sub-level road access here is unblocked for exactly eleven minutes. Frontage Road 17-B, service tunnel."

A green node blooms where she points. "You'll be in a modded car with a cloak and a false transponder that cycles every thirty seconds. At 19:34:12, Minghao will leave the Grand Atrium. He has ten minutes to get to you. From pickup, you have thirteen minutes to the extraction marker outside city limits."

The route unfurls in electric blue and slices through the Legal District. It cuts through courthouse of mirrored obsidian, elevated walkways laced with surveillance lattices and plenty of civilian walkways.

You recognize the route. You've been racing t for weeks now, but never here, never in the Legal District. Especially not with military grade drones and security force on every corner, ready to annihilate your car.

Jeonghan leans forward, elbows on the smart glass. "Tell me, Demon. How do you handle the hydroplane on the bay curve in the Warehouse District?"

Your pulse stutters. How specific of a question. "Downshifted early, feathered the throttle. I let the rear slide just enough to bleed without spinning."

He tilts his head, grinning. "And the shortcut through the construction alley in the Upper District run- pretty narrow. Why risk it?"

"Shaved twenty-two seconds. No one else risked it. Knew the walls were close but trusted my grip."

"Fuel management on the Pearl loop last week?"

"Ran lean on the straightaways, dumped the nitro reserve on the final turn. Finished with three percent left which I could have used to loop back."

"Instinct or calculation?"

You shift in your seat under his gaze. His questions about driving are specific and knowledgeable. You don't know what he's after, but you feel the need to be as detailed as possible.

"Both," you answer. "You feel the car, but you have to know the numbers. That's why most people fuck up. They don't know the math and the calculations."

"Good." Jeonghan glances at Seungkwan. "You told me she was pretty. You didn't tell me she was smart."

"I believe I told you the opposite, Wisdom." Wisdom, you realize. Not a familiar name like with the Tower. "She's what you asked for."

"Mhmm." Jeonghan glances at Seungcheol. "I'm satisfied."

Seungcheol nods once. Their dynamic fascinates you. You don't know what purpose a Wisdom serves beyond being second to the Tower, but the dynamic feels off here, like Jeonghan is the person this room has to convince.

"Pick up at 19:44:12. If he's late, you leave him. Deviate only when necessary. This route was picked because it's the fastest."

You glance at the man you're supposed to pick up - Minghao. He's been silent the entire time, his dark eyes watching the hologram sharply. His eyes flick to you now. He's beautiful, but like Jeonghan, something about him unsettles you.

"If you leave me," he tells you, "My wife will be very unhappy."

"Don't be late, then."

His full lips twitch like he might smile, but he doesn't. "I won't be."

Seungcheol taps the glass table and the scene changes. Gone are the routes and maps - in its place is a line of text. You read it, confused, before you realize it's your reward. Your mouth goes dry at the list.

"Seven million credits when you finish," Seungcheol reads. "Indefinite protection under the Choi banner, a residence in Verdant Enclave if you so wish it, and a permanent legal retainer provided to you by the Choi family legal team."

The numbers hit harder than any crash you've ever been in. Seven million. A home behind real walls in a gated community that belongs to the Choi family. Lawyers who will answer you when you call to get you out of a speeding ticket. Safety and money you've never even dreamed about, much less touched.

You stare at it for a long time. Jeonghan grins on the other side of the table, like he can tell it's more than you deserve or have ever earned in your life. You hate the way he reads you so easily and you try to school yourself, clearing your throat.

"And you're not going to tell me what it is that we're transporting?" You ask, voice shaky.

Seungcheol blinks. "I told you. You're just picking up Minghao."

You glance at Minghao, who smirks. "That's it. Just… giving him a ride?"

"Better if you don't know the details," Seungcheol says. He glances at Seungkwan. "Seungkwan says we can trust you. In fact, he's said plenty about you, but I suppose that's the most important thing." You glance at Seungkwan who is glaring, a flush of red appearing on his cheeks. "Don't deviate, Demon. Succeed and all this is yours. Fail and you'll die, simple as that."

"And my wife will curse you," Minghao adds unhelpfully. "She is… a witchy woman. I would not test her."

Seungcheol looks mildly amused. "Clock starts tonight."

It's a dismissal. Everyone stands, Baby taking Seungcheol to the side to speak to him quietly. Minghao stands and gives you a single, dark look before vanishing through the door you came through. Jeonghan lingers a beat longer, rolling his shoulders like a cat stretching in sunlight, then follows Minghao out.

Seungkwan touches your elbow, starling you. "Come on. You look like you need air."

You do. The evening looms ahead of you like the toll of a death bell. Or a slot at a casino going off after hitting the grand prize, you're not sure. You rise on wobbly legs and Seungkwan steadies you, his touch firm. It makes your heart skip a few beats as you look at him and mutter a thank you.

Seven million credits. Protection. A home. It's everything you've never dared to dream of, laid out like certain death or a gift. You feel the weight of it pressing on your chest, making it hard to breathe.

All your life, survival has been a tightrope. Win the race, pay your rent, fix the car, repeat. No safety net. And now whatever this is feels like too much, too sudden.

Part of you wants to bolt and disappear into the Lower District's shadows where the rules are familiar. But the greedy part of you wants this - is tired from just barely making it. A life without scraping by. Without looking over your shoulder in a convenience store.

The antechamber outside is cooler. You're halfway to the door when a voice calls to you form the couch. "Demon." You turn to see Jeonghan lounging, still catlike. The dim lights of the room catch on the sharp lines of his cheekbones and you feel Seungkwan stiffen. "A moment, please."

Seungkwan's fingers tighten on your arm briefly, then release. He steps back, expression unreadable as he waits by the holographic display.

You approach Jeonghan, hyper aware of him. He's dressed in black velvet trousers and a black velvet blazer, the style cut perfectly to his figure. His inky hair is long and tucked behind his ears, dark eyes watching you as he gives you a small, polite smile.

"Jinmae sends his regards," Jeonghan says. "Says you're the only customer he has who ever paid in full all the time - did mention you threatened to burn his ledger if he shorted you on parts." He grins - it's not quite a smile. Not something to express happiness so much as something else. "He likes you."

Your heart stutters at Jinmae's name. "Is it-"

"Safe? Quite." Jeonghan glances at Seungkwan. "The Choi family takes care of their own. And we take care of people who go against them, too." You nod only once, taking the warning for what it is.."Drive fast, Demon."

Seungkwan falls into step beside you the moment you reach him, his presence a small anchor. Neither of you speaks until the guest house door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the hum of the jungle.

The living room is dim, orange lamps glowing like embers. You drop onto the couch, boots still on. Seungkwan makes an annoyed sound but lets you get away with it as he drops into a chair adjacent to you.

"Why the summit?" You ask Seungkwan before he can relax. "What's Minghao carrying? And seven million credits? That's an insane amount. Why is it so much-"

"Slow down," he laughs.

You clamp your mouth shut, breathing hard, chest heaving. The adrenaline from the meeting crashes over you now, leaving you shaky. You hate how vulnerable you feel, how the promise of all that money twists when you think of Jeonghan's veiled threat.

Seungkwan leans forward, elbows on his knees as he looks at you earnestly. There's a softness there that warms you, his silky lashes framing his eyes as he drinks you in, serious again.

"I can't give you the whole picture," he says gently. "If I could, I would. What I can tell you is that we will take care of you. Your job is the car. That's it."

You nod. "Jeonghan scares me."

"Jeonghan scares me."

"Do you not get along?"

Seungkwan frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You called him Wisdom. You call the Tower Seungcheol."

"Ah." Seungkwan leans back, sighing. "Jeonghan is… distant right now. He's going through a lot. It's better to keep him as the Wisdom right now and not as a childhood friend."

"Are all of you childhood friends?"

"No. Minghao is new. He married into this. He's the heir of the company that owns the shipping yards in the Warehouse District. His wife is the heiress to Nexus Capital, which has long been a patron of the Choi family and where they do their private banking."

"Hm."

He grins. "What?"

"Trying to figure out how Minghao fits into this. He's the rich son of a conglomerate."

"Minghao has other skills." Seungkwan's mouth quirks. "He's not everything he seems. Kind of like you."

That surprises you. You lean back against the couch. "What do you mean?"

"I wasn't sure how you'd hold under Jeonghan's scrutiny. You seem a bit unassuming, but I know you're not." His grin turns wicked. "Lots of bite underneath the pretty face. No wonder Lorro calls you Street Demon."

You flush at the compliment and think back to what Seungcheol and Jeonghan both said about Seungkwan talking about you. You don't know what to make of it, but you're pleased. A little nervous.

Outside, rain starts to fall again. It suddenly makes sense why Jeonghan asked you how you handle hydroplaning. He must have known the rainy weather would be a factor when you're driving later, and wanted to hear you say it.

Seungkwan stands, yawning. "Get some rest. Try not to over think it. We leave in a few hours."

-

The sun is bleeding out behind the foliage of the Choi Estate when Seungkwan leads you down a hidden ramp beneath the main house. The air is cool down here, laced with the sharp bite of metal and coolant. It is eerily silent, the estate having emptied out for the summit a few hours earlier.

Lights flicker on when you walk into the garage, neon strips flooding the concrete walls with blue light. You suck in a sharp breath. The garage is a cathedral of matte-black steel and recessed blue lighting, and under it, dozens of cars.

Seungkwan leans you down the rows. You pass by luxury vehicles, collectors items, town cars - the options are endless. Seungkwan stops in front of a sleek black car that you immediately recognize as his Phantom. The paint practically absorbs the light, shifting from midnight to gunmetal depending on the angle.

"Keys," he tells you, pressing a slim fob into your palm. It's warm from his hand. "It's got cloak tech on the inside. It'll scramble thermal and ghost the cameras within a five block radius. Transponder will cycle plates and GPS pings every twenty-eight seconds. Untraceable unless you've got a physical tag on the chassis or something. Paint is chameleon, should help blend in."

Your fingers close around the fob, shaking. Seungkwan opens the car door with a soft hiss, revealing an interior of carbon and pale blue holo heads up displays. It smells like him - jasmine and rain - when you slide in, leather cool against your skin. You touch the wheel, feeling the smooth leather beneath your palms. This car is nicer than anything you've ever touched.

"It's my personal car," Seungkwan emphasizes. "Please don't destroy my baby. A little wear and tear is fine, but don't total it."

"No promises."

He snorts, unamused. He leans against the driver-side door, arms crossed. His voice drops low, intimate. "Same coordinates we gave you. Frontage Road 17-B. Minghao hits the seat and you gun it."

"Doesn't driving fast give us away?"

"We'll take care of it. Speed is your friend tonight." He taps his fingers against his arm. "We've got a city-wide pulse going on to fuck with security. We had to do the whole city. Lights will flicker and drones should reboot. It'll last for ninety seconds at the onset and then one more time two minutes later."

You nod, throat tight. The job is still a mystery. Pick up Minghao, drive like hell, don't ask any questions. The not knowing gnaws at you, but the car under your hands is a lure.

Seungkwan crouches, elbow still on the sill, close enough that you catch the warmth on his skin. He's dressed like usual, with his dark jeans and dark hoodie, the hood hiding his damp blonde hair. He smirks at you as he catches your gaze. "You've got this, Demon. I'll be at the finish line, alright?" Before you can react, he leans forward, lips brushing against your cheek, soft and deliberate. Heat floods your face. "Drive fast."

Seungkwan steps back. You look at him a single time before he grins and shuts the door with a soft click. Swallowing, you press the fob to the ignition and the engine wakes with a low purr that vibrates through your spine.

It feels dangerous to operate Seungkwan's car, but you manage to get it out of the garage and off the estate without crashing. The pedals and the car are different than yours, and it takes some getting used to after your nerves start to die down, the hiss of the tires on the wet pavement soothing.

The drive down the mountain is a blur of switchbacks and mist, the Phantom hugging every curve. You crest the ridge and Hyperion spreads below, a glittering circuit board of neon canals and crystalline towers.

Traffic thickens as you descend. Announcements on holoscreens bob as you drive past: CEASEFIRE SUMMIT - LIVE AT 19:00. Crowds cover the sidewalks, looking up at the screen as the live feed shows a mostly empty stage as broadcasters talk about the upcoming meeting of the city and the Syndicates.

Your stomach knots tighter with every mile. The Legal District looms ahead, made up of monolithic courthouses, elevated walkways, and the Grand Atrium at its center like a god. You can't get close to it, the detour signs popping up in red neon on the side of the road and your heads up display going red as you hit the perimeter.

You weave through the streets to reach the green beacon of your start place. There are fewer cars here, but there's plenty of people walking the streets toward the summit, eager to get closer. You nose the car into the reserved spot Seungkwan instructed, relieved that it's empty - though you're sure they missed no details.

You kill the lights and let the engine idle down. Outside, the crowd's excitement feels obscene. You're a few blocks from the summit, but the buzz is palpable from here, people rushing to the sidewalks just to crane up and look at the screens on every building.

The clock on the dash starts to tick closer.

18:58:10

Your hands are steady on the wheel, but your pulse is a drumline. The nearest holoscreen flickers as the city's anthem blares through speakers, the flag bleeding across the screen. You watch the opening with a skittering pulse, the crowds outside stilling to join you.

The live feed opens. The Grand Atrium's interior yawns open with white marble walls veined with gold. The City Council's crest rotates slowly on the screens mounted behind the dais, and in front of them, long tables filled with seated members of the Syndicate families and the City Council.

At the center table is the City Council, all in high-backed chairs with the Chancellor in the center of them. On their right is the Choi Syndicate. You recognize Seungcheol immediately, sitting at the head of his table. Tonight, the tattoos are hiding beneath formal silk, his arms poised neatly on the table.

To his right is Jeonghan, second in command, Wisdom to the Syndicate. To his left is his sister, poised and perfect, looking directly into the camera, the Architect. There are a swath of other members you don't recognize, but you do recognize Angel, who has not dressed up for the occasion.

To the left of the City Council are the Yong and Kim families. You note that they seem a lot larger in size than the Choi family. You think about how Seungkwan had told you the only reason the Choi's hadn't lost the war yet was because of loyalty and blood ties, but now you see just how much that must matter.

Movement catches your attention. The Chancellor ascends the podium, his white suit pristine. He looks younger than he is, and you know it's the access to hundreds of procedures, state of the art medical, and wealth. It makes you frown, seeing a youthful face that is at odds with his old, weathered voice.

"Citizens of Hyperion," he begins, lifting his hands for emphasize. "Tonight, we stand on the precipice of a new dawn. For too long, our streets of have echoed with the clamor of violence - Syndicate against Syndicate. The families behind me today have a storied history in this city, a partnership, as long-standing benefactors and citizens."

It's a fancy way to remind everyone that the Chancellor has power because the Syndicates let him. The Syndicates were based on three families that built the city of Hyperion from nothing, becoming its founders, its teachers, and now its oppressors.

The Chancellor leans forward, every part of his speech timed. Polished. Perfect. "Tonight, the Choi, Kim and Yong families stand united behind me, not as rivals, but as partners in peace. Together, we have forged a ceasefire agreement that will dismantle the barriers between our districts, redirect resources from conflict to construction, and to ensure everyone lives in Hyperion free from fear."

On stage, the families are statues. Seungcheol's jaw is a hard line, arms meticulously placed. His sister's smile is the only thing that seems genuine, and somehow you don't think it is. Jeonghan doesn't move, his face dead, his eyes dead, like being in that room has killed him and replaced him with something darker, if possible.

The Kim's patriarch shifts as he glances toward the Chancellor, nodding. You notice that most of the Kim and Yong families are nodding along, tapping the table with their knuckles and ringed fingers as if to say here, here!

Odd.

"Look around you," the Chancellor continues. "These are your neighbors. Your community. The ceasefire is not a surrender, it's a promise. A promise that the violence ends tonight, that-"

A crack interrupts his speech. It's sharp and clean. A single frame of the feed stutters, but the Chancellor is wearing white. You don't miss the perfect circle of red that blooms dead-center on the Chancellor's chest. His mouth opens in a silent O, eyes wide with shock.

The feed cuts just as he begins to tip forward.

Screams erupt outside, raw and animal. The crowd surges backward, people panicking as sirens wail in the distance, rising like a tide. There's no gunman in sight, but people panic, trampling over one another to get away from the Legal District as armored cars fly down the road, barely missing people.

You glance at the dash. 19:34:12. The exact time that Seungcheol said Minghao would complete his task and leave the venue.

The realization crashes over you like a bucket of ice cold water. He shot the Chancellor. Minghao just killed the fucking City Council Chancellor, the most senior political position in the city, on live feed. Your stomach flips. That's why no one would tell you. That's why the payout is seven million fucking credits. You're not just a getaway driver - you're the hinge the Syndicate war swings on now.

Terror makes your hands shake. You grip the wheel so tight the leather creaks beneath your hands. You try to breathe and wait for Minghao, fighting the sudden urge to vomit as you sit trembling in the Phantom that belongs to someone you feel insane for trusting, right now.

19:40:45

The silence in the car is deafening. The only sound is your pulse and the distant roar of panic. You count heartbeats. Your mind spirals. If he's caught, I'm dead. If he's late, I'm dead. If I don't drive fast enough-

You force the thought down. Focus. You look at the route. Twist your hands on the wheel. Take a deep breath and -

The passenger door rips open. Minghao throws himself into the car, dressed in black tactical fabric, face hidden beneath a mesh of shifting fabric that flashes different facial features, some high-grade tech that you've never seen. You only know it's him because he rips the mask down and barks, "Go."

You don't wait. You shift and hit the gas, the Phantom lunges forward. The tires screech briefly against the concrete as you slide onto the street and into the chaos that has become Frontage Road B-17.

Civilians flood the street on foot, on smaller travel devices and by car. Someone falls down in front of the car as you switch lanes and you don't hesitate, jerking the Phantom up on to the sidewalk as the suspension takes the impact of the curb. You barely feel it as you hit the gas and enter the road again, weaving through cars and people as you go.

Streets turn red on the HUD as the Legal District locks down. Avenue of the Accord has turned into a parking lot as you near it, police cruisers blocking off the street as a mix of public transit and luxury vehicles come to a halt, slamming on their horns. You don't stop to think, taking a hard left onto Spire Loop.

Rain starts to tap on the window as you fly down the ramp. The hairpin is a bit tighter than you expected, but you brake late and downshift, the rear end of the car sliding as you thread between two stalled taxis.

"Holy fuck," Minghao breathes, pressing himself into the seat as he braces the door for impact that doesn't come. You ignore him, driving up onto the sidewalk again to avoid a car swerving in the wrong lane, the Phantom's undercarriage scraping. "You drive like a demon."

"Yeah, well," you growl back. "I wasn't expecting to be a part of an assassination attempt."

"That's why they didn't tell you."

Someone's balloon hits the windshield. It bounces off the car like nothing and floats away as you take another turn. Your stomach drops to your ass when you see the wall of police cars blocking the Skyway, flashing lights and sirens wailing as they put up barricades. Minghao curses in a language you don't recognize as you slow your escape.

You glance at the clock. 19:49:12.

A service ramp into an art plaza catches your eyes. You only hesitate for a second, remembering Seungcheol's command not to deviate. "Fuck it," you growl and yank the wheel.

The Phantom leaps the curb again. Pedestrians scatter as you blast through the plaza, Minghao yelling at you to watch out. You ignore him, feathering the wheel as you skid around a corner, the tires hydroplaning on wet stone not made for driving.

A holo-sculpture of intertwined lovers explodes into pixels as you clip it, shards of light raining down on the hood of the car. You don't care, punching the gas as you bob and weave through digital and physical sculptures, Minghao's tension like a livewire in the seat next to you.

"This isn't the path!"

"Maybe you didn't notice, but the path was blocked," you snap.

You exit the plaza in a four-wheel drift, the rear end of the car barely missing a bench. You fishtail for a second before the tires catch and you're back on route, flying down a corkscrew of elevated lanes choked with traffic but moving.

"See," you laugh, a little manic. "You do your job I do mine."

One of the freeways approach ahead, but lights in your rear view catch your attention. Minghao turns and curses, sinking in his seat. "It's not a pursuit vehicle. It's a road team to block the freeway."

Cars start to pull over to let them through, but you press the gas harder, taking the downward spiral at a speed no one should. Minghao lets out a sound that you think is fear as the force of the drive presses him into the seat. Beyond the windows, the city blurs into neon, glass and concrete until you switch lanes onto the freeway ramp, a car blaring their horn as you cut them off.

The route straightens, open road to cut across the top of the city and toward the outskirts of town. The freeway is full of cars that have no idea what just happened in the Legal District, and you intend to use them as cover, flying off the exit ramp to jump three lanes to the left, cutting in with the other drivers on the road.

Minghao turns in the seat to see if anyone follows you, but you're focused on the road, watching the clock as you press harder on the gas, weaving between switching lanes of cars and truckers with a hairpin precision. Flipping a button up on the wheel, you hit the nitro button and the car leaps forward, knocking Minghao against the door.

Rain hammers down on the window as the sky opens up. You pay it no mind as traffic slows, red taillights flashing. You thread between cars and swerve into side lanes as you go, Minghao pressing himself into the seat as though it'll save him if you crash. It won't. You're driving at speeds nearing 180 MPH, the world a smear of color as you glance at the heads up display, the green beacon growing steadily closer.

The rain turns vicious the moment you clear the last skyline checkpoint, sheets of water slamming the windshield. You keep the Phantom in the center lane, pedal steady as the towers of the city give way to skeletal billboards and abandoned freight yards. Hyperion's neon halo fades in the mirrors until they're smears in the inky sky.

You turn on an exit ramp, heading toward the curving bay. You pull into an empty lot that you think was once a shipping yard, the rusted frames of old derelict buildings framing the land as you pull toward six identical Phantoms drawn in a loose semicircle, their lights on.

Minghao is already unbuckling when you stop, the rain hammering the roof. "Good driving, Demon. Scared the fuck outta me but you did the job."

He throws you a two finger salute then he's out the door and sprinting through the downpour. You see him turn toward one of the cars, the door opening. A girl steps out in a rain jacket and as he reaches her, he cups her face and kisses her hard, her arms squeezing around him while the rain soaks them both before she shoves him toward the passenger seat. His wife, you realize.

Another door opens on a different car. Seungkwan steps out, hood up and blonde hair plastered to his forehead. He doesn't run toward your car despite the rain. He walks like he has all the time in the world, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose. When he reaches your window, he taps twice. You lower it.

"Move over," he says over the rain, water drenching the interior of the car. "I'm driving my own car now."

You're too wired to argue. You climb over the console as he opens the door and slides in before slamming it shut. He's soaked, shivering as he hits a button to blast the heat. The car immediately smells like jasmine, making you feel safe for the first time since the Chancellor was shot on the live feed.

Seungkwan rolls the car forward slowly, tires hissing on gravel as he pulls up to a second Phantom. He rolls the window down a crack just as the other car does, revealing a young man you don't know, an unfamiliar woman in his passenger seat.

"Chan," Seungkwan calls over the rain, voice playful. "Fuck up that car and you'll owe me. That's my true spare."

Chan lifts one hand in lazy salute. "I will drive it into the bay posthaste."

Seungkwan snorts. "Cherry, keep him under speed limit, please."

The girl next to the man - Chan - grins. "You got it."

Seungkwan grins and rolls the window up, pulling away. The other five Phantoms leave in different directions, taillights vanishing into the storm as everyone splits. Decoys, of course. Every single part of this plan was fleshed out in ways you still can't understand, your heart rattling as Seungkwan gets on the highway and heads northeast.

He drives like a civilian now at reasonable speed with cruise control on. The rain outside eases into a steady hush against the car, and far behind, Hyperion glows like a dying, blue star on the horizon.

You wait a full ten minutes before the silence breaks you.

"You used me as the untraceable wheelman for a political assassination," you snap. "And didn't think that was important to tell me?"

He sighs. "It would have made you drive like shit if you knew ahead of time. It was also a flight risk."

"People are going to die because of tonight."

"People were already dying." He glances at you sideways. "The ceasefire wasn't real, Demon. The Kim family bribed the Chancellor a few months ago. War is profitable for them - private security contracts, reconstruction kickbacks, black-market weapons dealing."

He flips on the high beams, turning the road into a silver ribbon. "The reception after the summit was a setup," he continues. "That was the kill floor. They were going to mass murder the Choi family and their associates as soon as they were where they wanted them."

"They can't do that-"

"Of course they can. Lying is what makes this city run. A ceasefire is a good excuse to have everyone you need to die in one place." Seungkwan falls silent for a second, his eyes on the road. "Worked in our favor, though. Everyone that could have been guilty of this was on stage."

Your stomach turns. "You think they won't know it was the Choi family?"

He shrugs. "Going to be hard to prove. To the city, Minghao is the arrogant heir to a shipping yard conglomerate. Was to us too, until he married his wife who is the heir of Nexus Capital. Turns out that Xu spent his childhood with the Virate in Arkos. Guy's a fucking assassin. Had no idea until his wife figured it out. Thank god they're loyal to us."

"So that's why you wanted he and I to do this," you murmur, watching as Seungkwan's fingers drum against the wheel. "Neither one of us really have connections in any way that's meaningful. He married into the Syndicate but pretty recently, and I'm just a no one."

"You're not a no one." The sharpness in his voice makes your heart skip. He looks at you, dark eyes scanning you in the seat. "Not to me. And definitely not to the Choi Syndicate."

Outside, the world is endless black. There's no light here, save for the headlights of Seungkwan's car. You think you're going to Arkos as the GPS points northeast. It's still a two and a half hour drive north past refineries and wind farms.

Seungkwan surprises you when he reaches over and finds your hand on your thigh, threading his fingers through yours. His palm is warm, calloused from years behind the wheel and working on cars.

"I'm sorry I lied," he says, voice gentle. "But I'm not sorry I picked you. You drove like a demon straight from hell. You helped us. It means everything to the Choi Syndicate, but it means a lot to me."

You stare at your joined hands. The dashboard light paints his knuckles blue. You squeeze his hand back, heart pounding. You'd trusted him to get you this far, and though you're unsure how you feel about the mess of assassination and the Syndicate War waiting back in Hyperion, when you look at Seungkwan, you realize how much he means it, how much it means that it's you who has done this for him.

"Next time you need a getaway car for murder," you murmur. "You could at least ask me out to dinner."

"Does our ramen date mean nothing to you?"

"Date? You considered that a date?"

He smirks. "Guess not. I owe you, yeah?"

Your stomach flutters. "Yes."

"I'll take you somewhere proper in Arkos, alright? We'll stay there for a little as the heat dies down."

-

The safe house in Arkos is on the thirty-second floor of a needle thin residential tower that juts over the city. From the balcony, the city unfurls like a sea of stars, a sharper and smaller echo of Hyperion. Unlike Hyperion, though, Arkos' neon isn't pastel and inviting - it's cyan and white, a surgical-like light that cuts through the low clouds.

The skyline here is glass and steel, towers lined with sky bridges that glow faintly with illuminated walkways. It's alien to you the same way the Choi Estate is, something foreign and above what you could imagine other people lived like.

Inside the apartment is warm. The unit itself is small but expensive, with floor-to-ceiling windows that rattle faintly as the storm blows through. Everything inside looks expensive - especially the bookshelf in the corner with physical tomes and a record player that you don't know how to use.

Standing in the small kitchen feels weird. The heated floor feels amazing against your bare feet and the sweater you've pulled on smells faintly of Seungkwan. The sound of him in the shower is faint against the sound of the rain against the windows and the boiling water in the kettle in front of you on the counter.

Your mind won't stop moving, even after a hot shower that Seungkwan had to turn on for you because the panel was too complicated. Seven million credits are already in your account from an offshore bank that isn't tied to the Choi family. You don't ask Seungkwan the details - you don't think you'd understand even if he explained it to you. His world makes no sense to you, yet your find yourself in the middle of it, a little sliver of desire to stay worming its way into your heart.

The kettle clicks off, making you flinch. You've been in the apartment for about four hours, but the heat of the assassination still makes you jumpy. You refuse to turn on the holo-screen or scan the net for details, your stomach not settled enough.

You don't feel bad, which surprises you. Especially after Seungkwan explaining the way the City Council was willing to murder an entire family just because another family paid them to. It's barbaric and not the way the government should work, though you know it's how it will always be.

If you'd never cared for Syndicate politics, you do now that you're at the heart of it. You're unsure what exactly you're supposed to do now, but you suppose you don't need to figure it out right this second. So instead, you spoon loose-leaf tea into a pot, barely hearing the bathroom door open behind you somewhere in the apartment.

Seungkwan steps into the kitchen barefoot, skin still damp, hair tripping down his neck. A single white towel is knotted around his hips, clinging precariously. Water traces the line of his collarbones, slipping down the center of his chest to catch briefly in the faint definition of his stomach before melting into his towel.

The mountain tattoo on his neck looks darker against his flushed skin, the crescent moon stark again silver under the kitchen lights as he slides past you to the fridge, brushing close enough that you feel the steam on his skin and smell the jasmine.

Your mind requires itself at seeing him with just a towel, your spoon missing the pot as you drop loose leaf tea all over the counter. He makes a sound like he's trying not to laugh and you scowl, heart racing as you sweep it into a neat pile.

"Thought you'd be asleep," he notes. He grabs a water from the fridge and leans his hip against the island opposite you, arms folding casually. "No rest for the wicked?"

You forget how to use words for a second. He notices - of course he does - and his mouth curves into his usual half-smirk, the same one he'd been wearing that night he stepped into the rain in the Warehouse District. You'd felt ensnared by him then, and you feel the same now, trapped in that lazy smile.

"Demon," he says softly, teasing. "You're staring."

"Yeah well." You set the spoon down hard. "You're practically naked."

"Technically I'm pretty covered. This is pretty modest for Arkos. You should see the clubs here."

Heat crawls up your neck. You turn away to pour water into the pot, needing something to do with your hands. The scent of bergamot and jasmine rises between you, thick and dizzying.

Seungkwan steps closer. You can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the steam. You glance sidelong at him and his mouth spreads further as he tilts his head, dark eyes watching you. "You're jumpy."

"You're close."

"Do you want me to step back?" You don't say anything, pulse throbbing in your neck. You don't, but you don't want him to know that. By the look on his face, you know he already does. "Ah. You don't."

You turn away from him . "I do."

"Liar."

He takes a step closer and you let him. The tea is forgotten as Seungkwan leans against the counter next to you, his eyes tracing your face. He lifts one hand, slow enough that you could step back if you water to. You don't. His mouth twitches in a smile as you let his fingertips brush your jaw, thumb settling just beneath your lower lip, tracing it like he's memorizing the shape.

"You know," he says, casually like it's just a passing thought. "That night I saw you in the Warehouse District wasn't the first. I've watched races from the shadows for a long time. I admire your driving."

"Oh?"

"More than the driving, to be honest."

You suck in a shaky breath. His gaze drops down to your mouth and fixates there. "Your driving is something else. Like you were born for it. Like you're just in your own world behind the wheel."

"I am."

"I get it." His eyes drift back up to yours. "I wanted you since the first time I saw you race."

"For the job?"

He scoffs and shakes his head. "No, Demon." He pauses, the tension between you electric. "Tell me to stop and I will."

You say nothing and he grins before leaning in to press his lips against yours.

Seungkwan kisses you like someone who has been waiting a long time to do so. It starts soft and teasing, almost careful. But the second your hands find the damp skin of his waist, the pretense cracks. He makes a low sound against your mouth and backs you into the counter, the edge biting into your hips.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open for him without thinking, tasting mint and rainwater and something that's just Seungkwan. One of his hands slides around the back of your neck, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head exactly where he wants it while the other braces on the counter, caging you in.

The kiss turns hungry, weeks of tension unraveling in the space of a heartbeat. You feel the low groan he swallows back, feel the way his hips press forward involuntarily when your nails drag lightly down his spine.

He pulls away, breathing hard, resting his forehead against yours. "Fuck. Not gonna lie, Demon. Struggling to hold back here."

"So don't."

He groans. "You don't understand-"

"I do." The desire for him you've tried to keep unknown and unspoken doubles, your breath mingling with his. He smells like jasmine and mint and it makes you ache, leaning forward to nudge his nose with yours. "I just… was afraid to do anything about it."

He makes a sound like a groan, his resolve breaking. His hand finds yours, fingers sliding between yours like they did on the drive from Hyperion, and he pulls you toward the living room, eyes dark and flashing. "Come here."

The couch in the living room is low, the black leather cool against your skin when he pulls you down with him. The city's glow filters through the fogged windows, painting everything in bruised blues and silvers.

Seungkwan leans back on the couch, legs spread, towel barely clinging to his hips now. One sharp tug and it falls away completely. His cock is already hard, flushed dark and curving against his stomach, a bead of precum pearling at the tip. He doesn't say anything about it, just watches you with half-lidded eyes while he drags you into his lap.

"Been thinking about your mouth for weeks," he murmurs. His thumb traces your lower lip again, pressing in just enough to part them. "Show me I wasn't wrong to."

His words hit you low in the gut. You sink to your knees, eyes transfixed on his face. Seungkwan looks at you like you're someone - he has since that first night in the Warehouse District, eyes meeting yours and nodding your direction. You realize that you are someone to him - have been since day one. That he sees you. That you're not invisible to him.

You hadn't realized how much you wanted to be seen until now, how much Seungkwan looking at you like this - like you're the only person in the world worth watching - matters.

Seungkwan's gaze doesn't shift when you take his cock in your hand. A shiver ripples through him and his lips part as you pump him slowly, his velvety shaft warm in your palm. You're transfixed by him, watching every expression on his face as you lean forward to lick the underside of his cock.

His head falls back against the couch, a low and broken sound catching in his throat. You take your time with him, swirling your tongue slowly around the head of his cock, tasting salt and heat, letting him feel how much you've wanted this.

When you finally take him into your mouth and sink down, taking him as deep as you can, his hand slides to your head, not pushing, just anchoring, his fingers tightening against your scalp as he lets out a broken sound when your throat tightens around him.

"Fuck, just like that," he breathes. "Look at me."

You do. You're sure the image of the two of you is obscene, your lips stretched around him, saliva shining on your chin while the city lights flicker across his cheekbones, his eyes burning. He lets you set the pace for a little, his hips flexing just enough to remind you he could take over if he felt like it, that smirk on his face as his eyes flutter shut.

"Come here," he rasps, reaching for you with a spare hand. You pull off of him with a wet pop, mouth smeared in spit and precum. "Just move a little here so I can reach you."

You stay on your knees, shuffling to the side as he helps maneuver you so he can reach for your waistband, pulling the sweats at your hips down. You shiver when the cold air hits your thighs, the heat of his palm chasing the cool air away as he brushes the sweats to the floor.

Seungkwan presses his hand between your thighs, two fingers tracing the seam of your cunt through soaked lace before he drags them aside and he groans. "Fuck you're dripping. This all for me?"

You hum around his cock in answer. He grins and traces your entrance with his fingers, sparking pleasure low in your stomach as he spreads your wetness around your folds, circling your clit teasingly. You whine around him and he moans, breathy. He relents on his teasing, pressing a finger into your aching cunt, crooking it to rub slow circles over the spot inside of you that makes your thighs shake.

Your mouth falters and he notices, his other hand cradling your face. "No baby, keep going. Want to feel you come apart on my fingers while you're choking on my cock."

It makes you light headed, that soft voice of his, coaxing you to bob your head again as he presses in another finger. It feels so good, Seungkwan working your pussy gently as you hollow your cheeks as you press your mouth down, your tongue scraping the bottom of his shaft.

Seungkwan groans and you whimper around him every time his fingers press in, his knuckles curling, palm wet as you drip into his hand. You can't help but grind down into his palm, chasing more, thighs trembling.

"Seungkwan," you gasp, breaking away to suck in ragged breaths. The edges of your vision blur and you get distracted, chasing the pleasure coiling in your stomach as you pump his cock lazily. "Fuck."

"I know," he cooes. "I've got you, baby. Come on my fingers and you can have my cock after. Come on."

Nodding, you bring your mouth back to him, tonguing his tip lazily as you try to focus on pleasing him as his fingers work you. You can't help it, though, your orgasm catching you off guard, vision whiting out for a second. He finger fucks you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and gasping, drool slick on your chin and his thigh.

Before you've recovered, he's pulling you up and into his lap, pulling your t-shirt up and off. The air is cold, pebbling your nipples immediately as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your chest. He grips the base of his cock, slick with your spit, and drags the head through your messy pussy, coating himself in you.

"Look at me," he says softly.

You do. You look down at him, the city lights catching in his wet hair, on the sharp line of his jaw, in the dark of his eyes. He smiles up at you as you sink down on him in one slow, devastating slide.

The noise he makes is raw and it sends your heart pounding. You're so full it borders on too much, every inch of him dragging against oversensitive walls. When your hips finally meet his, you both stay perfectly still for a heartbeat, foreheads pressed together, panting.

"Move for me, baby," he rasps. "Ride me, yeah?"

Your hand brace on his shoulders, nails digging into muscle as you start to move.

It's slow at first, grinding more than bouncing, savoring the stretch as you both twitch and gasp. His breath stutters every time you roll your hips just right, his hands settling on your waist, guiding you as you set the pace.

Biting your lower lip, you grin at him, rising up suddenly only to slam back down. His head falls back again, throat bared, the mountain tattoo flexing as he swallows, breathing hard.

"Fuck yes," he gasps. "Do that again."

You do. Again and again, faster, chasing the edge that's already building again. The leather creaks beneath you, the windows fogged, city lights reduced to smears of cobalt as you whisper his name. His hands scrape up your back, pressing you to him as you fuck yourself onto him, his mouth finding a nipple and sucking greedily.

A broken noise falls out of your lips. It feels so good, his cock dragging over that spot inside you, relentless and perfect. Seungkwan's grip tightens on you, his hips snapping to meet yours as he digs his heels into the couch, driving himself deeper.

"Shit," you gasp, head cocking back.

"Touch yourself for me," he growls. "Want to feel you come around me."

You obey, hand slipping between your sweaty bodies, fingers circling your swollen clit. The extra friction only heightens the spark, sending you right to the edge, dangling.

"Come on, baby," he pants, thrusting up hard enough to jolt you. "Give it to me."

You come a second time with his name on your lips, clenching down hard on him. It feels so good it almost hurts, and he groans your name like it's punched out of him, hips stuttering. He comes hard too, deep and feral, arms locked around your waist to crush you against his chest.

For a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of ragged breathing and the distant hum of Arkos. You sag against him, exhausted and covered in sweat, mind unable to keep up with anything for a while. Seungkwan presses his mouth to your temple, holding you as he catches his breath.

You don't know how long you stay like that. You drift for a while, only aware of his beating heart where you're chest to chest, and the feeling of his soft breath against your brow.

Eventually, he moves. Your legs are still trembling when Seungkwan lifts you off of him, settling you sideways across his lap, your cheek against the damp skin of his shoulder. He slides one of his arms around your back so you don't slide off of him, cradling you to him.

He reaches for the throw blanket folded over the back of the couch and drapes it over both of you. The fabric smells faintly of him already, and he tucks it around your shoulders, even making sure your toes are covered.

You feel his heartbeat under your palm, still fast, slowing gradually. His fingers trace idle circles on your bare thigh, soothing. Seungkwan’s fingers find the nape of your neck, massaging gently, working out knots you didn’t know you were holding. He’s quiet for a long time, just breathing with you.

"I'm really glad you didn't die today," he murmurs, voice ragged. You blink your eyes open, barely lucid. "I almost called it off this morning."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Got into a fight with Jeonghan about it."

"He scares me."

His grin is tired. "Me too, sometimes."

"What made you change your mind?"

He pauses. "You."

"Me?"

"Yeah. You came into the garage this morning ready to do the job. To prove yourself. I decided that I was protecting you for no reason and that I was making a decision for you."

You hum. "I wouldn't have let you change your mind."

"No?"

You shake your head. "I didn't know what the job was or what I was doing but… I wanted to do it. Wanted to prove that I could." A shiver goes through you. "Wanted to prove it to you, but also to me."

"Well, you did. I already knew before, though."

"Knew what?"

"That you were the best, Street Demon."

That makes you grin, something warm blooming in your chest as you snuggle closer to him. "Even better than you?"

He laughs. "Easy, Demon. We'll see."

Outside, Arkos keeps watch. But inside, you let yourself fall asleep against Seungkwan, for once unworried about the world and ruin around you.

SYNDICATE ROLES

Tower - title for a Syndicate boss Wisdom - title for the second-in-command to a Sydicate boss Sentinel - title for the main military leader of a Syndicate Riots - title for a member of the Syndicate responsible for sowing discord Swords - title for a member of the Syndicate who is a fighter/military role Chariots - members of the Syndicate who make deals/act as business brokers Rooks - members of the Syndicate who collect debts/lead the extortion practices Justices - members of the Syndicate on the legal counsel Hanged Men - members of the Syndicate who betrayed their Syndicate Watchers - members of a Syndicate who are spies/informants Patrons - citizens who pay homage/have an alliance/are under the protection of a Syndicate Vanguard - official members of the Syndicate who don't have specific roles but do work for the Syndicate

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