Chapter Text
If anyone asked, Hyunjin would say his favorite part about coming to the club was the bass, how it hammered in his veins and vibrated the floor while he grinded back on a stranger. The truth of it was when that stranger got a little too handsy, a little too naive for where they were, and the next second, they were gone. Just poof, like they’d never been there to begin with. Disappeared by Chan or Changbin before Hyunjin could even blink. He liked it the most because it made him feel dangerous, untouchable. It was only once or twice that it caused an issue because maybe he’d wanted them to touch him more, harder, deeper. Changbin had gotten an earful when all that delicious warmth had vanished and left Hyunjin deliriously high and dry (read: hot and bothered).
This time, though, Changbin just cracked his knuckles as he waddled after Hyunjin, jaw tight, eyes combing the club like he was already looking for a reason to crack someone’s spine. The crowd responded before he could even touch them—parting in waves at the sight of the patch stitched on his jacket, black thread over charcoal silk: a howling dog, half-finished, like a warning.
Strays didn’t need to shout to make noise.
Hyunjin shimmied back against a hot body, ready to call off the dog because he was taking this prize home tonight. But as the pair twisted through the mass of sweaty bodies, feet numb and near deaf, he caught Chan’s eye from where he lounged at the bar, swirling his highball with a shining silver penknife. Someone stood between his legs, small fingers playing with the button of his shirt. Quite a petite someone--just how Chan liked them. But Hyunjin could see Chan watching him from over the stranger’s shoulder, blazing calm even with a confidently wandering partner. Chan held up his wrist, making his watch blink to life.
Hyunjin caught the hint from across the floor, the kind that said ‘wrap it up,’ but he rolled his eyes and sank lower into the stranger behind him, dragging out the moment. Of course, Chan was working. Of course, Changbin was brooding. And of course, as always, he was the problem.
They weren’t supposed to make kissy faces when miffed. But when Hyunjin ignored Changbin for the third time that night, the enforcer actually pouted—full cheeks, narrowed eyes, every inch of him radiating a silent tantrum. Hyunjin sighed, tugged at Changbin’s collar like a bratty prince, and said, “Fine.”
They ran half the city yet still bickered like teenagers on a group project. They shouldn’t have gone out tonight anyway, but he'd insisted, all but demanded really. Mainly because he’d been antsy about the next morning’s meeting since initiating it last week.
“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin purred, his voice a lazy drawl as he leaned back in a battered leather chair, feet propped insolently on the cluttered table in front of him, the glow of the Zoom call flickering across his cheekbones. “Did you say new mole? What happened to the last one?”
“Innie took care of him a few days ago,” Jisung replied, not looking up as he flipped through a glossy pamphlet with the absentminded air of someone scanning a menu rather than a dossier. The light from his desk lamp cast long shadows over the faded wood of his office, and the hum of a distant ceiling fan underscored his boredom.
“Seems too soon,” Hyunjin said, rolling one ankle lazily, the heel of his boot squeaking faintly against the table’s laminate edge.
Jisung shrugged in unison, an unconscious echo. “We don’t have a choice. Minjae was in the middle of an important operation when he got caught.”
“What a shame.”
“You say that as if it isn’t actually a shame,” Jisung muttered, eyes still scanning the page. “With the amount of shit you pulled and Minjae cleaned up after, the wreath you sent to his funeral should’ve been the size of a small car.”
“Who’s to say it wasn’t?” Hyunjin said, brows lifting in mock innocence.
Jisung looked up at last and shot him a flat glare that somehow traveled across the digital divide with pinpoint precision. Hyunjin felt it and grinned, all white teeth and zero remorse.
“I doubt it’ll take you long to find a replacement,” he added, tapping the rim of his coffee mug. “Rumor has it Mayor Oh and the assembly are planning to slash the police pension again.”
Hyunjin let out a theatrical sigh and rested his head back against the chair. “He’s making it too easy for us.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jisung groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This time change is killing me.”
“It’s an hour, Sungie,” Hyunjin laughed, “a single hour.”
“Shut up and go find us a dirty cop!”
There was always a shortlist—color-coded and terrifyingly thorough—that Felix kept updated for exactly this kind of situation. But Hyunjin didn’t like any of them. He hung off the back of Felix’s overpriced ergonomic desk chair like a sulky cat, flipping through the digital profiles on Felix’s monitor with the enthusiasm of someone reading appliance manuals.
“Too old. Too young. Too wealthy—”
“Wealthy?” Felix asked without looking up, fingers flying over the keyboard. His screen scrolled by in a blur of green-tinted code, like he’d hacked into the Matrix on a whim. He wasn’t actually paying attention—just good at pretending to multitask.
“Family money,” Hyunjin clarified, nose wrinkling. Felix let out a little understanding ahh and continued typing.
“Too ugly, too fat—we clearly need someone fit,” Hyunjin went on, ticking off names with growing dramatic flair.
“No, we don’t,” Felix chuckled, the lilt of his accent making it sound even more dismissive. “We just need someone not dead.”
“Uhh, excuse me,” Hyunjin flicked his ear with mock indignation. “We can’t trust just anyone, you know.”
“You’re just grumpy because you flipped Minjae, and he got caught.”
“Yah!” Hyunjin’s offense turned genuine. “He gave us three solid years!”
“Yeah, and Innie gave him three solid seconds.”
“Bless him,” Hyunjin muttered, tossing a lopsided salute to the air. But the joke barely landed.
The banter thinned, and a frown pulled at the corner of Hyunjin’s mouth. He hated the thought—loathed it—that his judgment might’ve cost someone. He prided himself on reading people. The more messed up they were, the more he could see them for who they really were. But even sharp instincts didn’t come with guarantees. Just because he was used to the weight of responsibility didn’t mean he carried it easily. Didn’t mean he could stand the thought of one of his brothers bleeding out because he’d chosen wrong.
“No,” he murmured, exhaling slowly. “This one has to be special.”
“Special?” Felix echoed, finally sparing him a side-eye. “Why?”
Why? Because. Because of about a hundred reasons, all tangled up and urgent.
“They have to have the same level of access as Minjae, a dubious moral compass to turn so soon after a patriotic funeral, has to be in the same District but not the same Precinct, has to be—” he paused, searching for it, “they need to be invisible. Someone who’s been there the whole time without anyone noticing. A fixture. A wallflower.”
Felix double-clicked. A personnel file popped open. “What about him?”
Hyunjin craned his neck and peered over his shoulder, scowling. “There’s no picture.”
“Jin—”
“It matters!” he whined, drawing the word out like a child denied candy. Felix simply pointed to the bottom of the file, arching a brow.
Hyunjin leaned in again, grumbling under his breath, until his eyes hit the line of text that changed everything. A single sentence, bland and clinical—but it flicked a switch in his brain, sending a cascade of possibilities tumbling loose. Felix didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His expression said it all: Well?
Hyunjin exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Fine,” because Felix was right. And they both knew it: nothing moved a person faster than family.
🚨🚨🚨
Kim Seungmin wasn’t really sure if he was breathing anymore. With how light-headed he felt, it sure as hell didn’t seem like it. The café he’d been called to was sleek and new, tucked into the nicer part of the district, and he’d been handed a free iced Americano before he fully understood how much it would actually cost. It sat off to the side now, sweating onto an organic coaster while his soul slowly but steadily left his body.
“Officer Kim, are you still with me?” the man sitting across from him asked with a smile. A smile. Like this was an everyday conversation, and Seungmin was just being dramatic.
“Can… can you repeat that? What you just said…” he mumbled. The man politely dipped his head.
“I apologize if I wasn’t clear.”
“No,” Seungmin waved it off, “I just wanted to make sure I heard you right.”
“All right. Well, as I said, my name is Lee Minho, and I represent the Levanter Clinic in Gangnam. We received word regarding your father’s recent diagnosis and would be pleased to offer our services to your family in this trying time.”
“Right. And then…?” Seungmin prompted because the next part was the controversial one.
“Considering we are pursuing you in this matter, and not the other way around, it only seems fair that you incur no expense. Don’t you think?”
And Seungmin stopped breathing again. Because he wasn’t—
He wasn’t an idiot.
As soon as the words ‘advanced’ and ‘cancer’ had left his father’s doctor’s mouth, Seungmin had known this might happen. No one—and he meant that literally, no one—in this godforsaken city did anything for nothing. They barely did anything for something.
Seungmin was three years into a very long and bleak career as a patrolman. Policing hadn’t been his dream; in fact, it hadn’t even been his second or third option. But life had taken too many sharp turns for him to afford risks. The entrance exam had been easy, and the training came with housing, which meant he could send his meager income home to his parents. When he’d finally been assigned to District #9, he thought things might look up—get an apartment, maybe meet friends, join a gym league, go home for Christmas. But that wasn’t how it happened.
“Ahem. Dr. Yoon sent over your father’s medical file,” Lee Minho continued, fishing a manila envelope from his briefcase, unbothered by Seungmin’s silence. “Multiple myeloma. Did he explain what it is?”
“Blood cancer,” Seungmin blurted. As disconcerting as this conversation was, it was nothing compared to the one with the doctor. The man had been blasé, barely offering to explain the technical terms he was flinging around. Seungmin had nearly blown a gasket when his father had to ask the doctor three times to slow down, to dumb it down for the country bumpkins they clearly were.
“Plasma, technically,” Minho corrected, “but yes. Did you consider any of the treatment options he presented?”
What fucking options, Seungmin wanted to spit. But instead, he took a slow breath through his nose. There was no point in snapping—not yet. There was a point, an arrestable offense, maybe, but they weren’t there yet. If this man was willing to explain things better than Seungmin’s garbled Google search, then he’d hear him out, before slapping the cuffs on.
“We’re open to a second opinion,” he said carefully.
“Wonderful,” Minho grinned, tucking the folder back into his briefcase. “Let me give you my card, and we can set up a time for your father to come in and—”
“No.”
Lee Minho was halfway to standing when he froze, blinking at Seungmin with a face gone slack, like he was calculating which expression would be safest. Too late for that.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We’re not done,” Seungmin gritted out, crossing his arms. He wanted to take a drink—at least wet his mouth—but that americano was the closest thing to hush money he’d ever been offered, and he couldn’t even look at it. “Sit.”
Minho’s face settled on bemused, and it irritated Seungmin to no end. That smirk stayed painted on his lips as he lowered himself back into the chair, legs crossed, the picture of unbothered. Now that Seungmin had his attention, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it—but he had a goal, and getting there shouldn’t be too hard.
“Who are you really? Who do you work for?”
“Which one do you want to know more?” Minho grinned, all teeth, like he was baring them rather than smiling—animalistic in his tailored three-piece suit.
“Who do you work for?” Seungmin asked again.
“As I told you previously, the Levanter Clinic,” Minho said flippantly, and Seungmin wanted to growl.
“In Gangnam.”
“Yes, in Gangnam.”
“And who owns the Levanter Clinic?” he pushed, but Minho scoffed.
“This is common knowledge, Kim-ssi. Would you like me to Google it for you?”
“Would you like me to arrest you for attempting to bribe a peace officer?”
Minho’s eyes went wide—comically, sarcastically wide. He slapped a hand over his heart and gasped, “We would never!”
Seungmin wanted to hit him. Badly.
“You’re going to have to do better than that if you want me.” The words burst out before he could stop them. Didn’t he already say he wasn’t an idiot? Take backsies.
“You,” Minho’s grin turned sharp, “as if you were the first, second, or third choice. I think you’ve severely overestimated yourself, Kim-ssi.”
And maybe that was true. But Seungmin wasn’t some amateur. He’d heard the rumors. He knew how he looked to the police and to them—whoever they were. He may not have wanted to be a cop, but he was a good one. No matter what anyone said.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Oh?” Minho arched an eyebrow, ready to destroy him. “How so?”
“Because I know Song Minjae from District #12 recently died under mysterious circumstances, and I know he was suspected of being an informant for the Pacemakers.”
Minho didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He was good—unbelievably so—but Seungmin wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t be.
“I also know I’m close enough to him in rank, and financially compromised. I’m an easy target.”
“And while all of those things might be true,” Minho said smoothly, tone hardening, “they have nothing to do with my clinic.”
The sharpness in his voice said the meeting was over. He stood, collected his briefcase, buttoned his coat… then paused to reach into his jacket. He pulled out a business card.
“My info,” he said, and offered it.
The card was black-on-black, matte lettering on textured stock, and probably cost more per hundred than Seungmin’s monthly rent.
“Whatever it is you think is going on here, I assure you—the offer to save your father is genuine.” His expression read sincerity, but Seungmin couldn’t trust it. Shouldn’t.
“But at what cost?” he gritted. He didn’t reach for the card, but he didn’t push it away either.
Minho chuckled and set it down beside the sweating americano.
“Jin was right about you,” he muttered.
Then he turned and walked out, cool as anything, like the meeting had gone exactly how he’d planned. Seungmin twisted in his seat to watch him go—and blanched when the man raised a hand to wave, like he knew Seungmin would still be looking.
“We’ll be in touch.”
🚨🚨🚨
For some reason, Hyunjin felt a strange nervousness—not exactly nervous, just… unsettled. And he didn’t like it.
Chan had dragged him home shortly after 3 a.m., neither of them bringing along their usual arm candy. Hyunjin was genuinely disappointed; the boy who had been wrapped around his hips earlier had been steamy and tempting, but Chan had been insistent. The only consolation was that Chan wouldn’t be getting any either, since that pretty petite thing was left behind at the bar.
He probably should have argued to stay. Going home alone meant spending the night alone, and staring at his bed at 3 a.m., so undeniably empty, felt pathetic.
Hyunjin’s room was right beside Changbin’s, and since he snored loudly, Hyunjin usually didn’t sleep much. Having someone in bed with him helped, usually Jisung, but he’d been in Malaysia for almost a month. Hyunjin feared he might die of sleep deprivation before Jisung returned, not that Minho would let anyone have Jisung before him once he got back.
The meeting tomorrow annoyed him—made him all edgy. Not because he didn’t want it to happen, but because he did. Kim Seungmin, his chosen replacement for Minjae, had reached out to Minho exactly 96 hours after first contact, which was a stretch. A risky-ass stretch. Hyunjin had allotted time for him to panic, to go through every stage of grief at least twice, to throw himself at the shell company that was the Levanter Clinic, to frantically search for any shred of Lee Minho in police databases. He even carved out a portion of time for Seungmin to wrestle with the prospect of not—of watching his father wither away and thinking, I could have done something, and then just... not. He figured that one must have lasted the longest. But 96 hours? Yikes. Hyunjin was sort of terrified to learn the officer’s personality alignment if he struggled this hard with going bad.
He didn’t fit Hyunjin’s bill—not by a long shot. He had a sparkling service record, high test scores, but low clearance, could speak English fluently, and according to Minho was, quote, “easy on the eyes,” end quote. He was also just as snappy and defensive as Hyunjin had expected, lashing out and ordering Minho around. Minho! The last time Hyunjin had even thought about ordering Minho to do anything, he’d nearly been cooked alive.
Honestly... was Seungmin perfect?
When morning—well, late morning—came, Hyunjin rolled out of bed and decided to just label his nerves as excitement and be done with it. This was like 75% of his fucking job—no sense in getting all jittery now.
Minho, speak of the devil, clad in a handsome three-piece suit, greeted (read: didn’t bother to look up at) him as they met by the door. Hyunjin ignored the questionable eyebrow raise he got from him because the absolute last thing he wanted was for insomniac Minho to comment on his lack of sleep. Thankfully, Minho kept it to himself—as he did with most thoughts—and opened the door for Hyunjin instead.
A driver picked them up in a sleek black sedan and drove them into the city to Asan Medical Center. Hyunjin had been there quite a few times over his career—they owned a whole wing, after all, legally funded and everything—but he wasn’t particularly fond of it. He’d been consulted by the interior design team and had made a considerable effort to make it feel less… hopelessly sterile. He’d never quite achieved it.
He glared at the cushioned maroon seats positioned outside the elevator as he and Minho waited, burned holes through the potted elephant plants, and purposefully ambiguous paintings on the wall. Someone had said there was too much red for a hospital, not enough calming blue or mute green, but he wanted to remind them that there was a shocking amount of blood on these floors and in these walls, and he was just trying to be honest about it. That’s all he ever tried to be-- honest .
Minho knocked once—more for show than courtesy—and pushed the door open without waiting for permission. Room 4419 was one of their larger suites—one of the ones designed to feel more like a boutique hotel than a medical facility. The walls were trimmed in dark-stained wood, cool and glossy beneath the overhead lights, paired with muted periwinkle paneling meant to soothe, or at least distract. A subtle scent of eucalyptus hung in the air, pumped in through hidden vents that didn’t hum like normal hospital rooms. A flatscreen television was mounted flush against the far wall, though it was off, and a wide couch beneath the window had been folded out into a spare bed, its slate-gray bedding rumpled at the edges.
The treatment bed dominated the center of the room, flanked by polished aluminum guardrails and set just far enough from the wall to avoid feeling trapped. Behind it, a vertical panel of medical ports, monitors, and gaskets lined the wall like a tech hive, every possible utility and emergency hook-up within arm’s reach. Above that, the lighting adjusted in slow pulses, neither too harsh nor too dim, designed to mimic daylight but not stress the eyes. Every detail of the space whispered wealth—not luxury, exactly, but precision, the kind you only got when someone was very afraid, and someone else was very well-paid.
A nurse clad in floral scrubs was making use of the wall instruments as she adjusted the drip on a neon yellow chemotherapy bag hooked up to the old man in the bed, Kim Young-Il. Their payroll's Oncologist bowed to them as they entered and shuffled off to the side with Minho to discuss some technical something or other, leaving Hyunjin directly in the spotlight of one weeping Chwa Un-Gyong, the wife. She surged to her feet, bowing and thanking him, motioning back to her husband, who, in his defense, also tried to bow with a medical port shoved in his vena cava. Hyunjin waved away their thanks graciously, nodding and smiling the grin he knew mothers loved (well, he assumed mothers loved), but his focus was drawn and pinned to the only other person in the room: Kim Seungmin, their newest recruit.
He stood against the wood paneling Hyunjin had picked out himself, as far away from them as he could get, arms crossed and defensively scowling.
Ugh, was he perfect?!
It was the first time Hyunjin had the opportunity to lay eyes on him, having forgone a picture just to prove to Felix that he could. Perhaps he shouldn’t have, though. He had a clean, symmetrical face with soft features and a neutral expression that leaned toward quiet confidence. His jawline was defined but not harsh, tapering into a chin that balanced well beneath full, straight brows. His dark brown hair was casually tousled, falling naturally across his forehead in neat, intentional strands. Pale skin, clear and smooth, gave him a polished look, while a slim silver chain at his neck added a hint of understated style. He had the build of someone lean rather than broad—someone who moved deliberately, not lazily. But Minho had been right about one thing: he was easy on the eyes, even when they were glaring.
“Thank you, thank you for choosing our Seungminie,” Un-Gyong mewled, and Hyunjin, despite himself, had to pause at her choice of words. Ahh, yes, their choosing…
“What am I supposed to tell them?” Seungmin’s voice came out garbled and strained through the speakerphone Minho held between the two of them, the faint static crackling around his words in the dimly lit Cave. “How am I supposed to explain that his treatment is paid for by the mob?” His frustration was clear—like a fragile thread about to snap.
Minho’s eyes narrowed, the sharp crease between his brows deepening as he gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head. “His treatment is being taken care of by the Levanter Clinic, not the mob, Kim-ssi,” he said sharply, the edge in his tone slicing through the tension. Hyunjin stifled a giggle, amused at Minho’s clipped seriousness in the cramped, shadowy room.
“Feel free to tell them the truth; we chose you as charity to the city for your outstanding service,” Minho added with a faux-earnestness that made Hyunjin’s lips twitch in a suppressed smile.
A long, tense silence stretched between the lines, heavy and uneasy. Then Seungmin’s hesitant voice broke through, “But that’s not the truth.”
Minho hummed in response, but to Hyunjin’s keen eyes, it sounded less like a neutral acknowledgment and more like a low, warning growl. “Tell them whatever you would like then,” he said, voice cool but firm. “Please just be respectful of the doctor’s time and arrive promptly. Thank you~” Without waiting for any reply, he ended the call, tossing his phone onto the cluttered desk with a loud clatter that echoed off the concrete walls.
“You do realize he’s fishing, don’t you?” Minho muttered, loosening his tie with a frustrated sigh. He reached for the decanter of whiskey perched nearby, the amber liquid catching the faint light like liquid fire.
“Oh, I know,” Hyunjin grinned, delight sparkling in his eyes as he watched Minho’s expression darken. “It’s very cute.”
Minho huffed, dragging a hand through his tousled hair. “He has to do his job, Jin.”
“He will!” Hyunjin said with a sudden burst of confidence, snatching the glass from Minho’s grasp just before the whiskey touched his lips. The liquid burned fiercely as he swallowed it down, sharp and bitter, but he resisted the urge to cough—partly to keep his cool, partly to enjoy the flicker of annoyance on Minho’s face.
Minho scowled, snatching the glass back with a grunt.
Hyunjin’s reputation with informants spoke for itself—shrewd, resourceful, and always two steps ahead—and that was probably the only reason Minho didn’t lecture him further before dismissing him. Minho could stew over Seungmin’s intentions all he wanted, but Hyunjin already had that under control. He’d sized Seungmin up from the start.
“Hyuuung~” Hyunjin whined, sliding lazily against the door frame like a cat seeking attention. “Don’t you trust me?”
Without even looking up, Minho’s voice cut through the room, cold and sharp. “Not as far as I can throw you, no.”
Hyunjin pouted, feigning hurt. “Ya, that’s so mean—”
“Temperature, Hwang Hyunjin.” Minho snapped, voice clipped and commanding.
Hyunjin grinned wide and high-stepped out of the office, already plotting his next move, the faint echo of Minho’s irritated sigh trailing behind him.
“--Seungmin, Seungmin! Where are your manners?” Un-Gyong scolded her son, angrily flapping towards Hyunjin, “Bow!”
Flipping a mark is all about building trust and forming a connection. Sure, the Strays might have pressured the flawless Seungmin into this, but if they pushed too hard too soon, if they stirred up too much resentment from the very beginning, Seungmin could back out just as quickly as he’d agreed. The key was to make the deal feel worthwhile. That’s why Hyunjin decided to take it slow and make it count.
He dazzled Un-Gyong, “Please, don’t fret, Auntie. Our Seungminnie has done so much for this city, it's we who should be bowing our heads.” She absolutely beamed, and Seungmin scowled even further. That good old family pressure.
Minho returned with their doctor in tow, a short, balding man sporting a fake smile. Hyunjin didn’t really like him, but that was neither here nor there.
“Congratulations on taking the first steps towards recovery, Kim-ssi.” The doctor said, and everyone clapped, even moody Seungmin. “As this is your first session with targeted therapy, we will monitor you very carefully. If all goes well and your body responds positively, we will begin the search for donors.” Un-Gyong thanked them all profusely again while the doctor turned to Hyunjin as instructed, “Would you please escort Kim Seungmin to the drawing station to have his blood tested?”
“Of course,” He made a grand sweeping gesture towards the door, to which Seungmin rolled his eyes and went.
He walked fast down the hall, either because of nerves or not wanting to be on the same footing as Hyunjin, the Stray wasn't sure, but it hardly mattered.
“We haven’t been properly introduced,” Hyunjin started pleasantly, easily matching Seungmin’s stride, “I’m--”
“I don’t want to know.” Seungmin snapped, stopping at a junction in the hall, looking left and right. He clearly had no idea where he was going, but seemed dead set on refusing to let Hyunjin guide him.
“Oh?” Hyunjin lulled, “You enjoyed our Minho-hyung’s company that much?”
Seungmin shot him a scathing side eye, chose left, and tried to leave Hyunjin in the dust. Long legs be damned though, he kept up, “I must say, that’s usually not the case. He’ll be delighted to hear--”
“You’re Jin.” Seungmin stopped suddenly, causing Hyunjin to backpedal in surprise, “You picked me.” For a microsecond, Hyunjin felt an unfamiliar panic erupt across his skin like goosebumps. He was not one who was easily recognized, having been behind the curtain most of his career. He was the protected one; people were disappeared because of him. There was zero chance Seungmin or even the police would know who he--
“Yes,” He kept his voice even, casual, “I did.” Seungmin turned to him fully, blessing him with his full gaze. Hyunjin supposed he was going for intimidating, but all he saw was…bland (but in a hot kinda way).
“I should punch you.”
That threat, surprisingly, made Hyunjin relax.
“You can certainly try. Men have died for less.” Which was true—though no one around just now was likely to follow through. And it wouldn’t be the first time Hyunjin took a punch to the face. If that was what it took for Seungmin to accept this, so be it.
But Seungmin didn’t swing, only grimaced, like he’s sucked on something sour and that something was Hyunjin. He took off down the hall again without a word, but Hyunjin didn’t follow this time. He needed to get the officer stationary, or the conversation was going to go nowhere.
“Kim-ssi,” He called, enjoying how Seungmin’s shoulders bunched up at his voice, “the outpatient labs are this way.” In the opposite direction. Seungmin didn’t move to turn back, so Hyunjin decided to play a little more offensively. “Don’t you want to find out if you’re a match?”
The phlebotomist was unimpressed with the both of them, Hyunjin doing all the talking while Seungmin just crossed his arms and frowned, but she allowed them both to go back at the same time. It was worth it to see the look on Seungmin’s face when Hyunjin plopped himself down in a drawing chair next to his and began to shed his jackets. First his Burberry trench, then his navy suit without a single care. He got his shirt sleeve rolled all the way up to the elbow before Seungmin snapped,
“What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” Hyunjin shot him a sly grin, already expecting the dark confusion in his eyes.
“Why’re you--” Seungmin cut himself off when two technicians approached them. He wanted to snap, but he didn’t want to snap at them; Hyunjin found that admirable. Seungmin only had to push up the sleeve of his hoodie, giving Hyunjin a glimpse of long pale skin before he made himself look away. The officer may have thought he was being discreet by not speaking in front of others, but Hyunjin was already a few steps ahead of him. He had to be, because he was still mentally reeling from Seungmin name-dropping him so easily.
“The more subjects tested, the more likely they will find a donor match.”
Seungmin looked at him, looked at the girl taking his blood, and didn’t respond. “Leverage is a fickle thing, Kim-ssi.” Hyunjin went on, making Seungmin jolt, the tech reminded him to stay still. When he wasn’t scowling, he had big eyes, Hyunjin thought. Big, wondering eyes that seemed as if they were looking a little harder than they had before. “See, I want your father to get better. I want to be able to give you what you want.”
“But only if…” He trailed off, still wary of their audience. It was a power move on Hyunjin’s part. He wanted Seungmin to know that he didn’t care who heard or saw them together. It didn’t matter to him because it wasn’t he who would be implicated.
“Not necessarily,” Hyunjin waved off, “If you do decide to back out, at least he’ll be alive and well to plan your memorial. Ah, ah…” He tutted as the phlebotomist sank the needle into his arm. He was not a fan, and he didn’t necessarily care if anyone knew it.
He could feel Seungmin glaring at the side of his head, but he didn’t acknowledge it, letting his words sink in a bit. Nothing concrete, nothing that could be taken as a threat, just vague enough for the both of them at this stage in their budding relationship.
“Think of it this way:” He went on, “You needed extra money for his treatment, so you needed a second job. I’m your second job.”
“...I have stipulations,” Seungmin mumbled under his breath, and Hyunjin cocked a delicate eyebrow.
“Not really how this works, but I’m willing to hear them.”
The techs finished up the draw, wrapping their elbows in colorful coban before guiding them back out into the lobby.
“Let me buy you a coffee, and you can tell me all about these special rules,” Hyunjin snarked, draping his jackets over his arm. Seungmin immediately shook his head,
“No, no more coffee.” Which Hyunjin found weird, but he didn’t question it.
“A bagel? I’d offer the cafeteria food, but in spite of my best efforts, it’s not very--”
“I’m going back to my father’s room.” Seungmin started back the way they came, again leaving Hyunjin in the dust, and by this point, there was more than a little flutter of annoyance in his chest. It was like hitting a moving target. It took practice and patience, and ugh, Hyunjin forgot how draining it was to recruit someone new.
“So you’d like to talk about it in front of him?” He asked as he caught up, only for Seungmin to whip around in a panic,
“No!”
“Then quit dragging your feet, Kim-ssi.” Hyunjin bit, his easy grin falling for the first time, “There are plenty of other ways this can be done, but we prefer a mutually beneficial arrangement. This isn’t going away, and the sooner you accept it, the easier it will be.”
They stared at each other in the hallway for a long time, before the fight seemed to go out of the officer.
“I have tomorrow night off.” Seungmin sighed, shoulders slumping. Hyunjin’s smile was back bright as ever as he bowed his head.
“It’s a date then.”
🚨🚨🚨