Chapter Text
By the wall furthest away from the entrance an altar is placed. It is covered in flowers: lilies, roses, orchids, and an abundance of white chrysanthemums. In the middle of the white landscape of flowers - a single picture frame stands. The man in the picture is handsome, for lack of better words. His dark hair is swept back off of his forehead and his eyes crinkle with a dimpled smile. He looks kind.
The door creaks open, and the young boy kneeling at the altar gets up, backing to lean against the wall, head bowed in respect, as a group of suited men walk in. They stop about halfway into the room, spread out in a sort of circle around one of them. A man who looks older than the others by a few years, or perhaps it is just that his eyes are fatigued, but he seems to demand the attention of the room either way. Although, of course strictly prohibited, the man retrieves a pack of Marlboro from the inside of his suit jacket, pulls out just a single one, and places it gingerly between his lips. The zing of the lighter rings out in the quiet room, followed by the sizzling of burning tar as the man takes a deep breath. He grabs the middle of the cigarette between thumb and pointer finger, and with a final step towards the altar, stuffs it into the incense holder, lit end pointed upwards. The man blows out the smoke in his lungs while stepping back. He turns toward the young boy standing by the wall, staring down at the small hands clutched in front of his body.
“Kid,” the man calls. The boy doesn’t look up but turns towards the man with a hesitant bow. “Don’t worry, boy, look at me.”
As young as he is, there is no denying he is his father’s son. He’s got his mother’s eyes - but the nose, lips, and face shape of Bang Chanyeong.
-
It feels an awful lot like being the new kid in class, walking into the room and having everyone stop in their tracks, gathering in a sort of circle to get a look at the fresh meat. It’s the first day of school all over again - except classrooms rarely smell so cloyingly of sweat and iron that the foul stench of the harbor is drowned out. Minho heard them long before he stepped into their sight, the rattling of chains, grunts, and huffs, and the rhythmic thump thump thump of fists hitting punching bags. The first thing, he thinks, stepping into the room, is that he hadn’t been informed this school had uniforms. Not in the way that they are wearing button-ups and ties, but rather in the way that they aren’t. There are maybe thirty or so young men currently present, wearing nothing but shorts and sweatpants with their upper bodies completely bare. He thinks for a moment it’s for naught since few of them have something to show off, but realizes belatedly that quite a few of them are barely adolescents, they probably can’t build enough muscle to show off even if they try. Despite the silence that befalls the room and how all eyes settle on him, Minho doesn’t stop to take it in. A young man with a mop of bleach-yellow hair leans against a fence going from the bottom of the concrete walls to the ceiling, the chain-link groaning with his weight, and gives Minho a purposeful once-over. He doesn’t make an effort to return the favor, simply follows the man who had met Minho outside and told him in a gruff voice to “Keep up.”
He’s led to a hallway in the corner that stretches a surprisingly long while down and seems to turn, but the man stops right in front of the first door, closest to the training facilities, and gestures for Minho to walk in. It’s small. Fits only a tiny cot, desk, and clothing rack. There are pipes and cords running up the walls and along the ceiling. This isn’t a room at all. It’s an electricity closet. And it's Minho’s new home.
-
Routine sets in quickly at the trainee center, as they call it. It’s an old storage building down by the harbor - nothing more than a shitty tin roof and yellow brick from the outside, and even shittier concrete everything on the inside. It’s cold and damp and smells like someone entirely incapable of using deodorant rubbed his sweaty armpits on every surface he could get his armpits on.
Everyone wakes up around eight or nine o’clock and eats breakfast in the canteen. It’s surprisingly filling, whatever boring, tasteless shit they serve them, and everyone scarves it down like it's Michelin-worthy, so Minho does too.
Minho wasn’t too off when he compared the place to a school. They have classes and teachers much like any education does, except the nature of what they’re taught is more on the macabre side.
Their P.E. classes, first of all, don’t go by that name or any name at all and are, second of all, mostly focused on the most efficient ways to kill someone with one's bare hands. They’re expecting to spend free time and days off in the center, building muscle and stamina - simply working out. In classes, they’re taught martial arts, sometimes by older trainees, other times by Daesuk Sunbaenim. He’s not exactly a teacher or trainer - more like a sort of manager who prances around and keeps an eye on everyone. But whenever there are classes led by him, everyone leaves for the showers, drained and sore. He’s a young man in his thirties, quite handsome in a classic sort of way, with his hair swept off his forehead and always dressed in an impeccable, simple black suit. He spends quite a bit of time in an office up in a corner of the room. The other kids call it the “crow’s nest”. There’s a rusty staircase to the right of the entrance that leads directly up there. His curtains are rarely closed, and more often than not he’ll stand stoically to observe the proceedings of the trainees.
When they don’t have classes for shooting or stabbing people, they learn how to poison, make deaths look like an accident, cover their traces, and dispose of bodies. It’s all very gruesome and if Minho hadn’t been so fascinated, he’d probably be a bit disturbed.
Minho excels in most classes, but especially the physical ones, and in an attempt not to stand out too much by having an abnormal amount of knowledge on drugs and poisons, he pretends to be quite clueless. It is clear how, if he continues down this road, he’ll end up graduating top of his class with assassination-job-security, or however that works.
Those who may not excel in much except for broad shoulders and ugly sneers may graduate by the skin of their teeth and end up as loan sharks or bodyguards.
Others who excel in the classes Minho purposefully slumps in, may do the same but end up working as the cleanup and body disposal crew. One such kid would be Seungmin, who had attached himself to Minho’s heels within the first week.
“You know what you’re doing,” was the first thing he had said. His black hair was a little too long, falling into his round eyes. Minho had not spared him more than a raised eyebrow before going back to his punching bag.
Thump thump thump
“How can you tell?” Minho asked.
Thump thump thump
“Takes one to know one, I guess,” he’d answered, and that had been that. Later that night, after dinner, Minho sat him down in front of the nasty old mirrors in the shared bathrooms and cut his bangs, exposing his large glittering eyes, and despite himself, Minho gained a friend.
Seungmin is quiet but observant and smiles a bit too much for someone who lives in an old creaky pile of shit surrounded by sweaty boys and testosterone, but he’s sweet like a puppy and smart like a raven.
Minho, who is usually quite proficient in poisons, had struggled with ranking ten different ones from most to least lethal, and Seungmin had pointed out the answers to him with ease. In return, Minho had silently fixed Seungmin’s posture while shooting - and so their symbiotic relationship had kickstarted.
-
“Apparently, the whole point is to show off,” Minho says, fingernail scratching at the loose corner of a sticker on the table, “I know we agreed I’d keep my head down, but if I wanna go anywhere they need to notice me first. To be noticed I need to do more than just punch some sandbags.” Captain Oh looks at him unblinking for a moment, jaw working at a piece of gum. Minho stares back in careful defiance.
“Very well,” he says, “Don’t die.”
-
The first time Minho sees him, he’s trying to do just that. Not die.
The bleach-yellow guy who had given him a once-over on that first day, Dongmin, asks if Minho wants to spar. He’s seen the other kids sparring, mostly just throwing punches back and forth in the middle of the “cage,” as they call it - those floor-to-ceiling fences. There are three of them, creating an open sort of box in the middle of the larger room of the facility. It has a direct look-out point from the crow’s nest, and Minho knows Daesuk Sunbae is watching. He accepts Dongmin’s offer and realizes a little too late that he too was planning on using this as an opportunity to show off.
With a relaxed smirk, Dongmin cracks his neck, right and then left, entwines his fingers to crack his knuckles, and stretches his arm across his chest while watching the other kids gather around on the opposite sides of the fences. Some of the smaller kids climb up to get a better outlook. Seungmin and his freshly cut bangs lean on the edge of the fence with crossed arms. He doesn’t say anything as Minho rolls his shoulders and mimics Dongmin’s fighting pose; fists raised, left side tilted slightly forward so that it can parry, and right fist ready to pull back like a taut bowstring, waiting to be sent flying. Dongmin chose Minho for a reason. He watched him and probably concluded much the same as Seungmin had - that Minho knows what he’s doing and that he, therefore, is a worthy opponent. One Dongmin has severely underestimated.
Nothing about this fight can be considered sparring. Sparring is for practice. It's for testing and perfecting technique - this fight, however, is real. When Dongmin throws punches, he means it. Whenever Minho steps out of the way of his swinging arms, Dongmin goes toppling past him in a blur of tan and yellow. A bit clumsy but strong and quick to regain his balance. Dongmin realizes, after a while of them circling each other, that not a single one of his punches has hit their mark - and that Minho has yet to do anything but hop around on his toes like a dancer. A dark cloud passes over Dongmin’s face, eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring like a bull. The more Minho evades him, the angrier he gets, and the angrier he gets, the better he is. His footing starts looking quite proper, and his fists are fast, pulling back to his body rather than taking it with them in the swing. They’re both breaking quite a sweat when Minho attempts his first hit. He swings his right fist, letting his body swing with it.
Dongmin dodges and topples right into Minho’s left hook.
He’s knocked out cold.
When Minho looks up at the crow’s nest, Daesuk isn’t watching - but a quick survey of the room shows that everyone else is. A man stands next to Seungmin now, not as tall but still handsome. His thick arms are glistening with sweat, and his chest bulging out from under his white tank top. His shoulders are broad, his dimpled smile nearly broader. His eyes form crescent moons, his pearly-white teeth glint like stars, and it looks almost like slow motion when he makes his way toward Minho. Naturally, Minho turns on his heels and heads straight to the showers.
-
After the first time Minho had seen him, he seems to appear everywhere. He's in the canteen eating with a group of guys around Minho’s age - each varying in size but no less handsome. He's in the training center, going through some knife drills with a long-haired kid about the same height as Seungmin. He's with Seungmin, too - who seems to be quite smitten with the older man.
"He's been here the longest," Seungmin explains when he catches Minho watching him over breakfast. "He's the best fighter here, too." Seungmin looks thoughtfully at Minho, who quirks an eyebrow in question, “That might’ve changed, though.” Seungmin smiles, and Minho tries not to look too cocky when he smiles back.
His name is Chan. He's 25 - a year older than Minho. He has been a trainee for ten or so years, before that, he lived with some extended family in Australia - Seungmin says he only knows this because he and Chan are friends, and it's not usually the kind of information Chan gives freely. He’s mysterious. Likes to keep secrets. Seungmin wonders out loud that it may be to protect himself and that he probably doesn't even have that much to hide. Seungmin has so much to say about Chan, and yet Minho feels that he learns nothing. Minho’s been keeping his distance from the guy - but his curiosity may get the best of him.
“Lee Minho?” A voice calls from behind him. Minho lands a series of punches on the bag and rolls his neck before turning around to address the man behind him. Chan is, unfortunately, even more handsome up close. His dark hair is curly and matted to his forehead with sweat. His pale skin is glistening with it, and his eyes seem to shimmer as they take Minho in.
“Bang Chan.” Is Minho’s only reply. He seems unperturbed and flashes a grin,
“Seungmin tells me you’re a good fighter,” He says as if he didn’t see Minho fight himself. Minho tells him as much. “That’s true - but I came to watch you because Seungmin told me to.” Minho has no idea why Seungmin would do that, but it feels important the way Chan says it.
“I’ve been told you’re the best fighter here," Minho says
“That may have changed,” Chan answers, his smile not faltering the slightest. Minho tries not to let it get to his head, he really does.
“Funny, Seungmin said that too,” Minho says, “Feeling threatened?”
“Nah,” Chan says, breaking their eye contact. “Comforted, more like,” he says. He smiles down at his feet as if there is anything on the stained concrete floors that is worth smiling at, before looking back up at Minho. Minho decides he would prefer if the smile stayed aimed at the ground, actually.
-
The following morning Minho gets up and heads for breakfast, fully expecting to be eating with Seungmin as usual - but when he enters the canteen, his name is called, and Minho looks to find Chan and Seungmin sitting with two others. Seungmin has described them as Changbin and Jeongin before. Minho nods, goes to grab his breakfast, and silently slides onto the bench next to Seungmin. Chan is sitting on a chair at the end of the table, looking over the four of them with a satisfied smile.
“Mornin,’” Seungmin mutters into his oatmeal, and Minho offers him a small smile. The oatmeal isn’t too bad compared to some of the other porridges that are served for breakfast and he digs in heartily. Chan had mentioned they’d start training together - Minho just hadn’t imagined they’d start so soon - but alas, he fills his stomach and mentally prepares himself for a tad more social interaction than he had originally anticipated.
-
“Steady,” Chan says, putting one hand on Jeongin’s chest and another on his lower back, “How we practiced.” Jeongin nods and breathes in deep. When he exhales, he punches the boxing pads that Changbin is holding, right, left, right, in quick succession.
Thump thump thump
Breathe in.
Thump thump thump
And they continue. Chan corrects his stance a few times - and then introduces more and more combinations for him to attempt. He’s sweating buckets, but he keeps going. Minho’s mostly doing his own thing, running through some knife-wielding exercises, but he stops occasionally to catch his breath - to watch them.
Changbin looks like the kind of guy who lives at the gym - Minho has seen him lifting weights he himself could only dream of. He’s a small, stout-looking guy, but he’s buff as hell. His biceps are like tree trunks, and his chest is visible through his t-shirt without him having to flex the slightest bit. He’s a handsome fellow - just like the three others. Chan, too, looks like he frequents the gym. His shoulders are broad, and his torso well-trained. Both Changbin, Seungmin, and Jeongin train while just as covered up as Minho is - but Chan, befitting of the usual dress code here, has his upper body bare.
Seungmin and Jeongin are more lithe. Seungmin looks downright skinny - and isn’t much for physical training anyway - He does, however, exceed in all other classes, being a natural with poisons, long-distance weapons, and deleting any traces of himself. Even Minho has benefitted from Seungmin’s knowledge despite his extensive training.
Jeongin is well-trained but built leaner - when he lifts his t-shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead, it reveals a nice set of abdominal muscles. His chest and arms, Minho imagines, are strong despite the fact that Chan and Changbin make everyone else shrink. Maybe Minho does too - he’s aware that he’s not exactly scrawny himself. He’s got about a centimeter or so in height over Chan. He has broad shoulders, thick biceps, and a strong chest too - but however big Minho is, next to someone like Chan, he looks positively tiny. The only thing, perhaps, that Minho has got on Chan in size are his thighs. During a break, Minho sits down to get a sip of water and promptly chokes on it when a large veiny hand slaps down on his thigh where his shorts have ridden up. The hand moves to pat him on the back, but the phantom feeling of skin on skin lingers.
“Sorry,” Chan says, not sounding very sorry at all, “Let’s get back to work, yeah?”
Bastard.
-
After lunch, Daesuk Sunbae emerges from the crow's nest and asks for a demonstration of progress. He points at Changbin and Hyunjin, who have joined them over lunch, and they smile deviously at each other. Hyunjin is another one of Chan’s boys. He has put his waist-length dark hair into a ponytail that swings behind him, and Changbin watches it sway as he goes to the left-most cage fence to choose his weapon. Changbin, who is all brute force, has simply rewrapped his knuckles - but Hyunjin lets his fingers run over an assortment of knives and stops at a small, red marker that’s been taped to the fence. He rips it off and turns to face Changbin with a smirk.
“Come on, baby,” he says, “Show me what you’ve got.” Changbin huffs and gets into position. His cheeks are glowing pink.
Hyunjin doesn’t do much in taking a stance. Instead, he takes a sort of a pose and cocks his hip out, hands hanging carelessly at his sides. Changbin charges first, just like Hyunjin predicted, and is easily evaded. He’s got a lot of bulk, and it is immediately apparent to Minho that although Changbin may technically be the stronger fighter, he is much slower than Hyunjin, who moves like water, easily sidestepping Changbin’s advances but not seemingly going to return the offense. If Minho hadn’t known better, he’d say Hyunjin is testing Changbin’s stamina, trying to tire him out - but these boys have trained together before, often enough to know each other incredibly well. Changbin doesn’t get slow or clumsy because he isn’t easily tired out, and Hyunjin knows this. He may be slow because of his hulking size, but he knows his weaknesses and excellently keeps vulnerable spots protected. Hyunjin is focused, his eyes are narrow and flittering over Changbin’s every move relentlessly. Minho spots it perhaps even before Hyunjin himself does - Changbin is so busy protecting his ribs, stomach, and throat - that he leaves his legs vulnerable whenever he charges forward. Once Hyunjin notices - he strikes immediately. With impressive dexterity, he pops the lid off the marker with a thumb and throws it towards Changbin's face - Changbin stops mid-attack, narrowly avoiding the marker that slices through the air right past his nose. Meanwhile, Hyunjin throws himself to Changbin’s right, twisting alongside his back and tossing an arm out to grab the marker in the air. He bows out of reach of Changbin’s swinging fist and stabs the marker into the older man’s thigh. It leaves a red line going from the middle down the side of his skin, where Hyunjin pulls back and rolls out of the way before getting back on his feet. The whole thing lasted mere seconds - but Changbin is left gaping at a smirking Hyunjin.
“If that had been a knife...” he looks pointedly down at Changbin's thigh, wisps of hair have escaped his ponytail, framing his face attractively. He doesn’t need to explain further - the other trainees who have gathered around the cage are yelling, but neither Hyunjin nor Changbin move. Changbin smiles wickedly and throws himself forward. Had this been real life, a stab to the thigh likely wouldn’t have been enough to incapacitate someone like Changbin. Hyunjin is ready for the attack, but he isn’t ready for Changbin to pull his arms down at the last second, throwing them around Hyunjin's stomach instead and sending them both flying onto the floor. Hyunjin’s breath leaves him in an audible woosh, and Changbin uses the chance to stand and pull Hyunjin up by his ponytail so that the younger man is kneeling in front of him. He has grabbed Hyunijn’s marker in the flurry and is now slowly running it across the pale skin of Hyunjin’s bared throat, almost like a caress. He leans in, close to Hyunjin’s ear, with a sinister smile,
“If that had been a knife,” he says, and the crowd erupts.
-
At dinner, Hyunjin sits next to Changbin and pulls his thigh in between his own, long dainty fingers splayed possessively over the red mark he’d drawn earlier. Changbin doesn’t react much, but his cheeks are still pink. The color hadn’t really faded all day.
“Minho,” Chan says, stealing his attention from the two, “I was thinking you could start sparring with Jeongin?” He says it like a question, but Minho feels like it isn’t. “Seungmin says he’s learned quite a bit from you, and since I’m busy with some of the others, it’d be nice if you could help Jeongin as well.” He’s made the decision already. Minho has really only given Seungmin a few pointers whenever they worked out side by side. Still, he had seen some improvement, and Minho would be a fool to think Chan wouldn’t have seen it too - Jeongin is young, the youngest in the group as far as Minho’s aware, and he seems to be perfectly respectable company, so Minho nods and sends a significant look in Seungmin’s direction - the boy merely smiles back with all his teeth and his cheeks bulging with food. The dog.
“I also want to train with Minho-hyung!” Changbin exclaims, to Minho’s surprise, and Hyunjin rolls his eyes neatly.
“As if you need it,” he says, rubbing a hand over the red line across his throat.
“You can all join, I guess,” Minho mumbles and a no-doubt smiling Chan puts his bread on Minho’s plate. When Chan’s sufficiently distracted by something or other, Minho gives him his drumstick.
-
“I’ve sort of joined a group,” is the first thing Minho says. Captain Oh doesn’t say anything, but his eyebrows seem to reach his hairline - impressively so, considering it's quite receding in his older days. “Most everyone seems to be doing so, actually.”
“It seems to me that there are a few older, more experienced trainees who are sort of recruiting the others,” Captain and Minho stay looking over the river instead of at each other, “It also seems I’ve managed to join the top of the food-chain without having done much at all.” This makes the captain chuckle. He throws Minho a sideways glance and continues to loudly chew his gum.
“Knowing you, that’s probably an understatement.” Minho continues without replying,
“I believe the older trainees know something I don’t - I’m gonna find out what it is.” Captain spits his gum into a nearby trashcan before turning towards Minho with a smile.
“Yeah, kid, “ he says, patting him on the back, “You do that.”
-
“Jeongin,” Minho says, stepping back from where he’d had the kid in a chokehold, “You flail too much.” Jeongin is freshly 21 and has been there longer than half the group, and Minho is an only child, but he imagines that whatever he feels whenever he looks at Jeongin is something an older brother would feel. Protective. Perhaps fond.
“Yes, Hyung,” he mutters, shaking his arms out before squaring his shoulders and getting back in a fighting position. Minho watches him for a second, hands on his hips and wondering how a kid like him ended up here.
He’s originally from Busan, he'd said.
“I wanted to be a priest when I was a kid,” he’d whispered during one of their first training sessions together. They’d sat side by side panting on a bench, and Minho had silently watched as Jeongin fingered at a rosary pulled from under his tank top. “My parents were very religious,” he explained when he caught Minho looking. Minho watched him watch another one of Chan’s boys - 22-year-old Jisung - and figured before he even opened his mouth what had probably occurred.
“I kissed a boy,” he smiled then, “I was so happy that I ran home to tell them.”
He would’ve been only seventeen at the time, “I shouldn’t have.”
They go through a few more rounds. Jeongin charges, and Minho overpowers him - his first attack is near perfect, but the second Minho counters him, he panics and starts flailing around, desperately throwing punches left and right to no avail. After perhaps the seventh time that Minho has knocked him to the ground, he decides they’ve had enough practice for the day.
“I can take more,” Jeongin insists, like he does every time, and stubbornly gets on his feet, fists at the ready.
“I’m sure you can,” Minho says, throwing a towel at his face, “I can’t, though.”
-
It takes about a month after having joined Chan’s group and getting to know them better before Minho gets the chance to go exploring. The training facilities are often being used even during the night, more often than not by Chan and some of his boys, which explains why Minho didn’t see most of them to begin with. Seungmin was the only one with a normal sleep schedule. Tonight though, the centre is quiet. Having the newbie’s room the closest to the facilities has proven relatively useful. Minho lies in bed, staring at the ceiling for about twenty minutes, making sure no one is awake and moving about before he jumps up. He walks out the door with a relaxed posture, down the right side of the hallway, and then across to the bathrooms. He opens the door and lets it fall close without walking through it, before walking back down the hallway, pressed against the left side of the wall, under the cameras. In the training center, he makes sure to stay in the shadows, he has to walk up to the side of the stairs and swing himself over the railing. Minho is glad he chose socked feet, despite the cold seeping through them and crawling its way up his legs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Minho barely makes a sound when climbing the rest of the stairs on all fours, attempting to stay hidden in the dark. The door to Daesuk Sunbae’s office is obviously locked - but Minho’s quite sufficient at lock picking, and with a gentle click the door creaks open, and Minho can slide his body through the gap and into the small room bathed in shadows.
The air in Daesuk's office is stale. There's an L-shaped desk shoved into a corner, completely covered in papers and various documents. There's a ceramic cup quite stressfully sitting right at the corner of the desk, and Minho re-locates it gently onto the ground and makes to leaf through the documents. Most of them are identity papers. He recognizes Dongmin’s being one of the top ones, Chan’s too, as well as his own. There’s a picture, a name, an age, and, strangely enough, a list of relatives. Minho has two fake names with mother and father written in parentheses and what he assumes to be Daesuk’s chicken scrawl in red ink next to it: Deceased.
On Chan’s, there’s a single name:
Bang Chanyeong (father)
And next to it: Deceased
Both of Dongmin’s parents are dead too. In fact, for most of these profiles, there are few names of what Minho assumes to be family members - most of them dead.
After placing the coffee back in its place and making sure no documents have flown from their designated mess, Minho clicks the door shut behind him, its locking mechanism automatically sliding into place, and follows the same path he had taken before - back to the bathrooms. Minho intends to simply open and then close the door like before, but when he opens the door, he’s met with messy curls and pale skin. Chan doesn’t startle at his presence, merely finishes drying his hands and walks toward Minho. He places a hand on the door and leans his much larger frame over him. For a second, Minho thinks Chan is going to kiss him, but he stops short of a few inches and nods his head toward the bathroom.
“Not going in?” he asks but stays standing in Minho’s way. Minho can’t help but think Chan knows exactly what he’s up to, so he ignores his question and straightens his back to be at the same height as him,
“Trouble sleeping?” Minho asks and gets a disturbingly breathtaking smile in return.
“I wanna show you something,” he says, not dignifying Minho with an answer. He pushes off from the door and motions for Minho to follow him. He does.
-
Chan’s room is more of an actual room than Minho’s. It's all the way down the hallway, Minho’s on and down by another to the left. He has more of an actual bed than a cot, a desk, and a closet for his clothes - which Minho has no doubt is filled with more black pants and t-shirts: it seems the man never wears anything else. There’s a window, probably one of the only ones in the building, the view being of the Hanggang and the buildings on the opposite side. Thousands of tiny yellow squares in the dark blanket of night. Chan walks to the window, slides it up, and leans on the sill. Minho stays motionless in the very middle of the room. The single electrical pear working as an overhead lamp sways in a bit of wind and sends his shadow sprawling across the floor on all sides of him.
“Do you see that building straight across from here?” Minhos tempted to be snarky and comment that he sees nothing, but he merely nods when Chan looks back at him. “When we debut, we move over there as rookies,” he explains, and Minho steps closer watching as his shadow climbs up the wall and settles next to Chan. Even in shadow form, despite their even heights, Chan towers over him. There's just something about him, something about his too-broad smile and large calloused hands that trigger Minho’s fight or flight, but pull him in at the same time. “Whatever you think you’ll find in Sunbae’s office, I can guarantee you’re much more likely to find over there.” Despite having figured he was on to Minho, the blatancy with which he says it has Minho sucking in a short breath. He nearly chokes on it but clears his throat and leans his own, smaller, hand on the window sill next to Chan’s, the rest of Minho’s body facing him. From this close, Minho’s chest is nearly pressed to Chan’s shoulder and Minho’s eyes trace the straight line of his nose down to his lips. They look soft and pillowy.
“You know something,” Minho says in lieu of answering, “And I want in on it.” Chan turns his head to look at him, and Minho flickers his eyes up to Chan’s, hoping he didn’t notice where he was looking. Something tells Minho he did.
“We’ve been told to gather teams of eight,” he says. His voice is a quiet rumble in the silence of the night, and Minho feels it clawing its way into his stomach and settling there nice and warm like the comforting purr of a cat. He continues before Minho can ask why, “There’s gonna be a sort of competition - three or so teams will be going through some tests to see if they have what it takes to debut.”
“I’ve been told nothing more. I’m not even certain who else has been told, but I’m assuming Dongmin is one of them.” Minho’s eyes flicker over his face. He doesn’t dare let them land on his lips again, but his eyes are deep and searching, and Minho fears if he looks into the warm brown for too long, Chan will see right through him. He’s not quite sure what to say, and Chan doesn’t look like he knows what he’s expecting either.
“What’s the plan?” Minho eventually settles on, and it earns him another one of those smiles. Crescent eyes and rows of pearly white teeth.
-
“I’m the eighth member that was needed for the group,” Minho explains, much like Chan had explained to him two days prior, “I’m the second oldest.” Captain hums thoughtfully. As usual, he doesn’t say much, but he watches their surroundings like a hawk.
“I’m planning on laying low for now,” Minho doesn’t tell the captain about how Chan caught him snooping around. He fears he’ll pull Minho out for compromising the mission.
“Yes.” Captain says, “Let’s wait this one out.”
-
As it turns out, there isn’t an opportunity to lie around in waiting for very long. Just a week later, Daesuk Sunbae, as well as two other men clad in suits, enter the training center and ask to gather everyone by the cage. One of them is clearly a bodyguard for the other. He’s an older man, and Minho immediately recognizes him as Park Jinyoung, CEO of JYP Hotels, JYP Entertainment, owner of multiple Itaewon and Gangnam establishments, and more importantly - within the general knowledge of the public but certainly not proven, the head of the organization. There’s a picture of him stuck on the middle of the board back in Captain Oh’s office, and Minho thinks for a second how vulnerable the man is, sitting there on a bench that has been dragged to the open side of the cage. Minho could have a knife to his throat in seconds. Funny how someone so powerful can allow himself to sit so vulnerable and obvious in a place like this, knowing the type of money and bribery and untested loyalty that keeps him sitting there.
Anyone chosen to be in someone's group is told to gather inside the cage. There are about thirty of them standing opposite each other, backs to the fences on either side of Sunbae.
“We’ll be doing things a bit differently today,” he starts, walking down the hall of trainees, letting his eyes run over their forms. “Some of you,” he says, stopping in front of Chan with a bit of a wry smile, “Have done this before, others,” he glances at Minho, from opposite Chan, “Have no clue what’s going to happen, so I’ll take the liberty to clarify.”
He stops at the end of the line, turns around, and clasps his hands together behind his back before slowly making his way back down, whoever he passes seems to straighten their back just a tad bit more, squaring jaws and puffing chests like peacocks showing off to attract attention, to stand out from the rest. Across from Minho, next to Chan, stands Seungmin. His hands are writhing before him, and he’s looking at the ground rather than straight ahead. Sunbae stops before him, and Seungmin startles as fancy dress shoes enter his field of vision.
“You will fight,” he states, “All against each other. Each man to their own, with no teams.” Minho watches as Seungmin gulps, whatever expression is on Sunbae’s face, he doesn’t imagine it’s a pleasant one.
“The last man standing wins and earns a favor for his team,” Sunbae continues his lazy stroll until he stands next to Mr. Park.
“Sir?” he says, waiting. The rest of them wait with him. Park Jinyoung lets his eyes roam over them, top to toe, before he reaches into his coat pocket to pull out a pack of Marlboro. They watch with bated breath as he pulls one out and offers another to Sunbae, who waves it off, and then he puts the pack back, reaching into another pocket to pull out a golden lighter. He flicks it open with a riveting zing and lights his cigarette with the precision of someone who has done it so many times before that it almost looks choreographed. He adjusts his seating, legs spread and wrists resting on his knees before he looks back at them.
“Begin,” he says, and all hell breaks loose.
-
Some of the older kids move first, and Minho, out of mere reflex, does the same. Most go for the person right across from them, but Chan sends Minho a grimace before throwing a mean goddamn punch at a kid half his size. Minho would love to stay and watch him; he’s never actually seen Chan in action, but he’s immediately thrown into the chaos when a kid throws himself at him, knocking Minho to the concrete floors. His head makes contact with the ground, and the breath leaves his body. He tries to open his eyes and get his bearings, but his head is knocked to the side by a flying fist. He gathers whatever strength he can muster to buck his hips up, throwing the kid off. Minho’s on him in a second, and then the next and the next and the next, and before he knows it, he’s faced with an angry, bloody scowl and hay-like hair. Dongmin looks like he’s been through hell- is going through it right now- and Minho doesn’t wanna know how he looks himself. This time, Dongmin knows Minho is ambidextrous. He guards both sides, unlike last time and leaves no unprotected gaps for Minho to easily attack. He also keeps feinting hits, disorienting Minho when every movement makes the room spin. Dongmin must’ve seen him hit the ground and is trying to use it to his advantage. Minho drags his sleeve over his forehead, and it comes back soaked. He watches as one Dongmin becomes three, becomes one, and then three again. His head is swimming, and his movements falter.
At the academy, they were made to go through tear gas chambers. They’re necessary practice for drug busts, protests, and riots, and Minho, through his special training, was made to go through them quite a few times. It's painful, and hardly anyone comes out with their guts inside their bodies and head on straight. Minho’s stomach is lurching, and his eyes want to crawl to the back of his head, but he shakes them back in their place, blinks rapidly to clear his vision, and settles back in a fighting pose while telling himself he’s had much worse.
Dongmin attacks with the confidence of someone who’s already won, and Minho turns so that his back is to Dongmin's front, just barely avoiding his fist connecting with Minho’s face. With both hands, he grab his swinging arm, Minho’s right hand on Dongmin’s wrist and his left right above Dongmin’s elbow, hoisting it onto his shoulder and pulling down. The resounding crack of his bone snapping right by Minho’s ears has him wincing, Dongmin’s pained scream leaves a high-pitched screech ringing through Minho’s head. He twists the broken arm around and off him, a screaming Dongmin following, helplessly trying to ease the pain. Minho deposits him by the opening to the cage and turns to face his next opponent.
His last opponent.
Chan stands before him, chest heaving and blood running into his eye from a cut on his forehead. Minho thinks he apologizes, or perhaps he hallucinates it before Chan is on him, and in a skillful maneuver, he hardly gets a second to counter, he’s got Minho on the ground, body heavy like a sack of potatoes, but his head is light and seemingly rolling away from him. Minho thinks someone ruffles his hair, but he’s not sure, and before long, he’s out like a light.
-
Minho wakes up in a familiar room that isn’t his own. There’s daylight streaming through a window from the wall behind him, and it paints the boring grey concrete walls a splendid golden orange. It reflects on Chan’s hair. He’s watching Minho carefully but doesn’t say anything. He’s gotten the cut on his forehead stitched, there’s bruising along his jaw, and his left eye is terribly swollen. His chest is also bare, and while the light hitting his pale skin is doing its damn best to hide the bruising and cuts along his chest, ribs, and abdomen, it’s unsuccessful. Minho tries to talk, but his voice doesn’t come, he merely makes an embarrassing sort of squeaky noise and half expects Chan to laugh. However, he gets up from his chair, grabs a glass of water from a stack of boxes working as a bedside table, and hands it to Minho. Lifting his hand to grab it hurts like a bitch, but Minho’s not about to have this man help him drink his water like a toddler. After a few long sips, he clears his throat and tries again,
“You look like shit,” Minho says and watches Chan’s eyes go wide before they dart down to look over his bruised upper body. He stares at it for a moment, as if he hadn’t noticed it until then, before shrugging and looking back up at Minho.
“You should see the other guy,” he says, and a bark of laughter tears its way out of Minho against his will. Chan joins him, his laugh is soft and bright. Cute, if Minho would allow himself to admit it. Chan clutches at his bruised ribs with a wheeze and sits down on the bed next to Minho,
“Ow fuck,” he whines and squeezes his eyes shut. Minho doesn’t know what compels him to do it, but he reaches a hand out and clasps it over the one Chan has settled over his ribs. It stops him short, and he swivels his head to look at Minho, bewildered.
“You could’ve at least made it seem like I had a chance to win over you,” Minho mutters and cares very little if perhaps he sounds a bit petulant. Minho tries to pull his hand away, but Chan latches onto it, holds it in his own, and places their connected hands in his lap.
“Nah,” Chan grins, “if I’d given you the chance to win, you would've.” There’s this awfully bothersome voice at the back of Minho’s head that wants to grab him by the neck and pull Chan’s lips onto his own - but Minho’s not an idiot, and he refrains from doing idiot-like things. Usually.
-
“You look like you got your ass kicked,” Is the first thing captain says when Minho slides into the booth in front of him.
“I did,” is the only answer he can give. He explains the cage fight - explains what Chan had told him about it. There’s no pattern to how often or when they take place. Mr. Park simply decides every once in a while that he feels like watching a bunch of kids nearly butcher each other. The prices that are won differ - but it is important that Chan won this one since he wanted to earn a favor for his team. And he also needed to show that he was chosen correctly for the role of a leader: hence, why Minho looked like he got his ass kicked.
“This Chan kid,” Captain says, and Minho restrains himself from correcting him. Chan isn’t much of a kid. “Has he some sort of deeper relationship with Choi Daesuk?”
“It seems so, yes.” Chan has been there the longest and has watched kids come and go. Seungmin explained to him that he was set to “debut” with another group, but he was eliminated from the team at the last minute. “It is to my understanding that Choi nearly raised him.”
-
They get about a week to get back on their feet before they’re called back for another meeting. Slipping into his sneakers at a snail's pace and slinking out of his room, Minho can only pray he’s not about to be put in another cage fight with a bunch of cocks on steroids trying to scratch his eyes out and is shocked to find only Chan and the other members of his team with Sunbae. It's the first time Minho’s seen all of them side by side like this, and the first time he’s seen a few of them since the cage fight. Some of them look like they could use another week of bed rest.
Chan, with his dark curly hair and pale skin, stands in the middle. He moves a tad bit to the side, making space for Minho next to him. He walks calmly to take it, while his eyes run over the others. Seungmin, with all brown fluffy hair and boyish charm, is standing at the very end, Jeongin, with short-trimmed black hair and foxy eyes, stands next to him. Two boys; Jisung and Felix - a chubby-cheeked one and a freckled one, both much more successfully blonde than Dongmin, come next in line. They’re both exceptionally touchy, and although Minho usually isn’t, he finds it particularly hard to reject physical touch when it’s one of those two instigating. Seungmin had fondly dubbed them “the sunshine twins” since their birthdays are a day or so apart if Minho remembers correctly. They’re not related, though.
Then there’s Chan. Minho. Changbin. He is a year younger than Minho and takes his role of third hyung very seriously. His dark hair resembles Chan’s, a bit fluffy. Curly. He’s got dimples too, but he doesn’t smile very often. Except when he’s with the group. And especially with Hyunjin, who stands next, and last, in line. He’s the tallest of the bunch, with tan skin and long black hair that reaches his hips. It’s often in a tight ponytail or bun at the top of his head. To a passing eye, he may come off as dramatic and vain, but he’s a sweetheart, and Minho’s solution to not knowing how to deal with his cuteness has so far been shoving tissues in his mouth or threatening bodily harm. Hyunjin refers to it as Minho’s love language. Minho refers to it as disciplinary action.
Daesuk Sunbae stands in front of them all. He’s a tall, decently built man with dark hair swept off his forehead and a neatly kept beard to match and Chan, with his 25 years, looks like a child next to him.
“Congratulations,” he says once Minho has settled in line, “You all made quite a fine ranking in the cage fight.” Minho wonders how many of them Chan had to put out of commission or if it was just him. They all look a bit worse for wear.
“You can pride yourselves on being the only full team, made by a fellow member, that made the cut,” Sunbae smiles proudly at Chan, “Most other teams have been moved around and had members replaced or eliminated, but our Chan has proved he knows what it takes to be part of the organization. Whatever that means, thinks Minho
“This is your chance to join us officially. To debut, become rookies, get your mark, and join the ranks of your older brothers.” Minho can’t help but think it's all a bit dramatic, but he’s trying quite hard not to let it show. Sunbae claps his hands together in a show of rare excitement and produces a file out of pretty much nowhere.
“Your first task,” he says, handing it over to Chan, who bows slightly and accepts it with both hands. “Some people think it is acceptable to steal from the organization,” Chan straightens with a grim smile, “See to it that they learn their lesson.” Minho casts a glance sideways to gather the reaction of the kids around him, but not one of them shows any proof of having been touched by the information.
“I’m not gonna wish you good luck - just do well.” Sunbae finishes before turning heel and leaving them to themselves.
-
The organization doesn’t offer vehicles for low-standing members, but Chan’s got an old rusty Toyota that has seen better days. Its white paint is more chipped than it isn’t and it makes a suspicious rattling sort of sound anytime they drive uphill - but it works better than a group of thugs arriving by foot, or worse, the bus - so Chan’s car it is. They make their way up the narrow, hilled roads of Ahyeon-dong and park haphazardly in front of a housing complex straight out of a horror movie Chan pulls the handbrake as far up as it can go and Minho closes his eyes while he steps out of the car for fear of its rolling backward down the steep hill. The others aren’t seemingly bothered and hop out of the car, dragging crowbars and baseball bats behind them.
Rather than knocking, Changbin throws the door open with a well-placed kick and the kids filter into the apartment, yelling and knocking things over. Minho stays by the door as a lookout. It’s a pretty simple job, honestly. A man in his fifties, a typical ludomaniac, has borrowed quite a bit too much money from the organization and been a real bitch about paying it back. The job is supposed to be intimidation only - a bit of damaged property and mean-looking faces should do the trick. Or so Chan has said. Which is why Minho hadn’t bothered to imagine how it could go wrong.
The yells from earlier take on another tone, and the bats and crowbars aren’t breaking glass but bones, and instead of yells of fear there are ones of pain, a woman’s voice is screaming and pleading, and the man, grey hair colored red by blood, and tired eyes wide in fear, is being dragged out by the collar. Chan rams the man against the railing, his back bowing over and head hanging nearly upside down. He flails in panic but Chan is much stronger, and the man is disoriented by what seems to have been a bat to the forehead,
“I won’t tell you again,” Chan growls, voice dark and sinister, and it sends an interesting thrill down Minho’s spine. The man’s breath is haggard and a whimper rings out from inside the apartment. No neighbors have come to see what the noise is about - but it's not surprising in a neighborhood like this. People know well enough to mind their business. The man says nothing, but he opens and closes his mouth like a fish. His eyes flitter between Chan’s face and the ground that seems an awful far way from the third floor before going around, looking over everyone's faces. They settle on Minho who is standing the closest, and his voice seems to come back,
“Please,” he whimpers, quite pathetically, and Minho wonders how he would’ve worked as a civil officer if things like this managed to evoke just about nothing in terms of pity. The man continues his pleads, bouncing from person to person, and it seems no one really bothers pitying him, except right as Chan is about to shut him up, Felix steps forward, looking like he intends to stop Chan, and with little thought, Minho grabs him by the elbow and makes for the stairs.
-
Felix releases a harsh breath when his back makes contact with the side of Chan’s car. This time Minho’s hands are in his collar, and he steps so close to Felix that he can see the white in his eyes and count every freckle that runs across his nose,
“What,” Minho snarls, “Do you think you’re doing?” Felix fights his hold, but despite his excellent martial arts skills, he doesn’t have much raw strength - something Minho has more than enough of. Felix makes a petulant sort of noise at the back of his throat and sounds like a toddler throwing a tantrum.
“We weren’t-,” he stops to take a stuttering breath, “We weren’t supposed to hurt them.” His voice cracks and tears travel down his face, gathering at his chin before dropping onto Minho’s wrist. Minho wonders, not for the first time, how Felix ended up in a place like this. Using violence to threaten and intimidate someone for stealing from the organization was very much implied in Daesuk Sunbaenim’s order, and Minho isn’t quite sure how to explain that to the snotty kid currently clinging to his leather jacket.
“Minho,” Chan says behind him, and he’s half-tempted to step back and let Chan deal with his own kids, but decides he’s equally angry with Chan as he is with Felix.
“Listen, Felix,” Minho says, quiet so that only he can hear it, “We’re about to get ourselves into some real deep shit here because that’s what this life is all a-fucking-bout - and if you can’t handle a little bit of roughhousing then you need to get the fuck outta here instead of potentially messing shit up for the rest of us, you got that?” Felix’s eyes are wide, teary, and red-rimmed, but he swallows and nods, hardly noticeable if Minho hadn’t been so far up in his face. Felix’s eyes flitter to the man behind them and Minho lets go of him to swing around to face him.
“Minho,” he repeats, his eyebrows are drawn over his eyes, and his mouth is settled in a scowl. Most people would probably cower at the fire in his eyes, but one of the only places in the world that teaches you to fight fire with fire is coincidentally the one place Minho comes from and he steps close to Chan, just like he had Felix.
“You’re gonna drive us home,” Minho says, jabbing a finger at his sternum, “And then you’re gonna explain to me what the fuck just happened.”
Minho’s eyes are wide open when he gets back in the car.
-
“-You think Park Jinyoung got the organizations to this point by just knocking over a few shelves? As our leader I decided not to pull my punches - if we want to stand out we need to be nasty Minho, we need to be willing to think of the worst possible thing and do worse-”
“Chan,” Minho cuts him off before his rant gets any longer, “I’m not disagreeing with you.” For a second the man looks taken aback. His jaw relaxes from its previously clenched state and his lips part slightly to let out a swoosh of air
“I think what you did was perfectly fine,” Minho waits for the clench in his gut from guilt, but just as he anticipated, it doesn’t come.
“What I don’t agree with, Chan,” saying his name has got his jaw clenching again, “Is the fact that you decided that entirely on your fucking own.” He looks like he’s about to protest, but Minhos tired and doesn’t have the time or the energy to argue with Chan
“Had you properly briefed us, so that everyone, even Felix, was aware that the situation might turn violent, then we could’ve prevented everything that happened today!
“This shit is a group effort - being a leader doesn’t mean ‘the only person who knows shit’. Fucking communicate, man,” Minho takes a deep breath, releases it in a sigh, and waves his hands non-committedly in the air before turning heel and walking out of the room,
“Yeah,” is the only thing he hears before the door clicks shut behind him.
-
“Some of these kids aren’t cut out for a life like this.” Captain scoffs and smiles grimly in Minho’s direction.
“None of them are,” he says. Minho thinks back to the way Chan carries himself when he walks around the center. The way the other trainees seem to cower at his presence and simultaneously stare at him with awe despite his seemingly oblivious nature - and Minho finds that he disagrees. Chan exists in that world like he was born into it and like the very fibers of his being were crafted to flourish in its shade. “They end up there because there was no other option.” Captain continues from before,
Did Chan have no other option? Did Felix?
Minho merely hums.
-
Felix is eliminated. Or thrown out. Or fired or however one can describe being kicked off the team. Sunbae had gathered them at ass o’clock in the morning to inform them that it had been a job well done - but unfortunately, one of them had proven that he didn’t quite yet have what it took to be an official member of the organization. He’d sneered at Felix where he stood, back ramrod straight, hands clutched behind him.
“Too soft,” he explains and climbs back to the darkness of the crow’s nest. Scum.
Felix takes a deep breath before bowing deeply to the rest of them. “Sorry,” he whispers before turning on his heel and booking it out of there. Jisung looks like he’s ready to follow, but Chan clears his throat and meets everyone’s eyes.
“Good job,” he says, nodding to himself, “Go back to bed, you deserve the rest.”
Minho was planning on it too. Wanted to crawl back under his duvet and get some warmth back into his numb toes, but something tells him to continue walking. Past the door to his room, past the bathroom, and past even Chan’s bedroom before stopping at one of the rooms at the very end of the second hallway. The door is closed, but stupidly thin. Minho stops short of where his shadow would be cast under the door if he took another step. There are sniffles and whimpers coming from the room, rustles of fabric followed by soothing murmurs.
Felix’s deep voice has gone strangely high-pitched as he sniffles and repeats, “Sorry, I’m sorry.” Over and over again. He stops when Chan says his name - or a variation of it. Lixie he says, little one follows, and Minho finds himself frowning at the endearment.
“Come find me, yeah?” Chan’s voice is clear and certain, “I’m not gonna leave you behind,” he says, and Minho’s heard entirely too much. His fingers have started going numb as well, although he’s not sure the warmth of his duvet can fix that.
-
At lunchtime he sits alone for once - Seungmin is with Felix and the others are nowhere to be seen, so he chooses a corner to sit with his legs folded under him as he shovels down today's atrocious offering. A chair is pulled out with a terrible screech and someone plops down before him. He glances up to spot that godawful nest of hay and a blackened smile - someone’s teeth haven’t been doing too well since the cage fight.
“Lee Minho,” his voice is lilting, and Minho wonders if he’s practiced his tone in front of the mirror.
“Dongmin.” Minho didn’t bother to remember his family name - but perhaps he should’ve. Dongmin looks a bit too smug at feeling that he’s got this much over Minho.
“Had a good first mission, did you?” he says, adjusting the broken arm he’s got in a sling - However he thinks he’s going to get under Minho’s skin it’s not working.
“I did, thank you, and you?” Dongmin’s smile drops imperceptibly, and Minho’s own sharpens.
“Oh wait,” he says, frowning in fake confusion, “You didn't get to go on one, did you?” Dongmin looks at him, tonguing at the inside of his cheek before flying forward, his only useful hand grabbing Minho by the nape and pulling him close.
“Listen here, kid,” he says, although Minho is pretty sure he’s older than him, “You might think you can come in here all shiny and new and climb the ladder like a fucking chimney sweeper but this world isn’t for the privileged, and you’re about to learn that the hard way.” Minho will give him credit for the creative comparison, but his breath stinks, and he wants to be there just as much as anyone who isn’t a chimney sweeper or Santa wants to be in a chimney
“Alright,” Minho smiles placatingly, “ready to learn, I am,” he says, grabbing Dongmin’s wrist and digging his nails in about as hard as he can manage. Dongmin hisses and pulls back. As a result, Minho’s nails scratch up Dongmin’s bare arm, leaving red streaks and beads of blood in their wake. If he keeps letting Minho close like this, he’s not gonna have any arms left to use.
“Bitch,” Dongmin says
“You can do better than that,” is Minho’s reply.
-
“I’m honestly glad Daesuk didn’t shoot Felix point blank and spit some poetic shit about ‘fear is power’ and ‘alpha males’ or whatever,” Captain nods and takes a sip of what Minho surmises is chamomile tea.
“Small mercies,” he replies, and Minho sighs.
-
The boys are sad and quiet in the days following. Felix still eats with them and is still glued to Jisung or one of the other’s sides any chance he gets, but he’s more reserved. Dull in a way someone usually compared to rays of sunshine should never be. On the third day of eating in silence, Minho notices he’s barely touched his food - he hasn’t really at all since the mission. He only eats his apple. So Minho slices his own apple with a knife he’s permanently snatched off the cage fence and places the boats on Felix’s plate. Minho doesn’t look at him for his reaction, but he has a less tense Felix hanging off his arm for the rest of the meal.
After dinner, Minho calls an early night and leaves with a chorus of goodnight’s following him to bed. Once the center has fallen silent, the door to his room creaks open to reveal a peak of glossy blond hair. The light from the hallway creeps into his room and darkens Felix’s face, but Minho can somehow tell he’s looking sheepish.
“Hyung,” he says, breathless, “Can I sleep with you tonight?” Minho is taken aback but slides back towards the wall and opens his duvet without question. Felix, when he steps in and lets the hallway light hit his face, looks equally taken aback - but the door clicks shut, and a cold body presses up against Minho’s warmer one, making goosebumps travel across his skin.
“Thank you,” Felix whispers, burying into Minho’s chest and releasing a satisfied sigh.
-
Seungmin and Chan watch as he and Felix walk out of Minho’s room together with sleep-ruffled hair, and the former quirks an eyebrow while Chan turns and heads to the canteen without as much of a ‘good morning’.
Felix doesn’t sleep alone ever, Seungmin explains later - but despite making rounds and seeking comfort with every member of the group, he has never once sought out Chan. It surprises Minho, considering what he heard the day Felix was eliminated, and considers telling Seungmin about it to get his opinion on the matter, but realizes he would have no excuse for going all the way down the hall except to spy on them, so Minho holds his tongue - nods in understanding, and goes back to his punching bag.
Minho tries to convince himself that he couldn’t care less about whatever connection Felix and Chan seem to have - and even less about the fact that Chan hasn’t so much as looked in his direction, much less smiled, since he saw him and Felix. Is he jealous? Minho decides for himself that if Chan wants him to stay away from Felix because he feels like he has some sort of claim over the younger, he can damn well tell him so.
Thump thump thump
Why does he care?
Thump thump thump
-
When Chan finally gets over whatever agenda he decided he had against Minho, it’s at dinner, and he’s addressing all of them - but looking at Minho. The canteen is empty save for two kids sitting in a corner on the opposite side of the room.
“We'll be receiving our next mission tomorrow,” most of them stop mid-bite - except for Changbin, the pig - and Minho realizes belatedly the odd choice of time to have this sort of meeting. Felix isn’t here.
“Any idea what it’s gonna be?” Hyunjin wonders and in turn, Minho wonders how none of them seem to question where Chan has this knowledge from. Is it another one of those perks of having been here longest, or has every team leader been likewise informed?
“No,” Chan replies, looking mighty dissatisfied with it, “But it’s gonna be harder, and more large-scale than the first.” This isn’t something he’s been told, but something they’ve all been mentally preparing for. Minho lifts his chopsticks the rest of the way, taking a bite of rice and chewing it thoroughly, pretending as if he doesn’t feel Chan’s eyes on him still. He swallows, puts his chopsticks down, and clears his throat to speak.
“Do you need something, Hyung?” Chan’s eyes widen at the title, and every other man at the table seems to side-eye him nervously.
“Like last time,” Chan starts, “I’m not planning on holding back on this mission - if we have to be nasty and get violent, then we will. If you have a problem with that, then you’re not cut out for this life and I recommend you step out before it’s too late.
“If you should choose to stay, I’m expecting you to pack away whatever reservations you may have. I expect you are willing to kill a man if asked for it.” Chan is still staring intently at Minho, and Minho meets him eye to eye. He wonders if Chan’s expecting praise from having communicated like Minho had told him to - he imagines leaning over and patting Chan on top of his dark, curly hair, imagines saying “Good boy,” and getting away with it. Would he get away with it?
-
Although Chan’s room is easily the biggest out of them all, it’s not exactly built to fit seven grown men in it. That does not deter the younger members who seem to sort of all merge into one large blob of limbs and body parts on the bed. Chan sits on the sole chair in the room, only after offering it to both Minho and Seungmin, who both insist on standing up.
Captain Oh Sanghyeon
56 years old
Head of Narcotics
Chan reads out loud the information from the file Daesuk handed them, and Minho feels his blood run cold. The six other men in the room are discussing the details of the order - but they’re drowned out by the rushing in his ears, and he finds that he wishes he had accepted the chair when Chan offered. He feels a tad bit lightheaded. Tonight Sunbae said. Minho has no way of reaching out to Captain Oh - the burner phone he uses to contact him isn’t on the premises, for fear of getting in the wrong hands, and Minho likely won’t get a chance to leave without it seeming incredibly suspicious.
“Are we just supposed to kill him?” Jisung asks, and Minho is more disturbed by the ease with which he says it than he usually would be. Just? Just supposed to kill the Captain of the narcotics team. Just supposed to kill Minho’s Captain?
Out of the corner of his eye, Minho can feel Seungmin moving his attention to him. His brows weigh down onto his eyes curiously and Minho realizes he’s completely forgotten to breathe much less control the panic that is likely shining from his eyes like a beacon. He takes a deep breath and zones back into the conversation.
“Yeah,” Chan replies after a minute, “Pretty much.” Minho is tempted for a second to speak up and question him but remembers that Chan seems to understand the workings of this place better than anyone, and if Minho wants to make this work, he better keep quiet and play along. Perhaps he can do something to change the course of things - maybe he still has a way of controlling the proceedings tonight.
“What then?” Hyunjin asks, twirling a long strand of hair around a lithe pointer finger. Once again, Minho’s eyes run over the men in the room, looking for the slightest bit of hesitation. Any reaction at all, really. Under any other circumstances, Minho would probably feel proud at the sight of the boys looking anywhere between mildly bored (Jeongin) and abnormally excited (Jisung, always Jisung) - but considering these exact circumstances, Minho is worried.
“Well,” Chan starts, “All the information we need is on this,” Chan rereads the file, eyes scanning it up and down, before sighing and looking up.
“We’ve got 20 minutes - our first job usually gets home late.”
“There's no reason for all of us to do the job,” Minho says, earning six pairs of eyes on him, “Seven men to kill one man is a bit extreme, don’t you think?” Chan runs his eyes over Minho, much the same way he had the file, gaze searching, calculating - his neck prickles with the attention.
“What do you suggest we do then, Minho?” the way Chan says his name sounds like a weapon. Like he’s got a gun pointed right at him, and he’s little to do but raise his arms in surrender. Minho doesn’t surrender.
“The address,” Minho cites the address Chan had read from the file, hoping he passes as someone with good memory and not someone who’s been delivering a drunk captain back at that very house before. “It’s a middle-class residential area - the neighbors are close and are likely to call the police if we start firing guns - not to mention he’s a cop - he’s likely to fire back.” The men on the bed exchange looks, Seungmin nods next to Minho and speaks up for the first time tonight,
“So one of us stay in the car, three stay outside the house or further down the street as guards while three go inside,” Chan, who has finally taken his eyes off Minho to listen to Seungmin, nods and looks back at the file in his hands, eyebrows settled in a thoughtful frown.
“Since I'm assuming Minho can’t drive - Changbin will be in the car,” the younger man looks slightly miffed to be left in the car but says nothing, nodding curtly at Chan and then directing his gaze to Minho, just like Chan has once again. Minho nods in agreement. He actually can drive, but if Chan wants to assume he can’t, then he’s not gonna deny it. Minho needs to be inside that house.
“Seungmin, Jeongin, and Jisung stand guard,” the kids roll their eyes - seemingly not surprised by not being allowed to join in on the action. Minho can’t be bothered to be concerned by their desire for it.
“Hyunjin, Minho, and I,” Chan looks both of them in the eyes but settles on Minho like he can’t physically look away for more than thirty seconds at a time. “Are going to kill Oh Sanghyeon,” Hyunjin is smirking - his gorgeous plump lips stretch out to one side, and his eyes are slit, predatory. Most others would probably have to get used to the fact that these boys want to be murderers and criminals - Chan seems to have specifically chosen kids that aren’t just here out of necessity - these young men are driven by chaos and all harbor a sort of darkness that Minho hadn’t personally allowed himself to indulge in, ever. Felix’s part of the group makes little sense except for Chan’s apparent soft spot for the freckled boy.
Minho mirrors Hyunjin, his own eyes squinting back. Mouth curving up mischievously.
“Yeah,” he says, “We are.”
-
Sitting in Chan’s cramped car with Jisung pressed into his side and Hyunijn in his lap, Minho realizes they’re five minutes away from Captain Oh’s apartment and a few minutes more away from his potential death. The inside of the car feels a bit suffocating the closer they get, and Minho reaches an arm out to open the window. When he pulls it back, Hyunjin grabs onto it and folds it over his stomach, Minho’s hand settling perfectly in the dip in his waist. The long-haired ravenette throws a grin over his shoulder, which Minho imitates. Jisung squeezes impossibly closer and grabs onto Minho’s free hand, entwining their fingers.
The car slows to a stop halfway onto a sidewalk and right by an intersection. There are four possible roads to speed down if they’re potentially chased, and Minho mentally applauds Chan for his foresight. They all shuffle out of the car except Changbin who maneuvers himself over the center console and plops into the driver's seat, one arm out the open window.
They make their way up the hill in silence - it’s about 2 a.m., so there are still lights in some windows - but the streets are quiet save for a dog barking a fair distance away - another dog, the boy next to Minho, is bouncing as he goes, a bat swung over his shoulders in a careless manner. One would think a group of people about to kill someone would try and be a bit more discreet about it. But then again, there’s nothing particularly discreet about six men walking down the street in their dark hoodies and face masks, looking for all intents and purposes like they’re on a murder mission. Minho thumbs the hilt of the knife that he slipped up his sleeve. Jisung and Jeongin are holding hands - and although Jeongin is pretending to grumble, Minho can tell he’s flustered. If it comes down to it, will he be able to kill one of them? His eyes find the back of Chan’s head, and he thinks to himself that even if he could, he doesn’t think he’d even get the chance. It occurs to Minho that whether Chan would intercept or not, Minho could never lay a hand on his boys. Because at some point, he’d started to see them as his. He truly considers himself part of the team, part of the family. And he’d be damned if he let anyone lay a hand on them. Even himself.
-
Captain Oh has barely opened the door before they’re barreling their way into his apartment, Chan and Hyunjin easily wrestling him onto his knees in the living room, a random piece of fabric shoved into his mouth. He’s still in his work clothes, usually consisting of jeans and a sweater pulled over a collared shirt. His clothes are ruffled, and Minho knows it’s not from the tussle seconds before but rather just the way Captain Oh always looks.
I want to do it, Minho had said once they had split off from the rest of the group. He’d expected at least one of them to protest. Hyunjin because of his bloodlust and Chan because of his assumption that he has to take on that kind of responsibility - but when the words tumble into the silence between them, Hyunjin looks up, looking elated. and Chan quirks an eyebrow.
“Alright,” he says, and that was that.
Now, standing before Captain Oh, Minho hesitates only for a second. Minho lets his knife slip out of his sleeves and into his hands, the blade glinting with what little light there is in the room. Minho sighs internally at the lack of fear on the captain’s face. He could at least look like he fears for his life, seeing as he most likely doesn’t know that Minho is the one about to kill him. Captain looks at the knife before letting his eyes slowly roam up Minho’s form before landing on his face, covered in a mask and the shade of his hoodie. Knowing him, he probably always expected to die like this.
Minho lets his attention leave the captain for a second to take in the sight of the men holding him fast. Their faces are covered too, but they’re standing quiet in anticipation, and Minho would hate to disappoint them. With a prayer that being fast will make it hurt a little less, Minho charges forward, knife connecting with soft flesh and then meeting slight resistance. He uses both hands to press it deeper into the captain’s abdomen with a sickening squelch, and behind the makeshift gag, the captain releases a groan. His skin goes pale startlingly fast, and blood gushes out onto Minho’s hands. Minho looks at him, and Captain Oh opens his eyes to look back. This close, the shadow of Minho’s hood can’t hide the half of his face that isn’t covered by a mask, and Captain’s eyes flash with recognition. Minho smiles, wry, and hopes the older man can see it.
“Go,” Minho tells the others, his voice steady, “Grab whatever shit that looks valuable.” They seem to understand what he’s insinuating and let go of the captain, his body sagging forward into Minho’s. His hands are still holding the knife, but Captain makes no move to do anything except grab onto Minho’s biceps.
“What a way to go, eh?” Captain whispers, and Minho stifles a laugh, well aware of the fact that Hyunjin and Chan are still in the room with them. “You know,” his voice is so thin Minho has to strain to hear him, “Vengeance is a pretty darn good motivator.” It’s the last thing he says before he releases a rattling breath against Minho’s cheek and goes still.
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