Chapter Text
“You got my money?”
The duffle bag’s muffled thud is loud in the mostly empty warehouse space. The scene playing out below is far too movie-like, complete with shitty lighting and figures standing in shadows, bodyguards ready to draw their guns at any given moment. They’re in dark suits, all rolled up sleeves and bulging muscles. The two men doing the exchange make their statuses painfully clear. The higher-up is also in a suit – what is it with mafia pricks and suits? – with the top three buttons of his black dress shirt undone and a heavy chain around his neck. Why he feels the need to wear sunglasses indoors and at night will forever remain a mystery. The dealer is in a stereotypical black hoodie and sweatpants, hood covering his head and hands shoved casually into his hoodie pocket as the higher-up snaps to have one of his men come forward and check the bag.
There are four more bodyguards patrolling the perimeter – two watching the entrance. Idiots. This warehouse is on the edge of town, out of the way of civilian foot traffic, outside of the odd homeless person or stupidly adventurous teen. It’s a Friday night for fuck’s sake, anyone out and about is at a club or restaurant, and few of them are worried to try and snoop in on an exchange. They have no idea just how stupid they look, so concentrated on checking their surroundings and reporting to each other through their earpieces. He’s already inside.
See, their mistake – all of these middlemen’s mistake – is that they don’t know how to look up. If they only looked up while doing their little sweep-throughs, they would have seen him. Not immediately, no, but if they knew how to look closely and do actually thorough checks. He’s perched high up in the rafters, cast in shadows as he watches the events below him unfold, entirely disinterested. His earpiece is recording all of the information he needs so he doesn’t have to pay attention to this part and, quite frankly doesn’t, finding more entertainment in spinning his gun round and round his fingers. The safety is off and if he were normal, he would be nervous. One wrong move and a bullet is firing, one slip and it goes falling to the concrete floor, giving him away. It’s amusing how oblivious they all are. If he were a little crazier, he would see how many of them he could kill before the first one managed to draw his gun, but he’s here on specific orders so he isn’t allowed to be trigger-happy.
The bodyguard checks the money, picking up a couple of the banded stacks and holding them up to the shitty light before dropping them back in and zipping the bag up. He gives the gangster a single nod, returning to his position, and the exchange wraps up quickly from that point. The higher-up takes the duffle bag in hand and he and his bodyguards leave, the dealer left alone in a matter of minutes. He walks over to a rundown couch, some piece of shit picked up from the side of the road and drops down on it with a sigh. His entire body deflates, his eyes sliding shut, and it’s strange that he still gets anxious during exchanges. He’s been doing this for three years at this point, no longer a new recruit, so one would think he would have some semblance of confidence by now. Not that it matters.
In the rafters, he removes his earpiece and tucks it into the pocket attached to his boot. He listens intently, waiting for the crunch of tires on gravel to fade before he moves. He bites his lip to contain a smile as he subtly stretches, slowly lowering himself until he’s sitting on the beam with his legs dangling over the side. He sits there for a moment, kicking his feet. He’s always liked being off the ground, finds comfort the higher up he can get. He puts the gun in his mouth as he grabs the beam with his hands and swings his body forward until he’s hanging down.
The dealer is none the wiser as he monkey bars his way across the beam until he reaches a lower one and swiftly, silently, makes his way down until he’s low enough to drop to the ground on silent feet. He takes the gun from his mouth, lifting his oversized sweater and tucking it into the waistband of his tiny shorts. He readjusts his shirt, leans down to wipe a speck of dirt from his combat boots, and then straightens up, watching his target with a tilted head. He looks to be on the verge of falling asleep. Maybe his anxiety makes sense. He has no sense of awareness.
“My favorite color is red.”
The dealer jerks upward, his eyes flying open and his hand searching frantically for his gun. His head whips around, eyes scanning his surroundings as he tries to locate the source of the voice. On his left, out from the shadows, steps someone dressed in a sweater long enough to brush their knees and a pair of combat boots. Their face is still shadowed in the shitty lights, but he can see the long, fluffy black hair framing it. They take a couple of steps forward and he sees a round, innocent face that wears a small but sweet smile. He’s so…small. The dealer relaxes, a quirk in his brow as he tries to remember what the small man said.
“What was that?”
The sweet smile slowly widens. The innocent expression never shifts, never changes, but he finds his stomach starting to drop. There’s something off about this smile. The small man’s voice is as sweet as the smile he wears, soft and almost feminine. “My favorite color is red. What’s yours?”
“Wha-“
A gunshot rings throughout the warehouse, the dealer cut off before he can get the word out. His mouth hangs open, his eyes wide and lifeless as a stream of blood trickles down his nose from the bullet hole between them. Jihoon sighs, twirling the gun around his fingers as he stares at the dead man.
“Why can they never just answer my question?” he mutters, his lips jutting into a pout.
The Estate – Busan Outskirts – 9:00pm
Jihoon’s footsteps echo dully down the familiar hallway. Normally, he would be completely silent but he’s received one too many complaints about his habit of just “appearing” around people. He wouldn’t care about the complaints if they hadn’t resulted in him being threatened with having to wear a collar with a bell, so he puts in a conscious effort to make his presence known when roaming around the estate. A couple of the guards nod at him as he passes them by and he nods back as he rounds the corner. He stops just outside the office, reaching down to unzip his boot pocket and pulling his earpiece out before knocking twice on the door.
“Come in, pet,” a gruff voice calls muffledly from the other side. Jihoon pushes the office door open and steps inside. Normally, there would be at least one bodyguard in here, maybe a few lower men, but the only occupant of the room sits behind his massive desk, leaning forward with his elbows resting on it. Jihoon bows his head, not daring to meet the man’s eye without permission. “Right on time as always. Good pet.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Jihoon says. The man sits back in his desk chair, pushing it back from the desk.
“Come,” he commands. Jihoon sinks down to his knees, holding the earpiece between his teeth as he put his hands on the ground and crawls over to the man. The hardwood is cold under his hands and on his bare knees and he crawls quickly to reach the large, plush rug that takes up much of the office floor. When he reaches the man, he lifts his head, dropping the earpiece into the large hand that lowers in front of his mouth. Calloused fingers run through his fluffy hair and he leans into the touch, crawling closer when prompted. He settles between the man’s legs and lays his head on his thigh. “Gun.”
Jihoon’s lower lip juts into a pout as he reaches behind himself and pulls the gun from his waistband, handing it over next. “But, Sir, you said-”
“Are you questioning my order, pet?”
Jihoon shakes his head immediately. “No, Sir. I’m sorry.”
The man doesn’t answer immediately and Jihoon subtly tenses, not daring to move a muscle as he anticipates the man’s next move. To his relief, the hand returns to petting his hair and he relaxes, letting his eyes slip shut. “Did you have any trouble?”
“No, Sir.”
“No one saw you?”
“The only one who did is dead.”
“And you’re sure?”
Jihoon tilts his head back to pout up at the man who chuckles, patting his cheek before using his thumb to pull Jihoon’s mouth open. Jihoon sits pliantly as the man looks at him, curling his hands into fists to keep from fidgeting. His eyes flicker to the gun resting just within his line of sight on the desk. The man follows his gaze briefly before staring down at him once more. He’s in a good mood, it seems, and must be feeling generous because he grabs the gun without a word. Jihoon opens his mouth wider as a flash of excitement goes through him. Much to Jihoon’s delight, the gun is placed in his mouth and he seals his lips around it, sucking on the barrel. He can taste the residual gunpowder and hums contently, eyes fluttering shut once more.
“Good pet,” he hears the man mutter above, his fingers resuming their petting through Jihoon’s hair. Jihoon stays there for a while, verging on falling asleep when there’s a knock at the office door. He lets out a bit of a disgruntled sound and gets shushed. “Come in.”
“Black Mamba, sir, we have an update on-“
“Wait.” The man snaps and Jihoon flinches slightly at his raised voice. His mouth is suddenly empty and he blinks, lifting his head. Black Mamba grabs him by the chin so that they lock eyes. “I have important business to handle. Go shower and get something to eat.”
Jihoon’s brows furrow momentarily. Normally, when someone comes in with an update, Jihoon is treated as no more than an afterthought, allowed to hear whatever information they have to share (not that he ever cares to know what they’re talking about). He doesn’t understand what’s different now but he also doesn’t care. If he’s needed for whatever this is, he’ll receive his orders eventually.
“Yes, Sir,” he mumbles, turning and crawling away from the desk and to the door where he stands up and leaves, closing the door behind him and going to do as told.
***
Jihoon’s been at the estate for almost as long as he can remember. He thinks he might’ve had a life or, or something before coming here but he’s never sure of it. He’s only seen said life in dreams that he could hardly remember after waking up but always had visceral emotional reactions to. Since the age of four, Black Mamba and his men were all Jihoon knew. He doesn’t know if his childhood was normal because he had nothing to compare it to. He only knew three other children his age growing up and that was only because they all stayed at the estate and grew up together. So, no, Jihoon doesn’t know what would and wouldn’t constitute a normal childhood but he could guess that his might not have been one.
“Oh, Jihoon, you’re back.”
Jihoon glances over to his bedroom door, flashing Yooseok a tiny, close-lipped smile as he goes back to looking through his dresser drawers for something to wear. He doesn’t have much to pick from and wonders, for a moment, how long he’ll have to kneel if he were to ask for some new clothes. A phantom ache enters his knees just at the thought so he shakes it away and settles for a pair of cotton shorts that cut off just below his ass and an oversized shirt he managed to sneak away from Black Mamba a few weeks ago. Stealing the shirt successfully had been more nerve-wracking than any of the assignments he’d been sent out on.
“I’ve been back for over an hour,” he informs Yooseok. The bodyguard leans against the doorframe, his eyes falling to the clothes in Jihoon’s hands when he turns. The tiniest and briefest of frowns downturn his lips, gone as soon as it appears.
“You eat yet?”
“I was told to shower first.”
“Chef made your favorite dessert. Only question is if you’re allowed to have it.” Yooseok asks, a teasing glint in his eye. He laughs when Jihoon turns a glare on him.
Jihoon’s childhood wasn’t bad, per se. If asked, Jihoon would say that he grew up somewhat happily. He had caretakers and teachers and the cook favored him, always sneaking him extra snacks or dessert. He was smart, constantly being praised by his caretakers and even catching the attention of the highest boss. Black Mamba. Per the boss’ order, Jihoon began his training at age seven and this is where he would guess that his childhood wasn’t quite normal. From the age of seven, Jihoon was molded into a killer. He was taught several forms of combat, and trained to use firearms and knives. Just like his classes, Jihoon received constant praise for his performance during training and soon found himself to be one of Black Mamba’s favorites.
After showering with the nauseatingly sweet-smelling floral body wash he was instructed to use, Jihoon goes through his meticulous process of checking for and removing any stray body hairs. He dries his hair and ignores the urge to tie it up. Not that he has access to any hair ties in the first place. He does his skincare and moisturizes his entire body before dressing. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he turns his face left and right, checking for non-existent imperfections. When he’s satisfied, he leaves the bathroom, skipping through the halls in the direction of the kitchen.
There are already a few staff members and middlemen eating in the large dining room, all of whom bow their heads to Jihoon as he passes. Jihoon doesn’t acknowledge them, sauntering his way right into the kitchen, the door swinging behind him. He slinks his way over to where a tall man is stirring a tall pot on one of the stoves and stops behind him. He stares at the back of the chef’s head for a few seconds before hopping onto the island behind him, shoving some chopped veggies over to do so. After watching for a moment longer, he clears his throat, bursting into giggles when the man startles.
“Hiya, Chef,” he greets cutely, innocently batting his eyelashes when Chef turns an angry look on him. It melts away quickly when he registers that it’s Jihoon, his smile showing off several missing teeth as he continues to stir the pot, his body angled to face the younger.
“One of these days, you’ll feel bad about scaring me when I finally have a heart attack,” his scolding would be more effective if he weren’t grinning and Jihoon shrugs.
“Your heart's in perfectly good condition,” he says, picking up a carrot slice to munch on. “You’d be dead otherwise. Sir would have you taken out.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Chef winks though Jihoon catches the slight waver in his voice. Chef clears his throat, gesturing to the pot. “Want some soup?”
“No, but I don’t have a choice.”
“I could-“
“No,” Jihoon shakes his head quickly before smiling, his eyes flickering to the door. “I’ll take the soup. It smells delicious.”
“Well, you have your favorite dessert waiting for you when you finish.” Chef nods to the dish of tiramisu sitting on the counter. There’s already a square missing and Jihoon turns a pout on Chef.
“Someone had some before me?”
“Or there’s an extra piece hidden in the back of the fridge for someone.”
Jihoon beams as Chef fixes him a bowl of soup and hands it over with a spoon.
The treatment from Black Mamba wasn’t strange at first. Their relationship felt somewhat fatherly in the beginning. The man took him under his wing, took special time to train Jihoon himself, and rewarded him. Jihoon looked up to him, admired him, and as he grew older, his only life goal was to be chosen as one of his personal hitmen. At age fifteen, Jihoon was given his first assignment. Something small, just to test him. It was his first time killing a man.
Jihoon roams the halls after leaving the kitchen. He doesn’t have much else to do. Everyone is on strict schedules, always at beck and call. Jihoon used to be treated like that but the better he got, the more freedom he gained. Outside of his training sessions and assignments, Jihoon has more free time than he knows what to do with and has free reign of the whole estate. Well…he pauses at the door that leads to the basement stairs, a cold thrill going up his spine before he quickly moves along…most of the estate. Until he’s needed, of course, and then it becomes his keeper’s – as he playfully calls Yooseok – problem to figure out where he’s hiding.
A normal response to seeing a dead body would be, should be, horror. Fear. Nausea, even. Jihoon was intrigued. Curious. Fascinated, even. He stared at the man’s body as the life drained from it in a red pool. He didn’t cry or panic like he’d been warned he might, but he couldn’t stop staring for a good ten minutes, only snapping out of it when the voice in his earpiece told him to get a move on. Yooseok had worried over him, fretting like a concerned parent until he realized that Jihoon was perfectly fine (which, in reality, only worried him more). Jihoon never physically reacted to killing or seeing people get killed, desensitized from a young age, but he saw them in his dreams. Every victim made an appearance when he went to sleep. Jihoon wonders what the dealer he killed tonight will look like when he goes to bed.
Jihoon’s light footsteps take him to his favorite hiding spot, a blind spot that not even security – nor Black Mamba – knew about. Jihoon checks his surroundings before ducking into the second-floor supply closet. He climbs the shelf with nimble movements, placing his hand on one of the drop ceiling tiles and pushing it until it gives. He maneuvers it out of the way until there’s just enough room for him to climb up into the ceiling. Once he’s up there, he carefully replaces the tile before climbing across the beams. He could travel all around the house from here, but there’s a specific spot he likes to go to the most. Jihoon hears hushed voices as he nears the ceiling above Black Mamba’s office.
In the corner of the rafters, where the beams are closer together, is his little makeshift bed that he very, very slowly put together over the span of a few months. Jihoon has several reasons for this spot being his favorite. It’s always warm, for one, making for a perfect napping place no matter the weather. No one can find him when he’s here. Not even Yooseok who memorized his most common hiding spots. But for that exact reason, this is also Jihoon’s favorite spot because he can hear whenever Black Mamba wants him to come to his office. He doesn’t care to eavesdrop on the man’s business, finds it entirely too boring, but being above his office allows Jihoon to know when his presence is requested and he can move to a different hiding spot for Yooseok to collect him from.
Jihoon settles down in his little bed, pulling out a bag of gummy worms hidden inside of his blankets. His gums are itching, his teeth aching for something to chew on. Chef manages to sneak him a couple bags of either gummy worms or fruit snacks every few grocery runs so Jihoon has to make them last. He’s on the last of this bag, only three gummies left, and sighs quietly as he bites one in half. He curls into a ball, his ear toward the ceiling. If he holds his breath, the voices become clearer and he’s able to make out what they’re saying. Black Mamba sounds angry and Jihoon crosses his fingers, hoping that he won’t call for him. Just as he’s dozing off, Jihoon picks up on bits and pieces of the conversation, not thinking much of it until-
“We think we know where he is,” a muffled voice is saying. “The one who ran away.”
The one who ran away…Jihoon thinks vaguely as he chews slowly on his last gummy worm. He knows who they’re talking about but he can’t remember his name, not off the top of his head. He didn’t know him personally and was rarely in the same room with him from the four to five year span that he was at the estate, but he thinks they were the same age. They talked only a handful of times and Jihoon thought they were starting to be friends but then he was gone. Jihoon racks his brain, trying to find some memory of his name. He yawns, growing sleepier by the second and giving up on trying to remember. Whatever. He doesn’t know why he's trying so hard to remember, if Black Mamba knows where the runaway is then he’ll kill him. No one ever escapes him.
Busan Outskirts – Warehouse – 10:30pm
“You’re gonna fucking pay for this! All of you!”
The man’s voice is the only one ringing out in the small space. He fights against his restraints, ignoring the way the rope burns and cuts into his skin with all of his movement. It’s useless, there’s no way he’s breaking himself out of the chair. His loud voice betrays his fear, wavering and full of pain. His left eye is swollen shut, his bottom lip busted and bleeding. He keeps scanning the room in search of a reaction but the men are all silent. They look bored, the one standing in front of the closed door checking his nails disinterestedly while the others remain blank-faced.
One of them, the one in charge who’d been leaning against a table with an eerily calm expression, sighs as he pushes away from it. His shoes click lightly as he crosses the room, his attire unbefitting for the dingy warehouse. His silk, white dress shirt is half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. The shirt is tucked into a simple pair of slacks with a belt, his outfit complete with shiny, black shoes. His sharp eyes scan the man head to toe, head cocking as he asks, “You done?”
“Y-you have no idea of my status. The Serpents will come looking for me!”
“You put a lot more value on your life than you should,” Soonyoung says softly, shaking his head. “My boys have already informed me of your status. You don’t even have a title; you’re no more than a middleman who bit off a hell of a lot more than he can chew.”
“Th-the Serpents,” the man tries, a stutter appearing the more nervous he becomes in Soonyoung’s presence. “They-“
“Know better than to fuck with us. What exactly were you trying to achieve, intercepting our shipment all on your own? Thought it would give you a status boost?”
“I was ordered to.” The man grits his teeth. Soonyoung blinks.
“You just insulted me and your boss with a single sentence.”
He pulls his gun from his waistband, turning the safety off as he raises it. The man’s eyes widen as he begins to beg for his life, uselessly attempting to reason with the stony-faced Soonyoung. “Wait! Wait, wait, wait! I have- I could give you information! Anything you want to know, I’ll tell you! J-just, please don’t-“
The person at the door looks up when the gunshot rings out, the dead man falling over with a thud. “Good. He was getting on my nerves.”
Soonyoung tucks his gun away just as his phone starts buzzing. He grabs it from his pocket, walking toward the door as he answers, and gesturing to the body as he leaves. “Clean this up.” He orders, receiving mumbled responses as he exits the room.
“What’s up?” Soonyoung asks as he makes his way to the main room of the warehouse.
“Hoshi hyung, we have a serious situation,” Seokmin says. Though his voice is soft, Soonyoung can hear an underlying panic that has him cocking a brow.
“How serious?”
“S.Coups might be the new target for Angel.”
The name sends a slight chill through the small of his back. He stops walking. “Might be? The fuck does that psycho bitch want with him?”
“No one knows. It’s a miracle he’s even alive.”
“What happened?”
“Apparently he approached hyung at the Seoul location, seduced him, then stole our money and hyung’s favorite gun.”
“How the fu- You know what, I don’t care. Do you need us there?”
“No. Not yet, anyway, but I thought you should know the situation.”
“Alright, well, keep us updated.”
“Of course.”
Soonyoung hangs up just as Junhui comes down the hall. The Chinese man gives him a curious look and he shakes his head. Junhui shrugs, whistling to himself as he keeps walking.
***
Jihoon gets bored.
“My favorite color is red.”
“Huh? Who-”
Bang!
Day in and day out, it’s the same thing over and over. He wakes up, eats, trains, eats, roams, hides, sleeps. Then every so often he has an assignment. On those days, he wakes, eats, trains, kills, reports to Black Mamba, eats, roams, sleeps. Even that occasional change in routine isn’t enough to keep from growing bored.
“What’s yours?”
“How did you get in here?! I thought you were a fucking ghos-“
Bang!
Between his mundane, repeating schedule, he spends a lot of time in Black Mamba’s office, kneeling by his side or between his legs. Sometimes the man will have Jihoon sit on his lap. It’s a rare occurrence, only happening when the man is feeling particularly nice, and Jihoon welcomes the break to his sore knees. Even on a soft rug, it becomes painful to kneel for so long but he wouldn’t dare voice a complaint. He made the mistake of doing so once and got spanked so bad he screamed his voice raw and couldn’t walk properly for several days, his skin blistered and swollen. That was one of the very few punishments Jihoon ever received. He may have been a favorite, but his fuckups were still met with cruelty.
“Blue.”
Jihoon cocks his head. It’s rare for his targets to actually answer his question. He hums, continuing to swing his legs from his perch on the metal railing. He’d allowed himself to be spotted this time instead of sneaking up on the man. He did this every now and then to switch up these scenarios. They typically all play out the same way but Jihoon is pleasantly surprised to have some variation this time around. It’s his fifth assignment this month and he was getting tired of the same old thing.
“Blue? Why?”
The man gestures vaguely in the direction of the ocean that can be heard lapping against the port even through closed doors. It’s high tide and verging on a storm so the water is extra aggressive. He’s entirely too calm for Jihoon’s liking. He hates being underestimated, and he knows exactly what this man is thinking as his eyes shamelessly scan Jihoon’s body, lingering on his bare, swinging legs.
“That out there. It’s gorgeous,” he says.
“Your favorite color is blue because of the ocean?”
“Yeah.”
Jihoon purses his lips as though in thought. He’s humoring the man, letting him think he’s got some sort of upper hand. “Do you know why my favorite color is red?”
The man looks him up and down and Jihoon has to stop himself from gritting his teeth, keeping his expression curiously innocent. “Roses? You look like the type to like flowers.”
“I hate flowers,” Jihoon’s pout deepens, head tilting to the opposite direction. “How rude of you to assume. Red is my favorite because,” his smile sweetens as the smile on the man’s face drops upon seeing the gun that’s being pointed at his head. “it’s the color of blood.”
Bang!
***
Jihoon is getting antsy. His boredom is reaching a peak and if something doesn’t happen soon, he’ll end up getting himself in trouble. He can’t sit still and he’s scared that he’ll start fidgeting when he’s in Black Mamba’s presence. His scalp still aches from the warning yank he received last night when he shifted without permission. His neck had popped with the force of it, and it took everything in Jihoon to keep from crying out in pain as his head was held in that wrenched back position for upwards of five minutes before Black Mamba released him with the single command of “Sit still.”
After his training today, he’s spent the majority of his time in the kitchen with Chef. He sits on the counter as the older man works around him and sneaks him bites of the food he’s prepping. They talk a little but Jihoon mostly prefers to watch him work, watching his hands and side profile as he moves around the kitchen. Chef has worked for Black Mamba as long as Jihoon’s been alive, the last 22 years of his life dedicated to feeding him and his men. Jihoon wonders what Chef looked like when he was in his 20s, back when he started. The toll taken on him is obvious in the premature wrinkles on his forehead and cheeks that make him look years older than the 43 he’s spent on Earth.
“You’ll ruin your appetite,” Chef says, snapping Jihoon out of his head. He blinks at the man and then looks down at the pint of ice cream in his hands. He could’ve sworn it was full only a minute ago, only about a fourth of cookies and cream ice cream now remaining. He pouts when Chef walks over but allows him to take the container from his hands and put the lid back on it. Jihoon sucks on the spoon instead, his heels banging lightly against the island. “I said you could eat some ice cream, and you nearly cleared it.”
Chef is laughing as he says this but Jihoon pulls the spoon out of his mouth to mumble an apology. “I was in my head.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“I shouldn’t say.” Jihoon sticks the spoon back in his mouth. There are no cameras in the kitchen but you never know who may be on the other side of the door, listening, lying in wait for someone to say something incriminating. Just as Jihoon hesitates to express discomfort, he refuses to expose his boredom. Chef notices the way he’s unconsciously tensed up as he puts up the ice cream, tucking it where no one else will find.
“What do you want for dinner?”
“What are you making?”
“Whatever you decide,” Chef smiles as he walks over to Jihoon and ruffles his hair. If it were anyone else they’d have a gun to their stomach the second their fingertips touched him. But Jihoon has a soft spot for Chef the same way he has a soft spot for Jihoon, and he finds himself smiling at the playful gesture. Jihoon thinks for a moment before his eyes light up.
“Bibimbap?” he asks, bouncing lightly in excitement. Chef nods, clicking his tongue and winking.
“Coming right up.”
Just as he turns to the refrigerator to start grabbing ingredients, the kitchen door swings open to reveal Yooseok. Jihoon’s off of the island before he even speaks, setting the spoon down and already walking over as he says, “Boss wants you.”
Jihoon nods, waving to Chef as he follows Yooseok out of the kitchen. He waits until they’re going up the stairs to speak. “Did Sir say why?”
“No. New assignment, I assume. He was finalizing some decisions when he called me to go look for you.”
“You didn’t search too long, did you?” Jihoon asks, bottom lip slipping between his teeth for a second before he catches himself. No imperfections. Sometimes Jihoon hid too well and it took Yooseok too long to find him. It’s what led Jihoon to find his favorite spot. If he knew when he was wanted before Yooseok was sent for him, he could make himself easier to find and avoid another brutal punishment.
“No, I figured you were down in the kitchen. You always end up there when you get like this."
“Like what?”
“Bored.” He says it casually, without a second thought, and Jihoon swallows, dropping his voice.
“It’s not obvious, is it?”
Yooseok glances at him and shakes his head. “Only to me.”
They stop talking when they reach the hallway leading to Black Mamba’s office. Yooseok opens the door for Jihoon when they reach it, and Jihoon enters. Yooseok shuts the door, leaving the two of them alone. The man looks up, a disarming smile on his face that has Jihoon biting his tongue to keep from chewing his lip. “There you are, pet.”
“Hello, Sir,” Jihoon bows, keeping his head down as he straightens. Black Mamba hums approvingly.
“You have been doing well, pet. Completing all of your assignments and reporting back to me on time.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Jihoon responds obediently, internally preening at the praise.
“But I’m sure you’re getting bored of doing the same thing, over and over,” Black Mamba then says, and Jihoon’s stomach drops. He was too obvious, wasn’t he? Yooseok, that fucking liar. Jihoon realizes that the man is waiting for him to speak.
“I’m not bored, Sir,” he shakes his head, trying to keep his voice even. “I am satisfied with the schedule you have created for me.”
Black Mamba chuckles. “Good. But you should be more satisfied to hear that I have a new assignment for you. One that cannot be completed in a single night.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I am sending you after Hoshi to investigate a potential connection between him and S.Coups, the leader of Seventeen. Hoshi is based in Busan so you will not have to go far, but your goal is to get close to him and learn everything you can. You are to do this by any means necessary.” Black Mamba instructs him.
“How far do I have to go, Sir?”
“As far as you need to.”
“What if that means having sex with him?” he asks, the slightest waver entering his voice that he covers up by clearing his throat.
Jihoon can feel the man staring at him and fears he asked the wrong question when silence follows. He is debating if backtracking is worth speaking again and putting himself in danger of punishment. But, just as he starts to open his mouth, Black Mamba speaks again.
“Then so be it. But remember who you belong to, pet.”
“I belong to you, Sir.”
“Good. You will be planted at the Busan location of the Diamond Life Club tomorrow night. Wear something eye-catching.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Go.”