kkangpae

by jungkoode (fxoye)

Summary:

"It's a simple rule in the gang: avoid attachments.

But when it comes to Jungkook, that's easier said than done."

Chapter 1: prologue: the price of attachment

Summary:

Jeon knows the rules. Has enforced them himself countless times. Love is a liability. Attachment means death. But kneeling on that cold floor, watching the only warmth in his life fade away by V's hand, he learns that sometimes death isn't the worst punishment. Sometimes, it's having to live with what's left behind.

Notes:

Y'ALL! Okay, so… as promised, since that little teaser snippet hit 100 notes (still can't believe that happened btw, what is wrong with you people ʘ‿ʘ), here's the prologue of this monster that's been living rent-free in my drafts since checks notes …the pandemic.

Yeah.

YEAH, I KNOW.

In my defense, I've been busy being unhinged writing Fuck Me Up (shameless self-promo, go read it if you want roommates to lovers with less murder and more pining). But this beast? This beautiful disaster? It's already sitting at 250k words and I'm aiming for 500k because apparently I hate myself and love pain （；¬＿¬)

Welcome to the beginning of the end — or perhaps, the end that sparked a beginning. This prologue sets the stage for everything that follows, diving deep into the moment that changed kkangpae forever. What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable rule?

Content warning: This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence and death. Proceed with caution. If that's not your thing, then go read Fuck Me Up!! where blood and death and killing are not a thing.

…for now.

KIDDING. Maybe. :)

Happy reading!

xoxo,
kiki

P.S.: No beta, we die like men.
P.P.S.: Actually, we die like the character in this prologue lmao.

 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎ 

He can't feel his knees anymore.

The floor's too cold, too hard against his skin, but Jeon barely registers the discomfort. His wrists burn from the restraints, shoulders screaming from being wrenched back, but none of it matters. Not when she's standing there, trembling but brave, so fucking brave it makes him want to tear his own heart out.

He can't tear his eyes away from her. Won't. Not when every second might be—

No.

"Don't you fucking touch her!" The words rip from his throat before he can stop them, desperate and raw and useless.

Jimin stands there, won't even look at him. His pink hair hangs in his face like a shield, like maybe if he doesn't see it, it isn't real. His hands tremble. "

You knew the rules, Jeon," he mumbles. The words taste like ash in his mouth—Jungkook can tell. Can see how badly Jimin wants to be anywhere else.

Yoongi paces like a caged animal, running shaky fingers through his blond hair until it stands wild. His rage fills the room, electric and volatile. "I knew I couldn't fucking trust you with her!"

He stalks forward, eyes blazing, fists clenched white-knuckled at his sides. Looking at Jungkook like he wants to tear him apart with his bare hands.

"Piece of shit, I'm gonna—"

"Yoongi."

One word. That's all it takes. Namjoon's voice cuts through the chaos like a blade, and everyone freezes. He sits there on his throne, calm as still water, but his presence feels like a boot on their throats.

Yoongi's chest heaves. His next words come out low, dangerous. "Namjoon, are you fucking serious right now? You can't be considering this." He gestures at Jungkook, movements wild and frantic. "It's his fault! Not hers! Punish him, I don't give a shit, but leave her out of it!"

The sigh Namjoon lets out weighs a thousand pounds. It settles over the room like a death sentence.

"Jimin, say something for fuck's sake!" Yoongi whirls on him, desperate for an ally, but Jimin just stands there. Silent. Shaking.

"This is getting teeeedioooouuus."

No.

Jeon's stomach drops at that drawl. That playful, unhinged lilt that means someone's about to die. Taehyung steps into view, and the air gets thick, heavy with something dark and wrong.

His fingers trace her face. Gentle. Like he's admiring a flower before he crushes it.

Every muscle in Jeon's body screams to move, to stop him, to do something. But the restraints hold. Yoongi lurches forward—

"Please."

The word falls from his lips before he can stop it. Small. Broken. A word he's never said before, not like this.

The room goes dead silent.

He sees the shock on Yoongi's face, the way Jimin flinches like he's been struck. They've never heard him beg. Never thought they would.

"Come on," Taehyung drawls, lips curling into something cruel and satisfied. "Miss me with that bullshit, Jeon. Begging isn't like you."

"Taehyung." One last try. One last reach for the friend he used to know, the bond they used to share.

"Do. Not. Dare." Each word drops like ice. "It's V for you now."

Jungkook's world spins. Blurs. She stands there so still, so quiet. There's fear in her eyes, yes, but underneath—acceptance. Understanding.

She knew this could happen.

They all did.

Yoongi lurches forward, one final desperate attempt, but Taehyung moves faster. The gun appears in his hand like it was always there, pressing cold and final against her temple.

No hesitation.

No mercy.

Jungkook's heart stops beating.

The shot cracks through the air like thunder.

Her eyes find his in that last moment. Wide. Terrified. But somehow still soft as she whispers, "Thank you."

Then nothing.

The world shrinks down to her body on the floor. The copper tang of blood. The hollow ringing in his ears.

Something wet on his face. He touches his lip. Comes away red.

Nosebleed.

Blood.

His blood.

Doesn't matter.

Nothing matters.

She's gone.

Something in his chest caves in, a void opening up where his heart used to be. Cold. Empty. As her blood spreads across the pristine floor, he feels the last warm thing inside him shrivel up and die.

Never again.

The vow settles in his bones. Heavy. Final.

This is his punishment. His reminder.

His eternity.

†✧† 死 †✧† 死 †✧† 死 †✧†

Chapter 2: hurricane warning

Summary:

"Some storms you see coming. Others hit you before you can even smell the rain. But the deadliest ones? Those are the ones you walk into willingly, knowing they'll tear you apart."

Notes:

Welcome to my personal descent into madness, also known as "that gang AU that literally no one asked for but here we are!"

Quick heads up—this fic goes places. Dark places. Like, we're talking psychological warfare levels of mess here. Everyone's got more baggage than an international airport and exactly zero healthy coping mechanisms. There's violence, mature themes, explicit content, and enough moral ambiguity to make your therapist weep. If that's not your jam, might wanna hit that back button now. (⌒_⌒;)

Full disclosure: this is my pandemic baby. Started writing this during lockdown and oh boy does it show. We're talking 250k words, 30 chapters, and we're only halfway through this trainwreck. My writing style has evolved more times than Jungkook's hair color at this point, and you'll definitely notice the difference between early chapters and recent ones. Am I gonna rewrite the whole thing? Absolutely not, I choose sleep. But I will edit! Just... don't expect miracles. (￣▽￣*)ゞ

P.S.: No beta we die like my sleep schedule at 3am writing this nonsense. ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Special shoutout to my emotional support iced americano, without whom this chapter would not exist. And to Jungkook for living rent free in my brain and forcing me to write this at ungodly hours. The audacity of this man, I swear.

Anyway! Buckle up buttercups, this is gonna be a wild ride. Prepare to scream, cry, throw your phone, and possibly question your life choices. I know I did! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Much love,

Kiki

P.P.S.: If you spot any typos, no you didn't. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

Chills.

That's the feeling that washes over you as you stare at your reflection in the mirror. Three months ago, if someone had told you that you'd be standing here, in this moment, about to head into your first real gang mission —you would've laughed in their face. There's just no way.

But now, looking at yourself, you barely recognize the person gazing back. The stylists have done an incredible job with your hair and makeup. You look radiant, confident, dangerous. Like someone who could actually pull this off.

And the dress — god, the dress. It's a masterpiece of black satin and lace, with a single long sleeve that leaves one shoulder daringly bare. The asymmetrical neckline draws the eye to your collarbones, while the skirt flares out dramatically to just brush the floor. You shift slightly, feeling the whisper of fabric against your legs, the pinch of the sky-high stilettos that you still haven't quite gotten used to.

But discomfort be damned, because these are honest-to-god Yves Saint Laurent Opyum sandals on your feet right now. You still can't quite believe it.

A soft knock at the door jolts you out of your reverie. "You in there?"

You angle your body slightly to face the newcomer, a smile already curving your lips. Chaewon returns the grin as she steps into the bathroom, coming up behind you to rest a gentle hand on your cheek.

"Aww, look at you!" she coos. "Absolutely stunning. I'm going to have to fight people off left and right." She narrows her eyes in mock ferocity. "Just point 'em out and I'll kick their ass for you."

You laugh. "Isn't that kind of our job description though, chief?"

"Well, yes," Chaewon admits with a chuckle. She meets your eyes in the mirror, her expression sobering. "But tonight, ensign, your only job is to look pretty and smile. No engaging, no distractions. Leave everything else to me and the girls."

The lighthearted way she says "ensign" takes any real bite out of it. You know she hates the formal ranking terms, at least within the Seduction Division.

"What, the boys aren't going to pitch in at all?" you scoff as Chaewon takes your hand to lead you out.

"Ugh, don't even mention them," she groans without looking back. "Let's just pretend they don't exist while we still can."

You can sense the atmosphere shift as you step into the elevator. Chaewon's playful persona drops away, replaced by steely professionalism. It's impressive, how she can flip that switch so easily. She's not someone to be messed with, your leader. More like someone who messes with everyone else.

You take up your position beside her, waiting as the elevator slowly fills with the rest of your team - Sakura and Kazuha on the 45th floor, Yunjin and Eunchae on the 42nd. You flash them a quick smile before fixing your gaze forward, willing the elevator to hurry up and get to the casino level. Get to the target.

"Took you ladies long enough," V's voice sudden crackles to life in your earpiece, nearly making you jump out of your skin.

Shit, you'd forgotten you were wearing one of those. You're not the only one — the whole team is wired up, the tiny devices nearly invisible to the naked eye.

"V, kindly fuck off," Chaewon grits out through a very fake smile. She makes a show of rolling her eyes at all of you.

"Can we please keep the comm line clear unless absolutely necessary?" The next voice that comes through stops you cold.

Jeon. 

It's the first time you've ever heard him speak.

Of course you know who he is — everyone in Kkangpae does. He and V are the top dogs of the Assassination Division, the gang's most feared enforcers. But your paths have never crossed before. In the three months since you joined up, you've been too busy training your ass off to go poking around, trying to get the dirt on the higher-ups.

But there are always rumors. Whispers. And the whispers say that V is a loose cannon, barely leashed chaos in human form. That Jeon is cold, controlled, brutally efficient. That the two of them are constantly at each other's throats, locked in an endless game of one-upsmanship.

Like now, apparently. You'd never really believed the gossip, but here's the evidence, coming through loud and clear. You're torn between fascination and thinking this is so far above your paygrade it may as well be in outer space.

Yunjin leans in close, her breath soft against your ear as she murmurs your name. "You've got this," she assures you, sensing your nerves. "We all do."

You shoot her a grateful look, beyond relieved to have a friendly face by your side. Yunjin's only been with the Seduction Division two months longer than you. She gets it, the pressure of being a newbie, constantly feeling like you're two steps behind and one mistake away from disaster.

Especially on a mission this high-stakes, with the chiefs themselves listening in. Your job tonight may be simple on paper — look hot, bat your eyelashes, keep the marks distracted while the real action goes down — but the cost of failure is unthinkably high. One slip, and months of careful planning go down the drain, along with who knows how many lives.

Lives that will be on your head.

The elevator dings cheerfully, doors sliding open to reveal the casino floor in all its glittering, deafening glory. You follow Chaewon out into the crowd, eyes immediately skimming the room even as you paste on a vacant-but-sexy smile. The place is packed with Seoul's rich and infamous, everyone dressed to the nines and dripping jewels. 

You don't recognize a single face.

Somewhere in this sea of tuxes and ball gowns are the men (and they are always men, in this world) at the top of the food chain. Men like J-Hope, RM, Jeon, V. You can't help but wonder what they look like. What it would feel like, to have that kind of power. That much blood on your hands.

You shake off the thought. Now is not the time for wool-gathering. You have a job to do.

A tall, blandly handsome man in glasses approaches your group and bows deeply to Chaewon. "Miss Kim, Mr. Han is waiting for you in the VIP lounge. If you'll follow me."

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

"Oppa!"

You barely stop your jaw from dropping at the dizzying shift in Chaewon's demeanor. One minute she's the cool, unflappable professional — the next she's squealing like a starstruck teenybopper, hands fluttering excitedly as she practically skips over to the man holding court in the center of the room.

"Angel!" Said man rises to his feet, arms thrown wide in welcome, a megawatt grin aimed directly at Chaewon. "I swear you're prettier in person. Instagram doesn't do you justice!"

Wait. Instagram?

"Oh my god, stop!" Chaewon giggles, swatting playfully at his chest. "You're the one who's even more handsome in person, Hanjun-oppa!"

Hanjun.

Han Seung-jun.

Heir to one of the largest fortunes in South Korea. Scion of the most notorious human trafficking ring in East Asia. The man you and your team have spent three months training to deceive, distract, and discredit.

Your target.

He's so enthralled by Chaewon that he barely seems to register the rest of you as more than an attractive blur, his eyes sliding right over you to focus on your leader's adoring face. Chaewon meets his gaze with wide-eyed innocent, but you catch the way her eye twitches with the strain of maintaining this act.

The other men scattered around the VIP room are much less subtle about ogling you and the other girls. They're clearly already several sheets to the wind, roaring with laughter and egging each other on as you carefully pick your way through the detritus of empty soju bottles and overturned snack bowls. Hanjun's entourage, his nearest and dearest. 

What absolute c̶r̶e̶e̶p̶s̶ gentlemen.

Kazuha spins gracefully past the velvet loungers, flashing what looks like an innocent peace sign to Sakura. Two guards by the main entrance.

Eunchae pauses to check her lipstick in a compact mirror, pressing two fingers to her lips in a cute smile at her reflection. Two more by the private exit.

Yunjin brings up the rear, pressing one finger to her lips in an exaggerated shushing motion at the hooting boys. Single guard by the restroom hallway.

You stretch languidly, raising both thumbs up in an exaggerated "fighting!" pose. Last two flanking the VIP section.

Seven total. Your shoulders relax slightly. You've handled worse odds.

The odds aren't great, but if your coaching has taught you anything it's that Chaewon can swing a bad hand like nobody's business. 

And this crew? This crew is aces, every damn one of them.

Still. It's a razor's edge you're dancing on, and the cost of a slip is...well. Unthinkable, is what it is.

Not that you have time to think, with the way Hanjun is swaggering over to present Chaewon to the crowd like a kid showing off a shiny new toy.

"This is the goddess I've been telling you guys about!" He waggles his eyebrows with a shit-eating smirk you'd just love to punch right off his smug face. "And look, she even brought friends to share."

Okay, wow. You officially feel dirty just breathing the same air as this creep. But a job's a job, so you choke back your gag reflex and paste on a vapid smile as Hanjun's cronies swarm eagerly around your group, spouting the kind of cheesy pickup lines that would make a romance novel writer cringe.

You try to angle yourself behind Yunjin, hoping to avoid the worst of the slobbering, but no such luck. One particularly bold asshole actually reaches out to stroke your bare arm, his fingers clammy with sweat.

"Don't think I caught your name, beautiful," he slurs, blinking at you with piggy little eyes that rove lecherously over your body.

You grit your teeth behind the beauty-queen smile.

You tell him a fake name. Maybe if you keep your answers brief and boring, he'll lose interest and wander off to bother someone else.

No dice. If anything, your standoffishness only seems to encourage him. 

"A pretty name for a pretty girl," he leers, moving in closer. "You live around here? Maybe we could go get a drink sometime, just the two of us."

And maybe you could stick bamboo slivers under your fingernails, because why not?

You open your mouth, scrambling for some polite way to tell this guy to fuck entirely off, when Chaewon's voice cuts through the chatter.

"Oppa, we're empty over here!" She pouts, holding up her tragically empty glass. "Be a dear and flag down the waitress for us?"

Bless her, your glorious leader.

Hanjun pauses for a second, something ugly flickering across his face as his eyes dart to his shitheel buddies still prowling around you and the other girls. But then the smarmy grin is back and he's reaching for his wallet, whipping out a black credit card and brandishing it like a scepter.

"Anything for you, my angel," he purrs, signaling languidly for service. "Nothing but the best for my--"

"Oh my god, is this your ID?" Chaewon squeals suddenly, snatching the wallet right out of his hand. "How are you so cute? I look like a bridge troll in mine!"

"What can I say, the camera loves me," Hanjun preens, taking his wallet back with an exaggerated wink. "Just one of the many perks of being this handsome."

"Sooooo funny, oppa!" Chaewon trills. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, but you know her well enough to see the genuine smile dancing at the corners of her lips.

She's got the card. She freaking did it.

Your heart rate kicks up a notch as Chaewon begins to rise from her seat, some flimsy excuse about freshening up already forming on her tongue -- when her arm swings out in an artfully clumsy gesture, sending her untouched glass of soju splashing all over your lap.

The yelp that bursts out of you is only partly for show. That shit is COLD, soaking through the thin fabric of your dress in an instant. You shoot to your feet, hands fluttering uselessly as you survey the damage.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry!" Chaewon gasps, the picture of mortified contrition. "Here, let me-"

"It's fine, I got it," you assure her, a little more sharply than you'd intended. Ugh, you reek of cheap booze now. Hardly the seductive image you're meant to be projecting. "I'll just... go get cleaned up."

"Of course, of course," Chaewon says quickly, already rummaging in her clutch. "The room key should be in my bag."

You bite back a tiny smile, inclining your head as you reach out to take the proffered purse. Your fingers close around sleek leather and you turn to head for the door, pulse thundering in your ears.

The first part of the plan went off without a hitch.

Chaewon pulled off the lift flawlessly, snagging Hanjun's key card right out from under his nose. And yeah, the spilled drink thing was a total improv, but that just goes to show how in sync your team is. You all know the dance by now, the steps flowing seamlessly even when the music changes.

But that was the easy part. The real test is still to come, and it's all on you.

The elevator ride seems to take forever, each cheerful ding as you ascend another floor ramping up the tension knotting in your gut. You've been over the plan a million times, drilled every step until it's burned into your muscle memory. You know this, you're ready, you've got this.

So why can't you stop your hands from shaking?

The doors slide open on the 52nd floor — two levels above the VIP lounge, just like you'd memorized. You take a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as you stride purposefully down the plushly carpeted hallway, the very picture of a woman who knows exactly where she's going and what she's about to do.

Never mind the fact that your insides feel like they're about to shake apart at any moment. Never mind that the walls seem to be closing in, the air too thick to pull into your lungs. You've got a job to do, and you'll be damned if you're going to let a little thing like pants-shitting terror stop you.

The carpet muffles your footsteps as you navigate the empty floor. Something feels off. The evacuation should've cleared this level completely, but—

There. The soft scuff of rubber soles behind you.

Your muscles tense, but you force yourself to maintain your pace. Fuck. This section was supposed to be clear of civilians, guards, everything. Could be one of Han's goons. Or worse—a cop. If your cover's blown...

Get it together. You're Kkangpae. Act like it.

The footsteps draw closer. Three paces back now. Two. Your mind flashes to the training room—bruised knuckles, split lips, Flower's approving nod when you finally nailed that counter.

You pivot sharply, leg already sweeping up in a perfect roundhouse. The satisfaction of imminent contact floods your system—

Until a hand catches your ankle mid-strike.

"Now, now, love." The voice drips with amusement. "At least take me to dinner first."

You stare up into a pair of glittering hazel eyes, your chest heaving as the adrenaline crests and crashes through your system. Holy shit. That was close.

And also, holy shit. This has to be the most beautiful man you've ever seen in your entire life.

His eyes. It's a penetrating gaze that exudes an infuriating level of confidence as he pores over your face, a lopsided smirk never leaving his lips. This man with curly hazelnut hair radiates a chaotic aura—like red roses with razor-sharp thorns that slice through your chest and settle there, suffocating you, clawing at your lungs, twisting your throat until you feel like you can't fucking breathe.

Jesus. Get a grip.

The grip of his fingers on your ankle suddenly eases, letting it drop as you regain your balance and ̶n̶o̶r̶m̶a̶l̶ ̶totally-dignified-and-not-at-all-flustered posture. You don't know if it's because this asshole parried your kick without breaking a sweat or because of his oppressive aura—probably both, if you're being  real with yourself—but it's crystal clear that the  smug jerk in front of you isn't your average dude.

Who the hell is this?

"Are you two finished?" A harsh voice cuts through the tension. "V, cut the bullshit."

Your stomach drops.

V.

Oh shit.

Your mouth falls open before you can stop it—a tiny 'o' of surprise that makes his eyes light up with sadistic delight. He mimics your expression with exaggerated precision, mouth forming a perfect circle as he widens his eyes in mock shock.

Asshole.

The man—V, holy fuck that's actually V—catches every micro-expression that flits across your face, drinking in your reaction like fine wine. His gaze lingers, savoring your discomfort, before sliding lazily to somewhere behind you.

"You're such a killjoy, Jeon."

Your breath hitches. His eyes snap back to your face immediately, watching with predatory focus as that second revelation hits. His smile grows impossibly wider at your barely-concealed shock.

Two chiefs. You just tried to roundhouse kick the Chief of Stealth Assassinations, and the Chief of Tactical Assassinations is standing right behind you.

Fuck your entire life.

V's amusement rolls off him in waves, thorny vines constricting tighter around your ribcage as he drinks in your mortification. You refuse to give him more satisfaction, schooling your features into careful neutrality even as curiosity burns through your veins.

Don't look back. Don't you fucking dare look back at Jeon.

"Let's get this shitshow over with." V stretches languidly, like a cat contemplating violence. "Before I murder this jackass."

"V." Jeon's voice is a warning, but it's not directed at you. Still, you feel it rattle in your bones. "You know RM's orders."

V clicks his tongue, scowling like a petulant child who's been told he can't set something on fire.

You finally let yourself glance at the other presence in the room, morbid curiosity winning out—and when you do, your breath snags in your throat.

If V is a red rose, Jeon is a s̶t̶o̶r̶m̶ goddamn hurricane.

A whirlpool. A typhoon. His ink-black hair is a little longer than V's, and his eyes are just as dark, but there's an intensity to them—a pitch-black emptiness that promises danger where V's spark with mischief.

His aura immediately engulfs you, swift and brutal. It feels like a punch to the chest. Where V's presence crept in slowly, thorny vines curling around your ribcage, Jeon's slams into you like a tsunami. It rattles you to your core, a violent cyclone that sweeps you off your feet. Your heart feels like it's being ripped in a thousand directions, and the shock of it makes your lungs seize.

Fucking breathe. In. Out.

Your eyes flick from his to the piercings in his eyebrow and lower lip, then down to his arm where the edge of a tattoo peeks out from under his sleeve. It's all too easy to picture the ink snaking over corded muscle, and—nope, not going there.

You wrench your gaze away, but not before taking in the unquestionable menace he radiates.

Lost in your o̶g̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ totally professional assessment, you almost miss Jeon's eyes darting up and down the corridor. He beckons you and V to follow, steps quick and purposeful as he strides towards a coded door. His fingers tap his earpiece twice.

"AD. Jeon. Unlock door 2A4B on floor 2."

The curt command makes you bristle. Wow, not even a 'please'? Dickhead.

The nickname 'AD' sounds vaguely familiar, but you can't place it. Probably someone in security, if he's unlocking doors. You don't have time to dwell on it before the lock chirps and Jeon is shoving you both inside.

It's only once the door snicks shut behind you that you realize how miniscule the room is. How i̶n̶t̶i̶m̶a̶t̶e̶ fucking awkward the proximity is. You're not quite touching, but in a space barely two meters square, crammed with shelves and cleaning supplies, there's not exactly room for activities.

Jesus, is that his breath on your neck? Or are you just losing it?

You scan the room, more to avoid eye contact than out of any real interest. Mops, buckets, spray bottles—yep, definitely a janitor's closet. Cozy.

"Your name."

Jeon's voice barely registers, lost in the dissonant symphony of your racing thoughts. It's only after an expectant beat of silence that you turn to face him. He stands there, eyes narrowed, one eyebrow cocked in obvious impatience.

"I said, your name." The words are harsher this time, bitten off like he's speaking to a particularly slow child.

"Ask nicely if you expect an answer." You shoot back, any sense of self-preservation drowned out by the flood of annoyance.

Where does this prick get off, barking orders at you like some kind of dog? Sure, he's your superior—the Chief of Tactical fucking Assassinations—but that doesn't give him the right to be a condescending dick.

And yeah, you're aware that mouthing off to him is a spectacularly bad idea, but you'll be damned if you're gonna let him treat you like something he scraped off his boot.

"You—" He cuts himself off, pressing his fingers to his mouth like he's physically holding back a torrent of abuse. His jaw clenches. Releases. "I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation. You almost blew the entire mission because you're too fucking oblivious to realize you were being tailed."

"Jeon," V warns, but there's a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, "reign it in."

"Don't." Jeon snarls, rounding on V. "RM's whole plan nearly went up in smoke. Months of work, almost fucked—because of some bitch who doesn't know to watch her six when she's in the field." His voice is controlled, but the fury simmering beneath is unmistakable.

"Jeon." V's eyes flash, but before he can continue, you cut in.

"Are you for real?" You scoff, locking eyes with Jeon, a defiance you didn't know you possessed surging through your veins. "Yeah, I'm a gang member, but I'm a fucking ensign. This was my first mission, you absolute prick. Isn't it your job to watch out for the newbies, chief?"

When his gaze snaps back to yours, you feel it in your marrow—that damn hurricane zeroing in on you, coiling around your body like a constrictor ready to squeeze the life out of you. The gale-force winds flay the skin from your bones, the emptiness in his eyes threatening to pull you in and drown you.

But you refuse to be cowed. Not by this storm. Not by him.

You know you should shut your trap. Keep your head down. This is your superior, the fucking Jeon—but the vitriol is rising in your gorge and it's all you can do not to spit it in his face.

"It's real rich, you sitting here bitching about an ensign when you dropped the ball. Some leader you are, huh?"

V's eyes ping-pong between the two of you, his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline with every word out of your mouth. When you finally clam up, chest heaving, he looks at you and nods slowly. 

Approvingly.

"Well damn, girliepop. You've got balls." He snickers, and the glee in his voice makes it clear he's enjoying the show. "As much as I'd love to help you annoy the piss out of Jeon, maybe save it for when we're not ass-deep in enemy territory, yeah?"

Jeon, for his part, is utterly stone-faced. He doesn't so much as twitch. But you can see him tonguing the inside of his cheek, his eyes burning with the kind of contempt that could strip paint.

He spins on his heel, stabbing at his earpiece.

"AD. Jeon again. I'm with an ensign and V. Tell us when the coast is clear."

"You got it." AD's voice, made tinny by the earpiece, sounds in your ear.

Crossing your arms, you gnaw on the inside of your cheek and glare a hole into the wall. You're not really seeing the shelves of industrial cleaners—your mind is too busy reeling from what just happened.

You'd like to say Jeon's little tantrum didn't get to you, but fuck, it stings to hear your superior rip into you like that. You can't decide what's worse: his scathing assessment of your skills, or the fact that you care.

"So... anyone wanna play truth or dare to pass the time?" V grins, hands behind his head, eyes glittering. "We could make out. Start a fight club. Maybe a little light stabbing, nothing fatal—"

You tune him out, knowing full well he's not joking. Yep. He's a psycho. You're pretty sure V would chuck you both out of a plane if he thought it'd get a reaction.

"He's gone. You're clear." AD's voice crackles over the earpiece.

Your hand is on the knob before either of the men can bark an order. Not today, Satan. You slip out into the corridor, already rummaging through Chaewon's bag for the keycard.

It only takes a second to swipe into room 2A1A—which, of course, is packed to the gills with terrified women. 

Christ, it never ends.

You can feel V and Jeon lurking behind you, but you don't spare them a glance.

"I'll get them out. Handle your business and call the cops."

With that, you step into the room, already running through evac procedures in your head. This shitshow isn't over yet—and you'll be damned if you're gonna screw up again.

†✧† 死 †✧† 死 †✧† 死 †✧†

Chapter 3: morning enemies

Summary:

You're just trying to enjoy your morning coffee and croissants in peace when you find yourself face-to-face with Kkangpae's deadliest assassin—in your pajamas, no less. Between his mere presence making it impossible to breathe and that intense stare that makes you want to fight or flee (you haven't decided which), your morning can't get any worse. Until Moon announces joint training between divisions, and suddenly you're stuck with the very man whose bunny slippers have seriously damaged his intimidation factor. At least the sunrise was pretty.

Notes:

HELLO MY BEAUTIFUL DISASTER CHILDREN. Welcome to what I'm dubbing Kkangpae Tuesdays™! throws confetti while crying in sleep deprivation

First of all, huge news: I have TWENTY-EIGHT chapters ready. Do you know what this means? SEVEN MONTHS of weekly updates! I know, I know, I'm shocked too. Your girl actually got her life together for once. (My therapist would be so proud if she knew what I was actually writing lmao.)

I've gone through and re-edited this chapter because past!me was… well, let's just say there were CHOICES made. But now it's all shiny and new! I've even added some aesthetic collages at the scene breaks because I was feeling ~artsy~. And before anyone comes at me about historical architecture accuracy - I DO NOT CARE. It's the vibes we're after, babes. Don't like it? Simply look away (✿◠‿◠)

Quick note about the cafeteria scene - I know I went a bit ham with the descriptions, but I need you all to see it exactly as I do. The windows are floor-to-ceiling BUT there's a sill because our boy Jeon needs somewhere to rest his angsty elbows while he broods. This is non-negotiable.

Can we talk about the girls' dynamics though? Yunjin is literally my baby and I will die for her. Also V being an absolute menace because what else is new? And our girl accidentally pissing off Jeon with the coffee… oh honey, you don't even know what you've started.

Anyways, see you next Tuesday, you beautiful disasters. Remember: sleep is for the weak and coffee is for the strong.

crawls back into my writing cave

Kiki

P.S. Yes, I know there are probably still typos. No, I will not be taking criticism at this time. My beta reader is my cat and she's currently unavailable for comments.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You wake up feeling like absolute shit.

Ugh.

Your head is pounding, thoughts all fuzzy and tangled up. It takes you a solid minute of squinting at your phone screen to even register what ungodly hour it is.

6:00 AM.

Fucking hell.

Yesterday's mission is still fresh in your mind, all that adrenaline and chaos wreaking havoc on your sleep schedule. No wonder you feel so goddamn d̶e̶a̶d̶ tired.

You want nothing more than to say 'fuck it' and burrow back under the covers for another few hours. But you know better than that.

Because croissants.

The promise of flaky, buttery pastries is enough to drag your zombie ass out of bed. You've gotta haul it to the cafeteria before everyone else wakes up and decimates the good stuff.

You throw on the first semi-clean hoodie you find, not bothering with real clothes. It's way too early to give a shit about looking presentable. The only people crazy enough to be up at this hour are fellow croissant addicts and all-nighter weirdos. Nobody you need to impress.

You run your fingers through the scraggly mess of your hair, twisting it up into what can only be described as a nest. A sad, cobwebby excuse for a bun. But hey, it's outta your face.

Good e-fuckin'-nough.

You shove your feet into slippers and zombie-shuffle towards the promise of pastries.

So RM's gang is huge. Like, 'small town' huge. The perks of having a literal castle as HQ, you guess. It's pretty damn convenient, having everything you need in one place. Dorms, training rooms, infirmary, the works.

Navigating the endless maze of corridors was a major pain in the ass at first. You got lost more times than you'd like to admit. But you've finally got the layout (mostly) figured out.

The cafeteria is the heart of this place. It's where everyone comes to fuel up and shoot the shit. The gang's loaded enough to keep the kitchen fully stocked 24/7. Perks. You rarely see the cooks and cleaners scurrying around—they've got their own schedules timed to avoid the usual rush.

RM seems like he knows what he's doing, running this whole operation. Gotta give the boss man props for that.

But here's the thing:

If you're not early, you're screwed.

Skip breakfast? Have fun choking down the saddest, most watered-down coffee known to man and some stale-ass bread. Hit the cafeteria late for lunch or dinner? Enjoy your rubbery fish sticks and limp-dick cabbage.

Hard pass.

You learned that lesson the hard way. Stayed up all night once doing...honestly, you can't even remember. But you figured you'd just grab something whenever you woke up.

Big. Fucking. Mistake.

Never again, you vowed. Early bird gets the good shit. And the good shit includes those buttery, flaky croissants that are literal heaven in your mouth. Yeah, they were a huge breakthrough.

But to Jungkook, they never were. He's always been an early riser. Or late sleeper? Who knows. He definitely doesn't.

It's not like he's getting a full 8 hours and springing outta bed bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Hell no. More like 4, if he's lucky. Nightmares are a bitch like that.

He's used to running on fumes, though. Comes with the territory. You learn to make do. And honestly? He kinda likes having the cafeteria to himself in the morning. No small talk, no forced socializing. Just him, his coffee, and blessed silence.

He may not be a morning person, but he's even less of a putting-up-with-people-in-the-morning person.

Which is precisely why, at 6:17 AM, he's standing rigid as a pole right in front of the open cafeteria doors, his expression one of utter disbelief—as if he'd just witnessed the Pope himself breakdancing. Frowning and tight-lipped, his gaze is fixed on the empty chairs, save for one.

Just one.

The one you currently occupy.

This realization only serves to deepen the furrows in his brow.

What the actual fuck?

It's not that he hates you, necessarily. Jeon's not really one to hold grudges over petty bullshit. Life in the gang has forced him to grow up fast, and he likes to think he's pretty mature these days.

But this? This is fucking sacrilege.

That first cup of coffee? The inaugural brew, fresh and steaming and full-bodied? Yeah, that shit is his. Always has been. It's tradition. Damn near sacred.

And you've gone and desecrated it.

Oh, he can clearly see you sitting there, all innocent-like, cradling his mug in your grubby little hands. Sipping his liquid gold like you didn't just royally screw him over.

Because now he's stuck with the second cup. And there's a reason he's religiously punctual about his morning coffee. The second cup? It's always more watered down. The ratio is off. The temperature isn't quite right. Everything that makes that first cup perfect is just... slightly wrong.

It's happened twice before. Both times ended with someone getting shot at the range. (Not fatally, but still. The point stands.)

These aren't the kind of memories he wants to revisit at ass o'clock in the morning.

And to add insult to grievous injury, he swears he can hear you savoring it. Each appreciative little hum and satisfied sigh carries across the room like a mocking slap to the face.

Rude.

Jeon grits his teeth and glares daggers at the back of your head. If looks could kill, you'd be six feet under twice over.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

He watches, seething, as you take another slow sip of his coffee. The sound of your appreciative hum makes his trigger finger twitch.

For a few seconds, he just stands there, rigid and unmoving, like some sort of caffeinated gargoyle. His jaw clenches so tight it might actually snap.

And you?

You're just sitting there, completely absorbed in whatever's playing on your phone, one leg tucked under you as you slouch in your chair. The rising steam from the coffee cup curls around your face while you mindlessly scroll, occasionally pausing to type something with your free hand.

The perfect picture of early morning contentment.

His eye twitches when you go for another sip.

That's not even the right way to drink it, he thinks, watching you gulp it down like some sort of caffeine-deprived animal. That coffee needs to be savored. Appreciated. Not chugged like cheap beer at a frat party.

He's half-convinced you're doing this on purpose. No one can be this obtuse accidentally. Right?

But no—you just keep sitting there, lost in your own little world, occasionally humming along to whatever's playing through your earbuds. Sometimes you even do a little shoulder wiggle that makes him want to put his fist through a wall.

The logical part of his brain (the part that isn't currently fantasizing about elaborate coffee-related revenge scenarios) knows he should just walk in, get his s̶h̶i̶t̶t̶y̶ subpar second cup, and leave.

But his feet remain rooted to the spot as he glares daggers at your completely oblivious form.

You, however, never notice Jeon in the cafeteria.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

Waking up early has its perks, you guess.

Like catching the sunrise. That's pretty dope.

You finish scarfing down your breakfast just as the clock hits 7 AM. Stepping out into the hallway, your eyes are immediately drawn to the wall of windows stretching around the entire floor. The sun's just starting to peek over the horizon, painting the trees in shades of gold and orange.

This cafeteria level is still a pretty new find for you. It's this big circular space with windows all around the edges, giving you a 360-degree view of the forest outside. The caf itself is smack in the middle, with the entrance on the right and the elevators and stairs on the other side.

You pause for a sec, taking in the view. The sunrise is fucking breathtaking, even with the November chill seeping through the glass. You can't help but crack a smile. It's the little things, you know? Feels like forever since you've just stopped to appreciate something simple like this.

Lost in your sappy-ass thoughts, a sudden shiver runs down your spine. Like a breeze just brushed past you or some shit. Must be the contrast between the warm sun and the cold-ass air outside. You burrow deeper into your sweatshirt, seeking out that cozy goodness.

But the feeling doesn't go away. It's like this persistent tug, pulling you to the left. As if the breeze is coming from that direction, trying to drag you over there.

The fuck?

Unable to ignore it any longer, you turn your head and—

Oh, come on.

There, just a few feet away, stands none other than Jeon himself.

Questions swirl through your mind. How long has the bastard been standing there? Where the hell did he even come from? For a hot second, embarrassment flares in your gut. Of all people to catch you moping around in your PJs, it just had to be him.

Not that you give a single fuck what he thinks. He can take his opinions and shove 'em where the sun don't shine. But still, your pride balks at the idea of Jeon seeing you at anything less than your best.

That is, until you realize homeboy's also in his PJs. And are those...bunny slippers?

Holy shit, they totally are.

A laugh bubbles up in your throat and you quickly raise a hand to muffle the sound. But too late—Jeon's head whips around, his eyes zeroing in on you with laser focus.

You drop your hand immediately, schooling your features into a perfectly blank mask. Like you weren't just two seconds away from losing your shit over his choice of footwear. Nope, not you.

His gaze is dark and intense, boring into you with an unnerving level of scrutiny. The weight of it sends a shiver racing down your spine, your skin prickling with unease.

Unable to hold his stare, you look away, fixing your eyes on the brightening horizon. The sun's fully up now, washing everything in warm, honeyed light. But even that can't seem to thaw the frigid tension stretching between you two.

Birds chirp in the distance. Wind rustles through the leaves. But here, in this little bubble of awkwardness, the world feels muted and far away.

Well, this is fun.

The silence drags on, growing heavier with each passing second. Part of you wants to just walk away, pretend this whole thing never happened. But the other part, the stubborn-ass part, refuses to be the one to break first.

Fuck it.

"Nice slippers," you drawl, injecting a healthy dose of mockery into your tone.

Jeon doesn't respond right away. For a moment, you think he might just ignore you completely. He sure as hell doesn't look like he's in a chatty mood.

But then he takes a deep breath, jaw clenching almost imperceptibly. "They're comfortable."

You nod, unsure what to say next. The tension's still there, but it feels...different now. Less suffocating, maybe.

"Didn't really peg you as a bunny slipper kinda guy," you venture, keeping your voice light.

He just shrugs, gaze drifting back to the window. There's a soft rustle and your eyes flick down to catch sight of a pack of cigarettes in his hands. Long fingers, decorated with ink. He plucks one out, places it between his lips.

"There's a lot you don't know about me," he says, and you can practically hear the eyeroll in his voice.

Alright emo prince.

He cracks the window, letting in a gust of cool air, and lights up. The flame from his lighter casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the angles of his cheekbones, the slant of his jaw.

Why is it always bastards that are pretty?

"True," you concede, tracking the curl of smoke as it leaves his lips. "Including your apparent death wish. Though I guess that tracks for an assassin."

"Funny," he says, not sounding amused in the slightest. His back's still to you, gaze fixed on the riot of pinks and oranges bleeding across the sky. "And here I thought you were part of this gang too."

You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. "Never said I cared much about my own life either."

"Fair enough." Another exhale, another cloud of smoke. It hangs in the air, hazy and indistinct. "I'd just rather pick my own poison."

Wow, so edgy.

You can't help but scoff, a mocking smile tugging at your lips. "What, you think this is some kinda deep-ass metaphor?"

"Hm." It's more a hum than a word. A scoff, maybe. Or a snicker. "Just saying. Better to pick your poison than have someone else choose it for you.." His voice has gone cold again, sharp and biting.

Something in his tone makes you pause.

There's...weight there. History.

Lips pressed into a thin line, you nod. But you don't respond. There's nothing more to say, and the set of his shoulders tells you he's done with this little chat anyway.

So you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him to his brooding and his cigarettes whilst his words echo in your head, cryptic and strangely ominous.

What the hell kind of morning was this?

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

The castle's hallways are like something straight outta a fairytale. Or a history book. Every step on these plush carpets reminds you that this place is the real deal. Fancy tapestries and paintings line the walls, each one probably worth more than your entire life savings. And the chandeliers? They're dripping with crystals, casting everything in this warm, buttery light.

It's like walking through a dream. A really bougie, expensive dream.

As you climb up to the fourth floor, the vibe shifts. The air's thick with perfume, flowers, and something a little musky. Seduction Division territory. Your territory. Although, honestly, this division is not all push-up bras and batting eyelashes (only sometimes?). It's actually about getting in people's heads. Figuring out what makes them tick, what they want, and then using that to get what you want.

It's a game, and you are the masters.

You push open the door to your shared room, and the morning sun's already peeking through the curtains. It's soft and hazy, making everything look a little fuzzy around the edges. Yunjin, your roomie, is just starting to stir. Her pink hair's fanned out on the pillow like cotton candy, and she blinks up at you, all sleepy and confused.

"Morning," you say, feeling a smile tug at your lips. "Sleep okay?"

"Mmm, kinda..." She yawns, her voice soft and a little raspy. "Had some weird-ass dream. Can't remember it now, though."

"Yeah, dreams are tricky bitches like that. They come and go as they please." You snort, making your way to your side of the room to start getting ready.

There's a knock on the door, and you look up to see it crack open. Chaewon's face appears, all bright eyes and shiny hair pulled back in a ponytail. She's got that effortlessly chic thing going on, as usual. Even in a gang full of fashion victims (you included), Chaewon always looks put together. Perks of being the Seduction Division head honcho, you guess.

"Morning, my loves," she trills, her smile megawatt bright. "Hope I'm not interrupting any juicy gossip."

Yunjin sits up, tugging the blankets around her like a cocoon. "Nah, just trying to rejoin the land of the living," she says, stifling another yawn.

"Oh, honey, I remember those days. But no rest for the wicked, I'm afraid. We've got a packed schedule today. Mandatory meeting after lunch, so make sure you're there with bells on." Chaewon breezes into the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood.

You quirk an eyebrow. "Any chance you're gonna spill the tea on what this meeting's about?"

"Now where's the fun in that? Patience, grasshopper. All will be revealed in due time." She winks, her grin turning mischievous.

Yunjin groans, dramatically draping an arm over her face. "Ugh, and here I was hoping for a chill day."

"Chill day? In this economy?" Chaewon scoffs. "Please. If it's not a mission, it's V and his merry band of idiots stirring shit up. Swear to god, that man lives to make my life difficult."

V.

Now there's a name that gets the people going.

You've heard stories, whispers in the halls. The shit he gets up to is legendary. Legendary in a 'what the actual fuck' kinda way. Most gang leaders are all business, yeah? Not V. You've only encountered the guy once so far, on your last mission, but he definitely lives up to the hype. Dude's got the most chaotic energy you've ever seen, and that's saying something in this line of work.

"V, huh? Yeah, I may have run into him on the last job. He's... a lot," you say, chuckling at the memory.

Yunjin perks up like a meerkat. "Ooh, really? Is he as hot as everyone says? I heard he's got a face that could launch a thousand ships. Among other things."

Chaewon mimes gagging, her nose scrunched in disgust. You can practically see the prayer hands emoji floating above her head.

"Ugh, I'd rather lick a cactus than listen to you thirst over that prick."

You can't help but chuckle at Chaewon's disgust. But Yunjin's question echoes in your mind.

Is V hot?

Well, objectively speaking, yeah. He's got that whole tall, dark, and psychotic thing going on. Like one of those dark romance unhinged booktok boyfriends.

Zade Meadows who?

But there's just something about him that rubs you the wrong way. Maybe it's the constant smirk, like he knows something you don't. Or the way his eyes seem to see right through you, like he's mentally undressing you or some shit. Like he's actually, really psychotic, and not in the fun way.

So nah, you decide. V may be hot, but he's not your type.

"He is," you admit reluctantly, images of chocolate curls and a rose-like aura flashing through your mind.

But there's more to the story, and Yunjin, sharp as ever, picks up on it immediately.

"But?" she probes, eyebrow raised.

He's got nothing on Jeon, though.

Wait.

Hold up.

Where'd that thought come from?

It's not like you've really interacted with the guy beyond that one mission.

Okay, so maybe you've noticed his looks. Objectively. In a professional, assessing-the-competition kinda way.

He's got the whole dark and mysterious thing going on, with the tattoos peeking out from his shirt and the piercings glinting in the light. Sharp jawline you could probably cut yourself on. Intense eyes that seem to bore right through you. He's even got a nice mouth, if you can ignore all the bullshit that comes outta it.

But Jeon? Your type?

As if.

The guy's a grade-A asshole. Glaring at you like you're something gross he stepped in. And the way he talked down to you on the mission, in front of V? Fuck that noise. You may be new, but you're not an idiot. He doesn't get to treat you like one just because he's got some fancy title.

No, Jeon is definitely not your type.

If anything, he's your anti-type.

"...He's not my type," you say finally, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

Chaewon's eyes are on you, seeing way too much like always. You can practically feel her filing this convo away for later, ready to dissect every microexpression. But bless her heart, she doesn't push. She knows when to let sleeping dogs lie.

"Ugh, enough boy talk in my presence," she says, holding up her hands in a 'stop' gesture. "Just be ready for the announcement after lunch, okay?"

"Sure thing," you and Yunjin chorus, waving goodbye as Chaewon heads off to check on the other girls.

As the door closes behind her, you flop back onto your bed with a sigh. Another day in the life of a gang member, full of mystery and ̶a̶g̶g̶r̶a̶v̶a̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶g̶u̶y̶s̶ questionable characters.

But hey, at least it's never boring.

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

The clock's ticking away, and you can feel the anticipation building in your gut as your group starts to gather. Everyone's buzzing about this surprise announcement, throwing out wild guesses and half-baked theories. You catch snippets of conversation as you follow Chaewon through the maze-like hallways of the castle.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Chaewon's digital card is working overtime, granting access to one secured area after another. It's times like these when you're acutely aware of the gulf between your lowly ensign status and her lofty position as division leader.

Before you know it, you're standing in front of a set of massive double doors that look like they belong in some fancy European palace, not a gang hideout. Your heart's doing a little tap dance in your chest as the doors slowly swing open.

Holy. Shit.

The room that greets you is... well, "massive" doesn't even begin to cover it. It's like someone took a ballroom, pumped it full of steroids, and then decided to add a healthy dose of f̶u̶c̶k̶-̶y̶o̶u̶ gang money for good measure.

The ceiling towers so high above that you have to crane your neck to see it properly. It's covered in intricate paintings that you can't quite make out from down here. Probably some epic battle scenes or naked cherubs or whatever rich people like to stare at. Enormous chandeliers dangle precariously, bathing everything in a warm, golden glow that makes even the most hardened gang members look almost... angelic.

Ha. As if.

You follow Chaewon to your designated spot, trying not to gawk like the newbie you are. But it's hard not to let your eyes wander, drawn to the various division leaders scattered around the room. It's like a f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶d̶-̶u̶p̶ ̶ twisted version of high school cliques, each group radiating its own brand of power and influence.

As your gaze drifts from one leader to the next, you can't help but notice how their presence seems to physically affect you. It's weird, like each of them has their own unique... aura? Is that the right word? Whatever it is, it's intense.

First up is JM from Finance. The guy looks like he just stepped out of a K-drama, all delicate features and ethereal beauty. But his eyes are sharp, calculating. You feel it as he glides by - a sense of floating on still waters, the surface so calm it reflects your own emotions back at you. Lulling. Almost too tranquil. Hiding unknown depths beneath that could drag you under if you're not careful.

Your attention shifts to J-Hope from Medicine as he makes it into the room. The ground suddenly feels solid under your feet, because he exudes this... earthy, nurturing energy that makes you think of rich soil and steady growth. Just being near him feels... safe. Reassuring. Like no matter how crazy things get, he'll be there to patch you up and set you right.

But then there's AD from Information and Security, and boy is he a shock to the system. The comforting warmth vanishes, replaced by a bone-deep chill that has you fighting the urge to shiver. His gaze is razor-sharp, cutting through bullshit and secrets alike. You can practically feel the frost forming on your skin when he looks your way. Message received, loud and clear: this is not a man to be f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ messed with.

And then... there's Assassination. A division of contrasts, as you've learned firsthand.

V is already there, all chocolate curls and mischievous eyes, and you're hit with a scent so alluring it makes your head spin. It's like walking into the world's most dangerous flower shop – intoxicating, but with an undercurrent of danger that has your heart racing. You can almost feel delicate vines wrapping around your limbs, drawing you in even as alarm bells shriek in the back of your mind.

Your eyes drift to Jeon, and– Jesus. You feel it again, just like the first time you saw him. Gale-force winds, battering against you with barely restrained violence. Like being caught in a hurricane, the air electric , a promise of destruction. Your chest tightens, breath coming in short gasps as you struggle against the invisible current threatening to sweep you away.

You wrench your gaze away, lungs burning as you gulp in air. What the actual hell was that?

Jessi from Procurement catches your eye next, and it's like stepping from a storm into a wildfire. Her energy blazes hot and bright, scorching away any lingering chill. She's intense, that's the best word to describe her.  She's commands—no, fuck it—she demands attention, her ambition almost tangible. You can't help but admire her character, even as you make a mental note to stay the hell out of her way.

Finally, your eyes land on Chaewon, your own division leader. And despite everything you've felt so far, she still manages to take your breath away. She moves with a deadly grace that reminds you of a black widow spider – beautiful, alluring, and absolutely lethal. There's a hint of venom in her smile, a reminder that in this world, appearances are always deceiving. You're drawn to her—everyone is—even knowing how dangerous that attraction could be.

And these 7? Yeah, these 7 are amongst the 9  who control this fucked up family. 

The Council of 9.

They're a formidable bunch, united in their relentless pursuit of... well, whatever the hell it is Kkangpae is after. You're still a little fuzzy on the details, if you're being honest.

Suddenly, the room goes dead silent. All heads swivel towards the double doors as they creak open once more.

In walks Moon, RM's right-hand man and advisor extraordinaire. The guy moves like he's got all the secrets of the universe tucked in his back pocket, calm and self-assured in a way that demands respect without having to say a word.

And there's... just something almost otherworldly about Moon.

It's like he's got the tranquility of a starry night sky bottled up inside him, quiet but impossibly vast. When he speaks, his voice is soft, but his words carry a weight that hints at depths of wisdom you can only dream of.

As he takes his place at the podium, you can feel the anticipation in the room ratchet up another notch. Everyone knows whatever he's about to say is going to shake things up, and they're all itching to hear what's coming.

"Good morning everyone." His voice echoes through the silent room, and you find yourself leaning forward slightly, straining to catch every word. "Today, we're here for an announcement that is likely to set a new course for our gang moving forward."

He pauses, and you swear you can hear your own heartbeat thundering in your ears. The whole room is waiting for the bomb to drop.

"As many of you are aware, a series of unexpected events transpired during our last mission, casting doubt on its success at a certain point." Moon's intense gaze sweeps the room, and you fight the urge to shrink back when it passes over you. "Incoordination can jeopardize not only a mission but our lives."

Oh. Oh s̶h̶i̶t̶.

You know exactly what he's talking about, even though he never looks directly at you.

The mission. The c̶l̶u̶s̶t̶e̶r̶f̶u̶c̶k̶ mess with Jeon and V. Lack of coordination between Seduction and Assassination.

Yeah, that rings a bell.

Your stomach does an unpleasant flip as Moon continues, "Thus, some measures have had to be taken to ensure this is no longer a cause of concern in the future."

His eyes rest on you for a split second before moving on to the Assassination leaders, and despite his calm demeanor, you can't shake the feeling that you're about to get royally f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ screwed.

"From now on, cross-training will be a must. Members must have a basic understanding of the operations of other teams." Moon's gaze settles on Jeon, V, and Chaewon. "Jeon, V, Flower, given your similar combat strategies, I trust you three will be able to coordinate your teams effectively in joint physical training exercises?"

You don't need to be a mind reader to see the lack of enthusiasm on Chaewon and Jeon's faces. It's about as subtle as a brick to the face. V, on the other hand, looks like he's about two seconds away from bursting into laughter, his lip caught between his teeth in a failed attempt to hide his amusement.

"Shouldn't this be discussed first with RM—" Chaewon starts, at the same time Jeon says, "Jin, you have to understand—"

But Moon shuts them down before they can even get going. "This decision is final. RM is on board." His tone brooks no argument. "Should there be further inquiries, I welcome you to discuss them in my office later. Now, moving on to other divisions..."

As Moon continues with his announcements, you catch V draping his arms over both Chaewon and Jeon's shoulders, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

"Oh, this is going to be SO much fun, besties," he practically purrs, his fake enthusiasm so over-the-top it's almost painful to watch.

Jeon, predictably, is having none of it. He shoots V a glare that could curdle milk before shrugging off his arm. The click of his tongue is sharp, annoyed, and you can practically feel the storm clouds gathering around him.

And then, as if drawn by some cosmic f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶r̶y̶ force, Jeon's gaze locks onto yours.

Shit.

It's like being caught in a riptide. His dark eyes are a maelstrom of emotion – anger, frustration, and something else you can't quite name. That hurricane feeling is back full-force, making your skin prickle and your breath catch in your throat. You meet his stare head-on, refusing to back down even as every instinct screams at you to look away.

But before you can decide whether to scowl or flip him off (decisions, decisions), he's already turning away, stalking off with the air of a man who'd rather be literally anywhere else.

"Such a killjoy," V sighs dramatically, his arms now flung out in an exaggerated shrug as he turns to Chaewon.

Chaewon rolls her eyes, but you catch the hint of a smile she's trying to suppress. "I can see where he's coming from. You're a pain in the ass to deal with," she retorts.

"Ow, you too?" V clutches at his chest, bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. "That hurt my little heart, you know, ChaeChae."

"It's Flower," Chaewon corrects automatically. "And you'd need to have one for that to work." She starts walking back towards your group, tossing a casual wave over her shoulder without bothering to look back.

As everyone starts to disperse, the grand halls of the castle fill with the echo of footsteps and the low murmur of conversation. You fall into step behind Chaewon, your mind racing as you try to process everything that just went down.

Cross-training. With Assassination. With Jeon.

Why do you feel like you're in a badly written romance book?

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

The walk back to your floor is eerily quiet, the usual post-meeting chatter conspicuously absent. It's like everyone's too caught up in their own thoughts to bother with small talk. You're certainly not in a chatty mood either, your brain already spinning out worst-case scenarios for these upcoming joint training sessions.

As you file into the shared room, the silence finally breaks. It's Yunjin who speaks up first, her voice soft and hesitant. "Cross-training, huh? Sounds... intense."

Chaewon lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Look, I think everyone here knows I'm not the biggest fan of this idea." She pauses, her gaze sweeping over each of you. "But this is Moon's—and most importantly, RM's—selected course of action. And if there's any man in this world who I'd trust with my life, it's RM."

You can't argue with that logic. RM might be a o̶m̶i̶n̶o̶u̶s̶ ̶m̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶r̶ intimidating leader, but he's got a reputation for always being ten steps ahead. If he thinks this is necessary... well, who are you to question it?

Chaewon continues, her voice steady despite the weariness in her eyes. "And who knows? Maybe we'll find some common ground with the other divisions, even Assassination. Maybe we'll learn something from them."

You try to imagine finding 'common ground' with Jeon and have to stifle a snort. Yeah, that'll be the day.

Unable to sit still any longer, you wander over to the window, gazing out at the peaceful world beyond the castle walls. It's almost jarring, how serene it looks out there when everything in here feels like it's been turned on its head.

Your mind drifts back to that moment with Jeon, when your eyes met across the room. The intensity of his gaze, the storm of emotions you glimpsed... it was unsettling, to say the least. He's an enigma wrapped in a riddle, shrouded in g̶r̶u̶m̶p̶y̶ ̶a̶s̶s̶h̶o̶l̶e̶ mystery. Part of you—a very small, clearly f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶d̶-̶u̶p̶ masochistic part—can't help but be intrigued.

But that's a problem for another day. Right now, you've got more pressing concerns. Like how the hell you're going to survive training with Mr. Grumpy Hurricane himself without committing murder. Or getting murdered. Both seem equally likely at this point.

With a sigh, you turn away from the window, your feet carrying you towards your room almost on autopilot. As you push open the door, you're greeted by the soft pink glow of the afternoon sun filtering through heavy curtains. The light catches on Yunjin's long pink locks as she sits on her bed, making her look almost ethereal.

"Hey," she says softly, meeting your gaze. "I was thinking... maybe we could start having breakfast together?"

The suggestion catches you off guard. Yunjin, voluntarily waking up before noon? It's practically unheard of. But the determination in her eyes tells you she's serious about this.

You can't help the smile that tugs at your lips. "You mean you'll actually wake up before noon now?"

Yunjin chuckles, the sound light and melodic. "I guess I have to, don't I? The way things are going, I need to step up my game."

"You won't be disappointed," you assure her, already thinking of those heavenly croissants that make dragging your ass out of bed at the crack of dawn almost worth it. "The early bird gets the croissant, after all."

Her eyes light up at that, a mix of excitement and resolve. "Well, I better get used to waking up early then."

You spend the next few minutes chatting, the weight of the day's events momentarily forgotten as you chat with her. It's nice, this easy friendship you've fallen into with Yunjin.

In a world as crazy as yours, it's good to have someone you can count on.

As night falls and you both settle into bed, your mind is a jumble of thoughts. Cross-training, Jeon's stormy gaze, the challenges that lie ahead... it's a lot to process. But as you drift off to sleep, you find yourself focusing on one comforting thought: at least you'll have a friend by your side for those early morning croissants.

In the quiet of the night, with only the distant sounds of the castle to keep you company, you can almost convince yourself that everything will work out okay.

Almost.

†✧† 死 †✧† 死 †✧† 死 †✧†

 

Chapter 4: breakfast and training

Summary:

"His eyes are the kind of dark that makes you forget there was ever light in the world. And you hate that you're starting to notice details about him."

Notes:

☠ author's note ☠

HELLO MY FELLOW SLEEP-DEPRIVED CREATURES. Welcome back to another episode of "Kiki makes questionable life choices and writes fanfiction instead of sleeping"!

Can we talk about how I wrote like three different versions of the gun scene before my perfectionist brain was satisfied? And by satisfied I mean "fine whatever just post it I guess." Don't @ me about gun accuracy, I play Call of Duty sometimes that's research enough (ㆆᴗㆆ)

Also yes, I am absolutely living for the whole "oh no they're training together" trope. Sue me. Or don't, I'm broke. All I have is caffeine and the ability to make my characters suffer. Speaking of which - Jeon in combat mode? chef's kiss My boy is out there being all professional and grumpy while Y/N is just trying her best not to get shot. We love that for them.

PSA: The whole "Cookie" thing was totally self-indulgent and I regret nothing. V is here to cause chaos and honestly? Goals.

Special shoutout to my cat who watched me write this at 3 AM and judged me silently. You're the best beta reader a girl could ask for, even if your only feedback is knocking my coffee over.

See you next Tuesday, you beautiful disasters! Remember: sleep is for the weak and fanfiction is for life.

crawls back into writing cave while mainlining espresso

• Kiki

Mornings in the castle hit different. Through your window, the sky's doing that thing where it can't decide if it's still night or already dawn—all soft blues mixing with hints of gold. Everything's quiet, like the world's holding its breath.

Then your alarm goes off.

"Why did we agree to this again?" Yunjin whines from her bed, fumbling to shut up the annoying buzz. Her pink hair is a mess, splayed across her pillow like cotton candy gone wrong.

"Croissants," you remind her, stretching until your joints pop. "Fresh, buttery, heavenly croissants."

"Not hungry." She burrows deeper into her blanket cocoon. "Too early for hunger. Too early for existing."

You swing your legs off the bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor. "What happened to yesterday's 'new me, new goals' speech?"

"That was yesterday's Yunjin. Today's Yunjin chooses sleep."

With a snort, you pad over to her bed. It's literally two steps away—your shared room is cozy like that, with just enough space for two singles and matching bedside tables. You give her shoulder a gentle shake.

"And what's tomorrow's Yunjin gonna think about that?"

"Tomorrow's Yunjin's problem," she mumbles, death-gripping her blanket. Smart girl. She knows your next move would've been stealing it.

"Then it's tomorrow's me problem too!" You can't help but laugh, and it finally gets her to peek one eye open.

She lets out the longest, most dramatic sigh. "Fine. Fine. You win."

Your shared laughter is soft, comfortable. It's weird how quickly Yunjin became your person here. Maybe because she's as new to this as you are—no pressure to measure up to badasses like Chaewon or keep your guard up around intimidating figures like V and Jeon.

She joined two months before you did. For her, it meant saying goodbye to having her own room, but she says it was worth the trade-off. Girl's a mess when it comes to sleep schedules, but she keeps your shared space spotless and her determination is s̶c̶a̶r̶y̶ impressive. Like, you've seen her practice seduction techniques until 3 AM, and now here she is, dragging herself up at dawn for... well, croissants and self-improvement.

There's something genuinely good about Yunjin. She's always there—to help, to listen, to just be. Five months in and everyone in Seduction already adores her. Yeah, she's clumsy as hell during physical training, but her mind is sharp. Nothing gets past her—it's like she's got a built-in lie detector.

After yesterday morning's... incident, you're extra grateful for her company.

You both grab your digital cards from your bedside tables—can't go anywhere in this place without them. They're basically your whole identity here, determining which doors open for you and which stay firmly shut.

The castle corridors feel endless this early. Most members are probably still sleeping or doing whatever gang members do at dawn. Your footsteps echo softly as you and Yunjin make your way to the cafeteria, keeping the conversation light.

"Have you had breakfast here before?" you ask, watching her stifle another yawn.

"Once." She nods, her pink ponytail bouncing. "Got up at 10 though. Wasn't worth sacrificing sleep for."

You can't help but smile. "Early breakfast hits different. You'll see."

When you reach the cafeteria, Yunjin taps her digital card against the scanner. The light blinks green, and suddenly your nose is filled with the heavenly smell of fresh pastries. Inside, only a handful of early birds are scattered around the massive space. Makes sense—most people here prefer their beds at this hour.

Your eyes do their usual sweep of the room, casual and practiced. But then something pulls at you, like a magnet finding true north. Your gaze locks with dark, piercing ones.

Jeon.

"Oh, that's Jeon, right?" Yunjin's voice cuts through your thoughts. "Guess he likes mornings too."

You nod, still watching him from the safety of the doorway. Something about the distance makes you feel almost safe. He's got that thing about him—that unmistakable aura of authority that even 6 AM can't dim.

"Damn," Yunjin says after a beat, blunt as ever. "He's hot."

"Let's get food," you mutter, rolling your eyes and heading for the pastry section.

You and Yunjin load up your plates with a bit of everything, especially those famous croissants. Finding a quiet corner, you settle in to enjoy both the food and each other's company, pointedly not thinking about piercing dark eyes or brooding corners.

You try to look casual as your eyes drift back to Jeon for the hundredth time.

He's sitting there, both hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee like it's his lifeline to sanity this early in the morning. The sight of those tattooed fingers curled around plain white ceramic does something to your brain that you'd rather not examine too closely.

"You know, I heard something interesting about him." Yunjin's voice makes you jump. S̶h̶i̶t̶ Great, she caught you staring.

"Oh?" You tilt your head, hoping your voice sounds more curious than guilty.

Yunjin leans in conspiratorially, her pink hair falling forward as she drops her voice to barely above a whisper. It's kind of unnecessary given how far away Jeon is, but there's something about him that makes everyone speak in hushed tones.

"Apparently, he's got this whole... ritual thing going on. Every single morning, without fail, he makes sure he's the first one to get fresh coffee. Like, the first cup from a fresh pot."

Your eyes track back to that cup held between ink-covered fingers. Now that she mentions it, you've never seen him drink anything else in the mornings. The way he's savoring it, eyes closed and expression almost peaceful, makes you think Yunjin might be onto something.

"Every day? He's literally the first one here?" The mental image of Jeon lurking outside the cafeteria doors, waiting for them to unlock, is both hilarious and weirdly endearing.

"From what I've heard. Maybe it's a power move?" Yunjin suggests with a soft laugh. "You know, asserting dominance through caffeine consumption."

The idea of someone as intimidating as Jeon—co-leader of the Assassination Division, member of the Council of 9, literal professional killer—climbing the ranks of one of South Korea's most dangerous gangs just to secure his morning coffee makes something bubble up in your chest.. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing too loud.

"Imagine that being his master plan all along," you snort. "Join gang, become assassination chief, get first dibs on coffee."

You both dissolve into quiet giggles, but the moment shatters when something shifts in the air. It's like thorny vines suddenly wrapping around your lungs, making it hard to breathe. You don't need to look to know who it is.

"Mind if I join the fun?" V's voice slides over your skin like honey laced with poison, playful but with that edge that makes your hair stand on end.

His arms drape over your shoulders without warning, caging you and Yunjin in what should be a friendly gesture but feels more like being trapped. Your muscles tense automatically. There's something about V that keeps you perpetually on edge—like admiring a rose only to remember it's got thorns that could draw blood.

Yunjin manages a wobbly smile, but you can tell she's as unsettled as you are by his sudden appearance. "We were just... talking about coffee."

"Coffee?" V drawls the word like it personally offends him. He pulls back, throwing his arms behind his head in that carelessly graceful way of his, but stays close enough that you can smell cinnamon. "Boring. Now, this new training program? That's something worth discussing."

His eyes glint with mischief, reminding you of a cat playing with its food. "I'm keen to see what you girls bring to the table. Should be... intriguing, don't you think?"

The way he says it makes your skin crawl. There's nothing overtly threatening about his words, but the undercurrent is clear—the Assassination Division isn't known for playing nice, and V seems to view the upcoming cross-training as his personal playground.

"I'm sure it will be enlightening," you say carefully.

V's energy is infectious, but not in a good way. More like a disease you're trying not to catch.

He chuckles, and those thorny vines around your lungs squeeze tighter. "Oh, I'm sure it will be. And don't worry, yours truly will be there to add a little spice to the mix. Can't let things get too dull, can we?"

Before you can respond, his attention snaps to something—or someone—across the cafeteria. With a dismissive wave that somehow manages to feel both elegant and insulting, he strides off as suddenly as he appeared.

You exchange looks with Yunjin, both of you sagging with relief once he's gone. She looks as drained as you feel, like V's presence alone sucked all the energy from the room.

"Well, that was... something," Yunjin says, and you could write a whole essay about everything packed into that single word. Her pink hair is still slightly disheveled from where V's dramatic entrance messed it up.

"That's one way to put it." You try to shake off the phantom feeling of thorny vines around your lungs. V's presence leaves you feeling like you've been through some kind of emotional washing machine—tumbled around and wrung out.

"But oh my god." Yunjin's whole face suddenly lights up like she's remembered something amazing. The whiplash from her mood shift almost gives you vertigo.

"What?" You ask, though part of you already knows where this is going. Yunjin might be shy and perceptive, but she's also a total simp when it comes to pretty faces.

"He is SO handsome?" Her voice rises with genuine awe. "Everyone kept saying he looks like a prince, but I thought they were exaggerating. They were not."

You raise an eyebrow, wondering if you were even in the same conversation just now. Sure, V's gorgeous—that's kind of his whole thing. The dangerous beauty, the dripping poison. But after feeling his aura wrap around you like a boa constrictor, 'handsome' isn't exactly the first word that comes to mind.

"Did you miss the whole creepy vibe?" You keep your voice low, even though V's long gone. Some habits die hard in this place. "He talked about the training program like he's planning to turn it into his personal episode of Squid Game. With popcorn."

"Yeah, but like..." Yunjin waves her hand dismissively, "have you seen his face? Those cheekbones? That jawline?"

"The way he's probably plotting our deaths as we speak?" You counter, but you can't help the smile tugging at your lips. Trust Yunjin to focus on the aesthetics while completely ignoring the red flags. It's kind of adorable, in a concerning way.

"Doesn't change the fact that he's eye candy," she says with zero shame, stabbing her fork into her breakfast. "Like, premium, expensive, imported chocolate level of eye candy."

"True," you admit, finally taking a proper bite of your croissant.

And it is true—V's got that whole ethereal beauty thing going on, like a masterpiece painting that happens to be slightly cursed. The kind of face that belongs in museums but also probably comes alive at night to terrorize security guards.

But even as you acknowledge V's obvious appeal, your eyes betray you, drifting back to that other corner of the cafeteria. Back to dark eyes and hurricanes.

Back to Jeon.

It's not like you mean to look.

It just... happens.

Like your gaze has some kind of magnetic programming that keeps pulling it in his direction.

Which is s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ inconvenient because the last thing you need is to get caught staring at one of the most dangerous men in Kkangpae while you've got croissant crumbs on your face.

The rest of your morning slips by without V popping up again to make your skin crawl. You try to focus on getting ready for what's coming, but your mind keeps drifting to the upcoming training.

Working with Jeon and V's division? Yeah, that's not anxiety-inducing at all.

When you step onto the training field outside the castle, the change of scenery hits different. After being cooped up in the gang's concrete maze, the open space and towering trees feel almost surreal. The cold morning air bites at your lungs—a wake-up call you didn't ask for but probably need.

Today's not just another training day. It's your first cross-training with the Assassination Division, and the tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with one of V's knives.

Your stomach does this weird flip-flop thing as you walk towards the gathering crowd. Working with Jeon after... that incident? Not exactly on your bucket list. The memory of your last encounter sits heavy in your chest, making each step feel like you're walking through mud.

The Assassination Division is already there when you arrive, looking like they stepped out of some action movie poster. Some look ready to murder, others look ready for a nap. But it's Jeon who catches your eye—impossible not to, really. It's like the air itself is swirling around him like a storm about to break.

He's got that look on his face—you know the one. All business, no bullshit, could probably kill you with his pinky finger.

No sign of V though.

Makes sense, when you think about it. Those two aren't exactly besties—more like two wolves forced to share the same territory. Their whole approach to killing is different as night and day.

Jeon's all about precision. Clean shots, minimal mess, maximum efficiency. He's the type to plan every detail, calculate every variable. Need someone taken out from two buildings away without anyone even knowing what happened? That's his specialty. The human equivalent of a surgical strike.

V though? He's chaos incarnate. Gets up close and personal with his kills, leaves a message written in blood if he feels like it. He's the guy you call when you want someone dead and don't care how messy it gets. Planning? Fuck planning—V works on pure instinct and improvisation.

The crowd goes quiet as Jeon steps forward. The atmosphere shifts, less like a raging storm now and more like the heavy air before thunder breaks. When he speaks, his voice does that thing where it demands attention without actually raising in volume. And despite everything—despite knowing better—you find yourself leaning in slightly to catch every word.

"Your state of mind is everything in this line of work," he says, dark eyes scanning the crowd like he's reading everyone's potential in real time. "A calm, collected mind can mean the difference between life and death."

The task he lays out seems simple enough: shoot the cardboard target, hit the center, don't mess it up. But as you watch others take their turns, that knot in your stomach keeps getting tighter.

The gun feels wrong in your hand. Not that you haven't held one before—basic training covers that—but this is different. This is him watching, and somehow that makes your palms extra sweaty.

Then your turn's up.

Walking to the mark feels like crossing a minefield, every step measured and tense. Your heart's going so hard you can barely hear anything else.

Focus. You need to focus.

But Jeon's standing right there, making the air thick and hard to breathe. Your finger hovers over the trigger, but doubt creeps in like poison.

The target blurs in and out. You can feel Jeon watching, that heavy gaze picking apart every flaw in your stance. The pressure builds in your chest until you're sure something's gonna snap.

Just a bit longer. You need to be absolutely sure before taking the shot.

It's not like Seduction gets much practice with actual weapons—your arsenal usually involves batting eyelashes and strategic flirting, not bullets and gunpowder. So it's no wonder the gun starts slipping through your sweaty fingers.

You tighten your grip. A surge of determination hits you like a shot of adrenaline. Come on. It's just cardboard. You've handled way worse situations than this. You can do this.

Your finger starts to squeeze the trigger—

BANG.

That... wasn't your gun.

You flinch, turning toward the sound before you can stop yourself. Through the corner of your eye, you catch smoke curling from Jeon's pistol.

He's standing there looking bored, arm extended like this is just another one of his daily mornings. The gun fits his hand like it was molded for him, an extension of his body rather than a weapon.

When your eyes snap to the target, there it is—perfect shot, dead center, because of course it is.

A̶s̶s̶h̶o̶l̶e̶ Show-off.

You lower your gun, lips pressed tight. His gaze sits heavy on your shoulders, hurricane pressure bearing down until you want to scream. His face gives nothing away, but those dark eyes say plenty—and none of it's good.

"If you're not quick enough, you'll get killed." His voice cuts like ice. "Let that be a reminder for everyone else."

The words hit like a slap. Heat rushes to your face—anger, embarrassment, frustration, all mixing together into something that makes you want to either punch something or crawl into a hole. Preferably punch him, but you're very aware of everyone watching this little show he's putting on.

Both divisions are staring, and you've never felt more like a fish in a very small, very exposed bowl.

Your eyes meet Jeon's, and suddenly breathing gets hard. His stare hits different—those dark eyes boring into yours like he's trying to read your soul, pupils blown wide in a way that makes your stomach do weird flips.

That silver lip ring catches the light when his mouth twists into something s̶e̶x̶y̶ condescending. He opens his mouth—probably to tear into you some more—but then—

BANG.

Everyone drops like puppets with cut strings. Pure instinct.

It's instant chaos. Voices rise into a crescendo of shouts and commands, bodies moving with practiced urgency.

It's kind of beautiful, in a messed-up way—how quickly personal beef gets shelved when shit hits the fan. One minute Jeon's looking at you like you're dirt on his boot, next second he's barking orders to keep everyone safe.

Your heart's in your throat as you scan the crowd for a flash of pink hair.

Yunjin.

But Yunjin's nowhere.

The sea of faces blurs together—no Kazuha, no Eunchae, not even Sakura. Even Chaewon's vanished, which is weird because she's usually got this sixth sense about danger.

Another shot cracks through the air. Your fingers tighten around your gun until your knuckles go white. Your eyes keep drifting to the treeline, where shadows dance between patches of dark green.

A calm, collected mind can mean the difference between life and death.

His words echo in your head, which is ironic considering how not calm you feel right now.

Fuck it.

You're moving before you can second-guess yourself, legs carrying you toward the forest. Maybe it's stupid, but you need space to think. To be calm, like he said.

Plus, the trees might give you cover—an advantage you desperately need right now.

The forest swallows you up. Sunlight filters through leaves overhead, painting everything in shifting patterns of light and shadow. Every step crunches on dead leaves, making you wince. So much for stealth.

V wouldn't be happy.

The chaos from the training ground fades the deeper you go, replaced by normal forest sounds—birds chattering overhead, small animals rustling in the bushes. It's almost peaceful, if you ignore the whole possible death situation.

You spot it then—a ridge overlooking the training ground, hidden behind thick bushes. Perfect vantage point, if you can reach it. The climb makes your muscles burn, but you manage. Up here, you force yourself to breathe slow and steady, trying to quiet your racing heart. Your fingers trace the gun's cold metal like a lifeline.

Your back hits the tree with a thud. The bark scrapes against your spine through your shirt, but you barely notice. Every nerve in your body is focused on that rustling sound behind you.

Footsteps.

Your breath catches. They're quiet—too quiet to be some random person stumbling through the woods.

No, these are the steps of someone who knows how to move silently. Someone trained.

Adrenaline floods your system as you press yourself flatter against the tree. Your fingers tighten around the gun until your knuckles go white. Through a gap in the leaves, you try to catch a glimpse of whoever's approaching, but the foliage is too thick.

Friend or foe?

The question pounds in your head with each careful footstep drawing closer. Your mind races, too many possibilities—it could be an enemy, could be another member searching the area.

Could be death or salvation walking your way.

The steps are almost upon you now. Your breathing goes shallow, controlled. You might be exposed up here, but they don't know that. Surprise is your only advantage right now.

Shoot or strike?

The dilemma tears at you. A gunshot would alert everyone to your location. And if it turns out to be an ally... F̶u̶c̶k̶ No. Hand-to-hand is safer. Quieter. Less explaining to do if you're wrong.

Your muscles coil tight as a spring. When the footsteps are close enough, you launch yourself from behind the tree in one fluid motion, aiming to take them down hard and fast.

Instead, you slam into what feels like a brick wall.

Oh.

It's Jeon.

His reflexes are insane—before you can even process who he is, he's already moving. The air sweeps around you as he twists, disarming you with embarrassing ease. Your gun hits the ground with a clatter that seems to echo through the whole forest.

Recognition hits you both at the same moment. That flicker of shock in his eyes quickly turns to his usual look of disdain, because of course it does.

Then—a misstep.

Your ankle rolls, sending white-hot pain shooting up your leg. You stumble, sucking in a sharp breath. His grip on you loosens just slightly, and something that might be concern flashes across his face before his usual cold mask slips back into place.

"You okay?" His voice is gruff, like the words are being dragged out of him against his will.

"Just perfect," you snap back, because fuck his concern when your ankle feels like it's on fire and your pride hurts even worse.

He just stands there, staring at you with those dark eyes that see too much.

"What the hell were you thinking?" A pause, one eyebrow lifting. "You have a gun, don't you?"

You almost laugh. Because of course. If you'd shot at him, he'd be lecturing you about trigger discipline. Attack hand-to-hand, and suddenly you're an idiot for not using your weapon.

You seriously can't win with this man.

"Well, good thing I didn't use it on you then." The words come out lighter than you feel, dancing between playful and pissed. "And what are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be back there playing commander?"

"That's what deputies are for." The casual way he says it makes your teeth grind. "Besides, I dispatched a team to check the gunfire. Just my luck, running into you instead."

"Pleasure's all mine, chief." You load the title with all the sarcasm you can muster.

"And you?" His dark eyes study you like you're a particularly puzzling target he can't quite line up. "Any reason you're out here instead of following orders?"

"Didn't get any orders to follow." You cross your arms, ignoring how his presence makes your skin prickle. "And that ridge over there?" You jab a finger toward the overlook. "Perfect vantage point. I was trying to be strategic before you showed up."

He actually grimaces at that, like your logic physically pains him. But before he can open his mouth to deliver what's surely another lecture, you add:

"Just my luck, running into you instead."

The words—his own words turned back on him—hit their mark. His eyebrow twitches just slightly, and satisfaction blooms warm in your chest.

Score one for you.

But before you can inwardly celebrate, he grimaces. He actually grimaces before he opens his stupid mouth again.

"That?" His voice drips with condescension. "You think that's prime real estate for observation?" The asshole holds back a laughter. "Alright." He says, and you ponder the merits of hitting him with a rock.

But then he begins walking, and you trail after him, partly because s̶c̶r̶e̶w̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ he's wrong and partly because... well, where else are you gonna go?

"Remind me again—which one of us specializes in persuasion and observation?" You can't keep the annoyance from your voice. His arrogance is starting to give you a headache.

"And which one of us is known for sniping?" He tilts his head just enough for you to catch the silver flash of his eyebrow piercing. "You think I don't know a thing or two about picking vantage points?"

"Just because you can shoot from far away doesn't mean you know the best places to shoot from." The words come out sharper than intended. "What works for a sniper might not work for surveillance. They're different skill sets."

"How so?" He doesn't even bother looking back now. "A lookout's a lookout, smartass."

Your hands find your hips. "You know what? Ask me that again when you sit in on our cross-training. Might learn something useful."

"Learn from an ensign?" His tilt is mocking. "No—learn from you?" He lets out a low chuckle that makes your teeth grind. "Pretty sure it works the other way around."

"Forgot about Flower?" You can't help the snark in your voice. "She's a chief too, and I'm sure she'd love to put you in your place."

The exhale he lets out is so exaggerated it has to be for dramatic effect. "You're insufferable."

"Feeling's mutual, chief."

You trail behind Jeon through the darkness, trying to ignore how his mere presence makes the night air feel electric against your skin. The silence wraps around you both, broken only by your footsteps until—

A rustle in the underbrush.

Before you can react, his hand clamps around your wrist. No warning, no words—just the firm press of tattooed fingers against your pulse point as he yanks you behind a massive rock. You crash against him, bodies colliding in a mess of limbs and s̶h̶i̶t̶ startled breath.

You open your mouth to tell him exactly what you think about being manhandled, but his finger presses against his lips. Shut up. His eyes scan the darkness beyond your hiding spot, focused and lethal.

And suddenly you're way too aware of him.

The moonlight paints him in silver and shadow, highlighting things you've never noticed before. Like how his eyebrow piercing catches the light—two tiny beads of silver that draw attention to the way his brow furrows in concentration. Or how that lip ring glints when his mouth sets in that stern line you know too well.

There's a scar on his left cheek—barely there, really. Just a whisper of a mark that makes you wonder what story it tells. Your eyes drift lower, catching on the small mole decorating the left side of his neck. It's such a delicate detail on someone who radiates danger, like finding a flower growing through concrete.

But it's his eyes that f̶u̶c̶k̶ y̶o̶u̶ u̶p̶ catch you off guard. Dark and deep, framed by stupidly long lashes that flutter when he blinks. They're beautiful in a way that makes your chest tight—and isn't that just f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ fantastic? You didn't need to know that about him.

This close, you can see the tiny lines at the corners of those eyes. They speak of sleepless nights and heavy choices, of burdens carried too long alone. Watching him like this—he feels different now, less like a storm trying to drown you and more like standing in summer rain.

The realization hits like a punch to the gut: you're seeing Jeon. Not the cold-as-ice division chief or the intimidating Council member. Just... him. Human.

Complex.

His fingers are still wrapped around your wrist like an iron band. If anything, his grip's gotten tighter, and you're caught between wanting to yank free and being weirdly aware of how warm his hand is against your skin in the cool night air. It's hard to tell if you're feeling trapped or protected.

The footsteps draw closer—deliberate, confident. Not someone trying to hide.

You watch a muscle tick in Jeon's jaw, the kind of tiny detail you wouldn't normally notice if you weren't pressed so close to him. It's fascinating, in an annoying way, how he can look so calm while radiating such intense energy.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second, but it feels loaded with... something. Like you're suddenly partners in this mess, whether you like it or not. It's more communication than you've had in all your previous conversations combined.

The rustling gets louder. You hold your breath. Jeon's gone statue-still beside you, but you can feel the coiled tension in him. His dark eyes snap to a spot in the trees, then back to you with unnerving intensity.

"Shoot there."

You stare at him like he's lost his mind. "What?"

"There." His voice is barely a whisper, rough with urgency. He jerks his chin toward whatever he's seeing that you're apparently missing.

"You want me to shoot a tree branch?" The skepticism in your whisper could cut glass. "Seriously?"

"Just do what you're told." The words rumble out of him like distant thunder, crackling with impatience.

You give Jeon a look, but arguing isn't an option right now.

The gun feels heavy as you line up the shot. Your finger finds the trigger, and for a split second, everything goes quiet. The bang echoes through the trees, making your ears ring. You watch as the bullet hits exactly where Jeon wanted—that innocent-looking branch that apparently wasn't so innocent after all.

A net explodes from the darkness like some kind of ninja trap, shooting toward the approaching figure. But whoever it is moves like water—fluid, impossible, beautiful in a terrifying way. The net hits empty ground with a sad little flutter while your brain tries to process what just happened.

Beside you, Jeon goes still. If you weren't pressed so close, you might have missed that tiny hitch in his breath—the only sign that this wasn't part of his plan. His eyes narrow just slightly, that crack in his perfect mask making your stomach do weird flips.

He pushes you back against the rock, putting himself between you and whatever's coming. The stone digs into your spine, cold and rough through your clothes.

Then everything happens at once.

A shadow vaults over your hiding spot, moving with deadly grace. Gunshots crack through the night, and suddenly Jeon's shoving you down, his body covering yours. The world spins into a blur of motion and sound, your pulse drumming so loud you can barely think.

When reality settles back into focus, you watch the figure reach for their mask. Your fingers tighten on your gun, waiting to see what kind of threat managed to dodge one of Jeon's traps.

The mask comes off.

Oh for fuck's sake.

V's grinning like the cat that got the cream. "Paintball night!" he announces with way too much glee for someone who just scared the shit out of you.

Relief and irritation war in your chest. Of course it's V. Who else would turn a simple training exercise into their personal dramatic performance?

You watch Jeon's shoulders drop, but the annoyance is written all over his face. His jaw's so tight you can practically hear all the curses he's not saying.

Always the professional, even when he's irritated.

V's eyes dances with delight as he watches Jeon simmer. "Don't look at me like that, Kookie," he coos, lips curling into that signature smirk that makes you want to take a step back.

Cookie?

You blink, trying to process that nickname. Looking at Jeon—all dark clothes, silver piercings, and intimidating tattoos—the last thing that comes to mind is anything remotely cute or sweet. The mental image of him buying cookies from some terrified boy scouts makes you bite back a laugh.

Now that's a story you'd pay to hear.

Jeon's eyebrow shoots up in that way that somehow manages to say f̶u̶c̶k̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ more effectively than actual words. His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek, jaw working like he's physically holding back whatever he wants to say. He's irritated.

"I'll give you some advantage," V sighs dramatically, thorny vines wrapping around your lungs even from this distance. "No fun beating you when you're unarmed." The words drip with amusement, like this whole thing is his favorite game. "See ya."

With one last unsettling grin, he melts into the darkness. Because of course he does. Dramatic asshole.

You're still sprawled on the ground, processing what just happened. Leave it to V to turn a regular night into some twisted paintball training session. The man's idea of "improving stealth skills" is giving everyone heart attacks.

Beside you, Jeon's muscles finally uncoil from their battle-ready stance. He looms over you, and you can't tell if the expression on his face is more annoyed or relieved.

"You gonna get up or what?" The words come out gruff, but there's something else there. Something that might be concern if you squint.

Then his hand appears in front of your face. You stare at it for a second, surprised. It's weirdly bare compared to his tattooed arms, and you hesitate before taking it. His grip is firm but careful as he helps you up.

The whole night feels surreal —one weird training session bleeding into another. You glance at Jeon as he stretches, working out the tension in his shoulders.

The mystery of "Cookie" tugs at your curiosity, but one look at his face tells you now's not the time to ask.

Some mysteries are probably better left unsolved.

Chapter 5: 04 - forest rendezvous

Summary:

"They say the most dangerous predators are the ones that make you feel safe before they strike. But watching him calculate each shot with deadly precision, you realize there might be something even more dangerous - the ones who warn you exactly what they are, and still make you want to stay."

Notes:

☠ author's note ☠

A/N: Oh wow, apparently I even had author's notes saved in my drafts when I started writing this back in 2020? Past!me had *thoughts* and present!me is just here like (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻

So I'm basically taking those written thoughts and rechanneling them through my 2025 brain. And let me tell you, the cognitive dissonance is REAL. Like past!me was all "but it's a slow burn!" and current!me is just cackling in the corner because honey... you have no idea what's coming ｡･ﾟﾟ*(>д

I really debated on whether to include the piggyback scene or not. Had the whole thing pictured out a LONG time ago (we're talking pre-pandemic long, yes I am ancient, no I don't want to talk about it), but wasn't sure if I should add it here... you know, being a slow burn and all that jazz. But I think it works? They're both so against it that it's basically negative development at this point lmao.

Also, FORCED PROXIMITY MY BELOVEDS. If you think I'm not going to milk every single trope in existence, you clearly don't know me well enough yet. Just wait until we get to- *gets tackled by the spoiler police*

As always, thank you for reading! Your comments give me life and serotonin, which I desperately need because my caffeine addiction can only do so much. Stay tuned!

"Shit—"

The word slips out as you struggle to your feet, using Jeon's hand like some kind of reluctant lifeline.

That's when your ankle decides to remind you exactly how badly you messed up trying to ambush him earlier. The adrenaline's wearing off, leaving behind nothing but raw, throbbing pain that makes you want to scream. Or cry. Maybe both.

"I think I twisted my ankle."

Jeon drops your hand like it's burning him, his expression morphing into pure exasperation. 

"You must be kidding me." 

"Yeah, because I love pretending to be injured during paintball." The pain makes your words sharper than intended. "It's my favorite hobby, actually."

He presses his hand against his face and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. His expression shifts from annoyed to something more complex—like a storm trying to decide which direction to blow.

The silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable. You lean against the rock, trying to take weight off your ankle, but it just keeps t̶h̶r̶o̶b̶b̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶a̶ ̶b̶i̶t̶c̶h̶ hurting worse with each passing second.

Finally, Jeon clicks his tongue and strides over to you. Then he just... turns around. Stands there. Like you're supposed to know what that means.

When you don't move, he adds, "Hop on," in a voice that somehow manages to sound both annoyed and urgent at the same time. 

Like he's throwing commands to a dog.

You stare at his back, brain struggling to process what's happening. This is Jeon—Mr. Ice Prince himself—offering you a piggyback ride. The same guy who can barely stand being in the same room as you most days.

He glances over his shoulder, dark eyes meeting yours. "I said, hop on. We don't have all day."

"No way." Pride makes you lift your chin despite the pain. "I'm not getting a piggyback from you. I'll just... wait here."

His patience visibly snaps. He turns to face you fully. "You can't walk, and you'll be a liability." The words come out sharp and cold. "If someone from his team finds you, you're out. And now, you're on my team."

"What do you mean I'm on your team?"

"You ask too many questions." He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶'̶r̶e̶ ̶a̶n̶n̶o̶y̶i̶n̶g̶ done with your attitude. "Were you or were you not with my team when shit went down?"

"What does that have to do with—"

"It's an improvisation game. It's V's thing, stealth. Remember?" His voice cuts through yours like a knife. "Whoever's with me when V strikes is on my team. Same goes for him. It's really not that complicated."

He takes a deep breath, face muscles shifting to something more controlled. When he looks at you again, he seems determined. 

"I'm not losing to V, especially not because of you. So either hop on," the gentleness in his voice has an edge that makes you tense, "or I'll pull rank and make it an order."

Your blood boils at that. The audacity of this man, threatening to pull rank just because you don't want to get a piggyback ride like some kid. But he's right, and that just pisses you off more. Your ankle's screaming, and you're basically a sitting duck out here.

Fuck. 

You hobble closer, swallowing your pride along with a string of curses. The warmth oozing off his body envelops you swiftly, making your heart do weird things in your chest.

Getting on his back is awkward and t̶h̶o̶r̶o̶u̶g̶h̶l̶y̶ ̶h̶u̶m̶i̶l̶i̶a̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ uncomfortable, but he lifts you like you weigh nothing. His body is all lean muscle under your hands, which is just... t̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶t̶s̶ ̶b̶e̶g̶o̶n̶e̶ not something you need to think about right now. You kind of want to knee him in the ribs, just because you can.

You don't, though. Your ankle's already betrayed you once tonight—no need to make things worse.

He starts moving with careful, measured steps. Neither of you speaks. If he's as annoyed as you are about this whole situation, he doesn't show it anymore. His focus is entirely on the game now, eyes scanning the darkness, body tense and ready. Like a storm gathering strength.

And that just pisses you off more. Here you are, swallowing your pride with every step he takes, while he acts like carrying you is just another mission parameter to execute. The quiet forest floor suddenly seems way more appealing than being trapped in his personal weather system.

His breathing is steady, a rhythm that somehow makes the tension worse. Because yeah, he's helping you, but it feels like being rescued by a particularly moody thundercloud. The fact that you need him right now doesn't make you like him any better—it just makes everything more complicated.

Your eyes are dragged to the edges of his tattoos where they disappear under his shirt. Each one probably has a story, but good luck getting those out of Mr. Storm-and-Silence here. 

Still, you're curious. 

Are they about pain? Strength? Or maybe he just likes sitting through hours of needles because he's t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶k̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶m̶a̶s̶o̶c̶h̶i̶s̶t̶ that dedicated to his aesthetic.

The silence starts to feel heavy, pressing down like gathering clouds. All you can see is his back, and the closeness makes your skin buzz like it's charged with static.

"So where exactly are we going?" You break the silence because honestly, anything's better than drowning in his suffocating presence.

"Paintball weapon cache."

"Wait, what?" You can't keep the disbelief out of your voice. "I thought we were getting my ankle checked out—"

"This is a simulation." He cuts off. "V's games are unpredictable, but they mirror real scenarios. We adapt. We deal."

There's something under that icy tone—a competitiveness that makes you think this is more than just training to him. Your fingers twitch against his shoulders, and you try not to think about the muscle shifting under your hands.

"You do this often?" You find yourself asking, curiosity winning over irritation.

"Unfortunately." The word carries a gust of dry humor. "V likes his... creative training methods. Paintball, surprise drills, mock raids. He's impulsive, but effective."

"Sounds... fun?" The word tastes weird in your mouth.

"If you enjoy being perpetually ambushed." His dry tone makes your lips twitch despite yourself.

You fall quiet, thinking about these two forces of nature—Jeon's storms and V's thorny garden. Different kinds of dangerous, but both leaving destruction in their wake (duh, they're assassins?). One's all calculated precision, the other pure chaos—yet somehow they both keep the gang's deadliest division running. 

"So what's the plan now?" You try to keep your voice neutral. If you're stuck being his human backpack, might as well try to be useful.

"We arm ourselves." His voice gains a strategizing color. "It's not about having the most firepower. Real situations never go according to plan."

Something about his tone piques your curiosity even further. "Has he always been like this? V? With the whole paintball ambush thing?"

Jeon lets out a sound that's caught between amusement and irritation. "Yeah. You never know what to expect with that psycho. There was this one time when he—"

He cuts himself off abruptly. You can feel how his muscles tense against your legs, probably kicking himself for almost sharing something personal.

"When he what?" You can't help pushing. The rare glimpse behind his walls is too tempting to ignore.

"Never mind." His voice goes flat, that familiar coldness sliding back into place.

The silence stretches again, pregnant with all the things he won't say. It's strange, catching these tiny cracks in his perfect ice-prince facade. Makes you wonder what other stories he's keeping locked away.

As you move deeper into the forest, his competitive side starts showing through. He explains the rules like he's briefing for a real mission, all strategy and tactics.

"...And the objective?" You ask, trying to piece it all together.

"Last team standing wins." His voice rumbles through his back against your chest. "Or take out the opposing leader—me or V."

"Makes sense." You nod, hyper-aware of how his voice ricochets through you. "But why so intense? It's just paintball, right?"

The question slips out before you can stop it. But really—all this drama over some colored paint?

"It's never just a game." The edge in his voice could cut glass. "In our world, everything's a test. A challenge. We're constantly proving ourselves. You should know that by now."

His words sink in slowly. You do know—every day in this place feels like walking a tightrope, being watched, measured, judged. Even something as simple as paintball becomes another arena to prove your worth.

"This is exhausting," you mutter, and you actually mean it. The weight of constant training, constant proving yourself—it gets old fast.

"It is." Something in Jeon's voice makes you wish you could see his face. There's a pause, then: "But it's necessary. Keeps us sharp. Survival of the fittest and all that shit."

The bitterness in those last words catches you off guard. It's weird hearing him talk like this—like maybe he's not totally sold on the whole 'constant competition' thing either. The thought of Jeon having doubts about anything feels like finding a dent in what you thought was solid concrete.

He continues moving through the forest like he was born here, feet finding paths you can barely see in the dark. The trees loom overhead, their leaves whispering secrets you can't quite catch. Soon, you are opening your mouth again before your brain can stop you.

"How'd you end up here?"

His stride breaks—just for a second, but you feel it. The air grows heavy again, pressing down on your shoulders. 

"Circumstances. Choices." The words come out clipped, that familiar wall slamming back into place. "Same as anyone else."

You can practically taste the story he's not telling. Something dark and messy that turned him into this walking hurricane of a person. But pushing would be stupid, and contrary to popular belief, you're not that dumb.

"Right." You let it drop, focusing instead on how the moonlight catches on his silver chain when he moves.

Jeon picks up speed, and the trees seem to close in around you both. It seems to be a sign you are approaching your destination.

"So once we get the guns, what's the plan?" You try to break the weird tension that's settled between you.

"Find high ground," he says, voice low and focused. "Somewhere we can see everything but stay hidden. Sniping's all about patience and precision."

"And you think there's actually a spot like that around here?" You can't keep the skepticism from your voice. You've done your fair share of surveillance—good vantage points are rare as hell in this forest.

He just grunts, confident as ever. "I know this place like the back of my hand." He actually lifts one hand to prove his point, the moonlight catching on his rings. 

It shouldn't be as hot as it is. 

Silence falls again and the trees grow closer together, moonlight filtering through in weird patterns that make everything look kind of surreal. The darkness feels heavy, like it's trying to remind you both that you're not exactly on a fun camping trip here.

You watch him scan the forest ahead, all focus and precision. It hits you that this is his element—the quiet, the calculation, the waiting game.

"You really think this'll work against V's team?" The doubt slips into your voice before you can stop it.

"It's not about what works against them." He sounds almost philosophical, which is... different. "It's about playing to our strengths."

He pauses to lick his lip ring—a habit you're starting to notice—before adding: "Plus, I'm Chief of Tactical Assassinations for a reason. Best sniper in Kkangpae. Best in South Korea."

"Best in the whole country? For real?" You hate how interested you sound.

"Probably." His shoulders lift in a small shrug that makes you bounce slightly.

"Right." You roll your eyes. "Got any proof of that?"

"I do." The response comes quick, matter-of-fact. "They're all dead though."

A snort escapes before you can stop it. 

Shit. 

Okay. That may have been actually funny. But you're definitely not laughing at his jokes. He might have a sense of humor hiding under all that ice, but he's still an ass.

Jeon slows down as you reach what looks like the world's most underwhelming hideout—just a tiny hut tucked between the trees. His muscles go tense against your legs, like he's preparing for trouble. The way he lowers you to the ground is weirdly gentle for someone who usually acts like basic human contact might give him hives.

Your ankle screams in protest when you put weight on it, making you wobble slightly. Something flickers across Jeon's face—t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶c̶e̶r̶n̶ probably just annoyance at having to babysit you.

"You good?" 

The question catches you off guard. Since when does the ice prince care if you're okay?

You manage a nod, not trusting yourself to speak without letting out some embarrassing noise of pain. He turns toward the hut but pauses, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

"Tell me if you see movement." His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Any movement."

Then he's gone, slipping into the darkness of the hut. You hear him moving around inside, probably doing some super-professional sniper inventory check or whatever the hell he does.

When he emerges, he's carrying two paintball rifles like they weigh nothing. You try really hard not to notice how the moonlight catches on his arm muscles as he moves, or how smoothly he closes the door with just a flick of his wrist.

He hands you one of the rifles, dark eyes scanning the forest with the kind of focus that reminds you why he's chief of his division. Then he just... crouches down again, waiting for you to climb back on.

The sight of him effortlessly holding a rifle while offering you a piggyback makes something in your chest twist. How dare he make this look so easy? How dare he be this capable and t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ this insufferable at the same time?

You sigh, swallowing your pride along with several choice words about the universe's sick sense of humor, and climb back onto his back. His body is warm against yours and you hate that you notice. You hate even more that he's not even breaking a sweat carrying both you and the gear.

Stupid attractive jerk with his stupid perfect aim and his stupid strength. The least he could do is be ugly, but no—he had to look like that while being the most irritating person you've ever met.

Jeon stands like your weight is nothing—because of course he does. He adjusts the rifle with practiced ease, and you try really hard not to notice how effortlessly he handles both you and a weapon. It's t̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶b̶r̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶c̶t̶i̶v̶a̶t̶e̶d̶ annoying how good he is at literally everything.

His movements fall into a steady rhythm as he walks, and you find yourself swaying slightly with each step. It's weird being this close to someone you can barely stand. The guy who's usually a walking natural disaster is suddenly all careful precision, like the calm before a storm.

The hill stretches up ahead, moonlight painting everything in silver and shadow. Somewhere in the distance, paintball guns are still going off. Sounds like V's twisted little game is still in full swing for everyone else who isn't stuck playing piggyback with their nemesis.

You watch the forest ahead, trying to focus on anything except how warm Jeon is against the cool night air. He moves through the undergrowth like he was born for this. The higher you climb, the slower he moves, until finally he stops altogether.

Without a word—because god forbid he actually communicate like a normal person—he crouches slightly. Your cue to get off this incredibly awkward ride.

"Here." His voice is barely above a whisper as he helps you down with surprising care. 

You scan the area, taking in the elevated position and clear view of the forest below. It's perfect for sniping, which makes sense given who picked it. But something about being this exposed makes your skin crawl.

"This is way too exposed." Your instincts are screaming at you to find better cover. The entire forest floor is visible from up here, which means you're visible too. "We need something more concealed."

Jeon turns his head just enough to catch your eye in the moonlight. "Trust me."

Two simple words, but they hit different.

Trust isn't something that comes easy in this life. Especially not between you and Mr. Hurricane himself. 

Yet here he is, asking for it like it's that simple.

You weigh your options, torn between your screaming survival instincts and his calm certainty. Finally, you give him a reluctant nod. What choice do you really have?

You can't help watching as Jeon sets up his position. The way he moves is t̶o̶o̶ ̶g̶r̶a̶c̶e̶f̶u̶l̶ irritatingly efficient, precise and purposeful. His eyes scan the terrain with a focus that makes your mouth inexplicably dry. 

Because it's weird seeing him like this. The usual cold, intimidating chief is gone, replaced by someone who moves with quiet, deadly grace. Every shift of his body as he positions the rifle speaks of years of practice, of countless nights spent perfecting each tiny movement.

The hurricane that usually swirls around him has settled into something different—a gentle breeze that makes your skin tingle. It's... weird. 

Almost peaceful.

You can't help studying him while he's focused like this. The way his dark eyes track every movement below, how his brow furrows just slightly when he's thinking. His silver piercings catch the moonlight when he shifts, and you find yourself leaning closer. 

Just to see better, obviously. For tactical reasons.

Movement near the cache catches your attention. Jeon goes completely still beside you, the kind of stillness that reminds you he's literally the best sniper in South Korea. You lean in further, trying to see what he's seeing, and suddenly realize how close you are. Your shoulder brushes his, but neither of you moves away. You're both too focused on the target below, who's digging through supplies like they've got all the time in the world.

"Wait for it..." His voice is barely a whisper, warm breath ghosting past your ear. His finger hovers over the trigger with the patience of someone who knows exactly what they're doing.

The poor soul at the cache has no idea what's coming. The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

Then—bang.

The shot is perfect because of course it is. A splash of neon paint blooms on the target's back like some abstract art piece. They jump about a foot in the air, spinning around wildly.

"Dammit, Jeon!" The shout echoes through the trees. There's only one person who could make a shot that clean from such distance.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. Even Jeon's mouth twitches at the corner—the closest thing to a smile you've ever seen from him. For a split second, a gentle breeze wraps around you both like a shared secret.

You nearly jump out of your skin when Jeon's eyes suddenly meet yours. For a heartbeat, maybe two, neither of you moves.

It's... t̶o̶o̶ ̶m̶u̶c̶h̶ weird. The way his dark eyes seem to see right through you, how his hurricane wraps around you like you're in the eye of the storm. Too close. You're close enough to count his stupidly long eyelashes, to see the tiny scar on his cheek catch moonlight.

Then reality crashes back in. Jeon shifts away so fast you'd think you burned him, putting blessed distance between you. The barriers slam back into place—he's your superior, you're just some annoying ensign he got stuck babysitting during paintball. That's all this is.

You lean back too, trying to ignore the way your heart's still doing gymnastics in your chest. It's unsettling, this weird moment of... something. Not respect, definitely not that, but maybe a reluctant acknowledgment that there's more to him than just being an ice-cold asshole. The way he handled that shot, the focus in his eyes, the subtle pride in his posture—it's t̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶t̶e̶s̶t̶ annoyingly impressive.

Jeon's already back in sniper mode, all business again like nothing happened. But the air feels different now. Like the air has picked up speed, swirling with renewed intensity as if trying to blow away whatever just passed between you.

You watch him work, wondering when exactly you started noticing things like how his jaw clenches when he's concentrating, or how his fingers move with such precise grace on the trigger.

You tell yourself the shiver down your spine is just from the cold night air.

"I should leave." The words come out low, almost like he's talking to himself. He stands up, towering over you, a dark silhouette against the forest green. "Won't take long for them to tell V where I am."

"What, you scared?" The question slips out before you can stop it. 

Since when does the great Jeon run from a fight? Especially with V?

"No." It's instant, defensive. His tone is laced with something like irritation. "With V, you play his game. I just landed a shot. He'll know exactly where I am the second he gets here." A pause. "That's why you're staying."

"I see." You answer automatically. Then your brain catches up.

Wait.

"Hold up—I'm what now?" The words come out sharp. "So I'm just bait?"

"Yeah?" He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like he can't fathom why you're even asking. "You'll draw him out."

"Didn't you literally just give me that whole speech about 'making do' and 'real situations'?" Your voice rises with each word. "And now you're using your teammate as bait? Real nice. Guess I was right—you are a hypocrite."

"Sometimes sacrifices are necessary." His voice is cool, professional. "Plus, between us..."

He looks at you then, really looks, and something in your chest goes tight. Those dark eyes of his catch moonlight like black ice, beautiful and deadly. His stupidly long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and when he blinks, it feels deliberate. Like he's giving you time to process what comes next.

"You're the expendable one. Here, and in real life."

"Fuck off." The words come out sharp and mean, exactly how you want them.

His eyebrow arches, silver beads catching moonlight like a warning. "Watch your tone."

You can feel the hurricane bearing down on you again. It sneaks through the cracks in your attire, scratching at the outer layer of your skin. It is oppressive, suffocating. Engulfs your whole being almost instantly, almost as if to blow you off balance.

"So you're really doing this?" Your voice cracks a little, caught between rage and something that feels too much like hurt. "Just leaving me here as bait?"

He doesn't even blink. Those dark eyes of his are cold and distant now, like you're just another variable in one of his calculations.

"It's strategic, not personal."

"Strategic." You let out a laugh that's more like a snarl. The thought of being nothing but a disposable piece in his game makes your blood boil. Being used by anyone would piss you off, but being used by Jeon? That's a special kind of infuriating.

He takes a step back from you now, creating physical distance as if he was uncomfortable. Maybe, somewhere under all that ice, he actually feels bad about this. But t̶h̶a̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶w̶i̶s̶h̶f̶u̶l̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ you're probably just seeing what you want to see.

"Stay low and keep quiet." His voice goes all authoritative again, his standoffish nature coming right back. "If V knows it's a trap, we lose our advantage."

You cross your arms, watching Jeon's figure fade into the shadows. Every cell in your body screams to call him out, to demand better than being left as bait, but...

What leverage do you have? The answer hits like a slap: absolutely none.

He moves like a ghost between the trees, that hurricane of his dissipating until you're left alone with nothing but forest sounds for company. His words echo in your head, each syllable of "expendable" burning like acid.

You try to shift position, searching for some way to sit that doesn't make your ankle scream or your pride hurt worse. Hard to do when you're officially demoted to bait in this stupid paintball game. 

Stupid Jeon. How can he turn even mock battles into some grand strategic play? 

Your jaw clenches. At least real bait doesn't have to deal with the indignity of knowing it's bait.

The forest is too quiet now, like it's holding its breath. You try to focus, to be the good little decoy he wants, but between your throbbing ankle and the rage simmering under your skin, concentration's a lost cause. Your thoughts spin like leaves in a storm, each one circling back to how much you want to punch that perfect face of his.

Then—something changes.

It's subtle. Just the slightest shift in the air, barely enough to stir the leaves. But every instinct you have lights up like a warning flare. You freeze, hardly daring to breathe as you strain to locate whatever's setting off your internal alarms.

That's when you feel it—thorny vines wrapping around your lungs, making each breath sharp and dangerous. V materializes from the darkness like he was born from it, moving with the kind of liquid grace that reminds you why he's chief of stealth. Before you can blink, cold metal presses against your neck—his paintball gun, a very pointed reminder of how screwed you are.

The speed of it leaves you breathless. Or maybe that's his thorny rose aura, squeezing tighter with each passing second. His mastery of stealth isn't just reputation—it's terrifying reality.

"Shh, shh, shh." His breath ghosts over your ear, playful and deadly all at once.

You hadn't planned on screaming, but the way his aura constricts around you makes you reconsider.

"Where's Jeon?" V's voice is barely above a whisper, but something in it makes your blood run cold.

You hesitate. Part of you wants to sell Jeon out—serves him right for using you as bait. But something in V's tone makes you think carefully about your next words. This might be a game to everyone else, but V... V plays different.

"He left me," you manage, voice tight. "Twisted my ankle."

The laugh that follows sounds wrong, like broken glass wrapped in velvet. His thorny vines squeeze tighter.

"Typical Jeon." The way he says it drips poison. "Once a traitor, always a traitor." There's history there, old wounds still bleeding. "Abandoning a teammate? That's cold, even for him."

The paintball gun stays pressed against your neck. Except... is it really loaded with paint? Your stomach drops as you realize you have no way of knowing. Not with V. Not when he's got that edge to his voice that makes you think maybe this stopped being a game the moment he spotted you.

Every instinct screams at you to run, but you're trapped between fight or flight, knowing either choice could end badly.

"He's not here then?" V sounds almost disappointed, like a kid whose favorite toy got taken away. "Pity. I was hoping for a proper reunion."

The gun against your neck suddenly feels a lot more real. You're not the target—you're just the bait. Again. Except this time, it's not just your pride at stake.

"Should've expected as much..." His laugh raises goosebumps on your skin. "No loyalty in that one, hmm? Makes you wonder what he'd do in a real bind. Leave you to rot, probably."

You stay quiet, letting V's poison drip. Each word feels calculated, like he's trying to infect you with his hatred for Jeon. His vines constrict tighter around your lungs with every syllable, and you can't help wondering what made these two hate each other so viciously.

"That's Jeon for you." The words drip with disgust, but V's smirking like this is all some twisted game. "Self-serving. Cold. Doesn't care who he steps on to get what he wants."

The way he's focused on his little villain monologue gives you an opening. Adrenaline floods your system as you make your move—one hard stomp on his foot. His yelp of surprise is almost satisfying.

You shove the paintball gun away from your neck, twisting out of his grip. For one glorious second, you think you might actually get away.

Then reality hits. Literally.

V moves like water, flowing around your escape attempt like he knew exactly what you'd do. Before you can blink, you're eating dirt, his weight pinning you down. The gun barrel presses cold against your forehead, and you realize just how badly you miscalculated.

"Not bad, dear." His grin makes your skin crawl. "But not good enough."

You're pinned, his weight heavy and his presence suffocating. His thorns dig deeper with each breath, and you can almost feel them cutting through your skin. 

You're trapped, completely at his mercy, but damned if you'll let him see you scared.

He leans in close. "Let me give you a piece of advice." His whisper raises goosebumps on your neck. "Watch your back around Jeon. He's more dangerous than you think."

The warning in his voice sounds too personal, too raw to be just another mind game. Like maybe he's speaking from experience.

"Oh, I'm counting on it." The words come out steadier than you feel with V's weight pinning you down. You manage to keep your voice even despite the lack of oxygen making it to your brain.

Something flickers across his face—confusion, maybe suspicion. Those stealth instincts of his finally catching up, but too late.

SPLAT.

Paint explodes across V's back in a neon burst. His whole body goes rigid against yours, muscles freezing mid-squeeze. The look of pure disbelief on his face almost makes this whole night worth it.

When he turns to look over his shoulder, you already know what he'll see. Jeon emerges from the shadows like he was born from them, rifle balanced casually in those tattooed hands. Even playing paintball in the middle of the night, he somehow manages to look t̶o̶o̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶ irritatingly put-together.

He runs his fingers through dark hair, pushing it back from his face in a way that's probably supposed to look casual but comes off more like a shampoo commercial. The silver in his piercings catches moonlight, and honestly? It's just rude how he makes everything look so effortless. Like being unfairly attractive is just another one of his many talents.

V's weight disappears as he stands, and suddenly his whole demeanor shifts. The deadly predator from moments ago vanishes, replaced by that familiar chaos-loving trickster. His laugh rings through the trees as he claps, adorned with delight instead of danger.

"Bravo, Jeon!" V calls out theatrically into the forest shadows where Jeon now stands revealed. "Always hiding in the shadows like the snake you are."

Jeon's face is blank, but there's something razor-sharp in the way he moves

"Far better than always playing the fool to hide your incompetence, if you ask me." Jeon retorts sharply, ice crystallizing each syllable.

"Incompetence?" V's laugh has an ugly edge to it. "That's rich, coming from you. Can't even follow basic gang rules, but here you are, talking shit."

Something flickers across Jeon's face—too quick to catch, but his expression grows darker, more intense. Seems like V knows exactly where to stick the knife.

"A gang built on backstabbing might want to rethink its rules." Jeon's voice could freeze hell over. It's like the winds around him whip faster now.

"See, that's your problem." V tilts his head, a mischievous, lazy grin spreading all over his lips. "When I stab someone in the back, at least I don't cry about it after."

The smile he gives Jeon is pure venom—like he's referencing something that happened between them, something that left scars.

"Right." Jeon practically spits the word. "You only get emotional when you're the one getting fucked over."

They stare each other down, and you feel thorny vines trying to pierce through howling wind and rain. Finally, Jeon looks away first, shaking his head like he's trying to dislodge memories he'd rather forget.

Jeon's eyes find yours, and it's not concern you see there—more like he's doing some kind of damage assessment without having to actually ask if you're okay.

You don't give him the satisfaction of a response. He left you as bait, remember? Used you like some expendable pawn in his little game with V.

But something annoying nags at the back of your mind. 

Because he did come back. 

The moment breaks when Jeon looks away, that weird tension snapping like a rubber band. His typhoon-self settles back into its usual pattern as he stands there radiating smug victory. The paint splattered across V's back is proof enough of who won this round.

"That's it then. This round goes to me." He says it like he's commenting on the weather, not like he just outmaneuvered the most dangerous man in Kkangpae.

There's something almost boring about how he announces his win—no gloating, no pride, just checking another box on whatever mental list he keeps in that pretty head of his.

His eyes flick back to you. "Time to get you to the infirmary—"

"Let's not pretend you've suddenly gone soft, Jeon." V cuts him off, setting down his gun with this little head tilt that somehow manages to be both playful and threatening. 

"Oh, please." The disdain in Jeon's voice is too evident. "She just needs to get her ankle checked, and it's not like she can walk there."

V steps closer, moonlight painting him silver. There's something otherworldly about him now—like some fairy tale creature that lures people into trouble with a smile.

"I'll take her to medical myself." His voice drips honey-sweet mockery. "Sounds more fun than whatever boring escort you had planned."

You watch Jeon consider this, weighing something in his head. After what feels like forever, he just... shrugs. Like he couldn't care less what happens to you.

"Sure." His voice is pure ice. "She's your problem now."

Then he just... walks away. No backward glance, no hint that he gives a single shit about leaving you with someone who literally had a gun to your head five minutes ago. The winds that seem to surround him dissipate with each step he takes, leaving you feeling weirdly hollow.

V turns to you with that signature grin of his—the one that's equal parts charming and concerning. He offers his hand with exaggerated gallantry, like some twisted prince charming.

He then scoops you up, bridal style of course because that's V for you, and you can't help but notice he's stronger than he looks. The transition from ground to air is smooth despite your resistance, but what choice do you have? Crawl to the castle?

Your eyes find Jeon one last time as V starts walking. Something in your chest twists when you realize he's not even looking back. You hate that you wanted him to fight this, to show something about handing you over to V. Your twisted ankle is his fault, after all.

But his face might as well be carved from stone. If he feels anything about this situation, he's buried it so deep even his hurricane can't dig it up.

Chapter 6: medical emergencies

Summary:

"There's something ironic about learning to stitch wounds while he's sitting there half-naked, making your heart do things that probably need medical attention. But hey, at least if you stab yourself with the needle, there's a doctor in the house."

Notes:

A/N: DISCLAIMER TIME! I am not, in fact, a medical student. Shocking, I know. My knowledge of medical procedures comes entirely from watching too much House M.D. and falling down WebMD rabbit holes at 3 AM. So if any actual medical professionals are reading this... I am begging you to suspend your disbelief (；一_一)

I did spend like two hours researching stuff though! That counts for something, right? RIGHT? The things I do for accuracy, I swear. My browser history probably has me on several watch lists by now. Between this and the weapons research for chapter 3... Yeah, I'm definitely getting flagged somewhere (◎_◎;)

BUT ONTO THE GOOD STUFF! Ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between, please welcome our resident grumpy doctor to the stage! My love, my light, the medical chief himself - Jung Hoseok! What are we thinking? Because I'm lowkey living for his whole "I hate everyone but I'll still patch you up while cursing your existence" vibe.

Fun fact: I totally channeled my inner Dr. McCoy from Star Trek for his character. If you know, you know. And if you don't know... well, Spirk are my space parents and Bones is their bratty child. This is the hill I will die on. Do not @ me.

We've still got so many characters to properly introduce though! Remember that info dump in chapter 2? Yeah, we're gonna actually explore all of those personalities. Your girl's got PLANS.

Also, this chapter turned out way longer than expected but like... more content for you guys? You're welcome? I think? Look, my ADHD brain knows no word limits. It's either 500 words or 5000, there is no in between.

Anyways, hope you enjoy this one! Your comments fuel my questionable life choices and enable my caffeine addiction. Much love! (｡♥‿♥｡)

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You can't help but roll your eyes as V carries you through the castle like some damsel in distress. His confidence borders on cocky as he navigates the maze-like hallways, cradling you against his chest like you're made of glass. Which you're definitely not.

"Any chance we can skip this knight-in-shining-armor bit and just let me limp my way there?" You grumble, acutely aware of how your ankle throbs with each of his steps. "I promise I won't sue if I faceplant."

V's laugh rumbles through his chest. "And rob myself of playing the dashing hero? I don't think so, love."

His grin is infuriatingly charming as he spirals down another identical-looking hallway. The air smells like industrial cleaner and... cinnamon? You wrinkle your nose, trying to place that oddly familiar scent.

"You do know where you're going, right? Or should I start worrying that we're hopelessly lost?" Your tone is dry enough to kindle a fire as V makes yet another right turn. At this rate, you'll end up back where you started.

"I could navigate this place blindfolded," V assures you with a theatrical wink. "Just thought we'd enjoy the scenic route together."

"Scenic... sure." You emphasize each word with as much sarcasm as you can muster. But dammit, there's something about his playful banter that tugs at the corners of your mouth. You bite the inside of your cheek, determined not to give him the satisfaction of making you smile.

You shift slightly in V's arms, trying to find a position that doesn't make your ankle scream. Each movement is a lovely reminder of how you got into this mess in the first place. t̶h̶a̶n̶k̶s̶ ̶J̶e̶o̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶a̶s̶s̶h̶o̶l̶e̶

The castle halls are alive with activity, but everything seems to pause as V carries you through. Other members stop and stare, probably wondering why one of the most dangerous men in Kkangpae is playing nurse. Their whispers follow you like shadows.

"If you're trying to show off your navigation skills, I should mention we've passed that painting three times now." You eye him skeptically.

"Bold of you to assume I'm trying to impress you." His grin never wavers. "Though I'm flattered you think I'd go to such lengths."

The silence that follows feels loaded. This little detour isn't just about getting you to medical—it's about something else. A game, maybe, or a message. With V, it's hard to tell where the performance ends and reality begins.

"So what's the real reason for the scenic route?" You can't help asking. It's weird how safe you feel in his arms, considering he could probably kill you fifteen different ways without breaking a sweat.

"Call it... building rapport." His voice drips honey-sweet mischief. "You're quite the talk of the castle these days. Thought I'd see what all the fuss is about."

A laugh bubbles up before you can stop it. There's something absurdly hilarious about being carried through the gang's headquarters by one of its most lethal members.

"Well, don't get too attached." The words come out lighter than intended. "This doesn't make us friends."

His chuckle vibrates through his chest. "Give it time." When his eyes meet yours, they're dancing with amusement. "Besides, isn't this more fun than limping alone?"

More members pass by, their stares lingering a bit too long. You know tomorrow the castle will be buzzing with gossip about this little parade, but somehow you can't bring yourself to care.

"Fun's one word for it." You crack a smile despite yourself. "But just so we're clear—I'm staying out of whatever's going on between you and Jeon."

Something dark flickers across his face at the mention of Jeon, his thorny aura constricting for just a second before relaxing again.

"Wouldn't expect anything else." There's actual respect in his voice now. "You've got a mind of your own. That's rare around here."

The infirmary door finally comes into view. This weird little moment of almost-friendship hangs in the air between you.

"End of the line." V announces with theatrical flair. "I must say, this has been delightfully entertaining."

The wooden barrier of the infirmary looms ahead, but V shows no signs of letting you down. Before you can voice your protest, he shifts you slightly to pull out his digital card, swiping it with practiced ease. The panel blinks green, and he sweeps through the door like he's making a grand entrance at a red carpet event.

You're starting to feel less like a patient and more like a prop in V's latest dramatic production.

"Not you again, V. Get out of here."

J-Hope doesn't even bother looking up from his paperwork, his voice dripping with the kind of exasperation that only comes from dealing with V's antics on a regular basis.

"But it's an emergency, Hobs!" V's pout is so exaggerated it should come with its own spotlight. "This young lady has been severely injured."

J-Hope finally turns around, giving you a quick once-over before fixing V with an unimpressed stare. "That's what you say every three business days."

"Ah, but this time it's different, I promise." V's grin could charm snakes, but J-Hope seems immune.

"And why exactly should I believe you?" He crosses his arms. "You know I only handle council cases and actual emergencies."

V sets you down on the nearest bed with surprising gentleness, his playful demeanor dimming just slightly. "I know, I know. But look at her ankle. It's swollen like a balloon. I couldn't just leave her hobbling around, could I?"

J-Hope sighs but steps closer to examine your injury. His touch is clinical and professional as he assesses the damage. "Fine. But this is the last time, V. You can't keep using the infirmary as your personal clinic for every damsel you distress."

"Damsel I distress?" V laughs, eyes dancing with mischief. "That's a new one. But I appreciate your assistance, Hobs. You're a true friend."

"Don't 'true friend' me." J-Hope rolls his eyes, gathering his medical supplies. "I'm only doing this because it's my job. And because she actually looks like she needs help, unlike your usual guests."

V lounges against a counter like he owns the place, watching J-Hope gather supplies. "Come on, give me some credit. I do bring real patients sometimes."

"Yeah, once every solar eclipse." J-Hope doesn't even look up from his medical kit. His earthy, sandalwood scent mixes with the sharp hospital smell of the infirmary.

V just shrugs, that playful grin still plastered on his face.

J-Hope finally turns to you, all business now. "Let's check that ankle." Then to V: "Get out."

"Think I'll stick around." V doesn't budge an inch. "Make sure she's in capable hands and all that."

"Right, because you're such an expert on medical care." J-Hope rolls his eyes. "Just admit you're bored and looking for entertainment."

V's laugh bounces off the sterile walls. "Maybe. Or maybe I just care deeply about my fellow gang members' wellbeing."

"Ignore him," J-Hope tells you, voice gentler than you expected from someone who looks perpetually done with everyone's shit. "This might hurt a bit."

You try to focus on J-Hope's treatment, but it's hard with V hovering nearby, his thorny aura filling the room. There's something almost fascinating about watching these two interact—like they can't stand each other but also can't help falling into this familiar pattern of bickering.

It hits you then, sitting on this hospital bed with one of the gang's most dangerous members playing guard dog while the chief medical officer patches you up—you've somehow stumbled right into the middle of Kkangpae's complicated web of relationships. And judging by the way V's still watching everything like a hawk, you're not getting untangled anytime soon.

The quiet of the infirmary shatters when the door slams open with enough force to make you jump. J-Hope doesn't even flinch—probably used to dramatic entrances by now.

Chaewon bursts in looking like she just ran a marathon, panic written all over her face. When she spots you on the bed with J-Hope working on your ankle and V lounging nearby, that panic turns to pure rage.

She doesn't say a word. Just marches straight up to V and slaps him so hard the sound echoes off the sterile walls. V, being V, doesn't even have the decency to look hurt. Just keeps grinning like this is all terribly amusing.

"Wow, you're feisty today, Chaechae." He rubs his cheek, still smiling. The nickname only seems to piss her off more.

"You absolute asshole." Chaewon's practically vibrating with anger. "I let you handle cross-training with my division for one day and someone gets hurt? What the hell, V?"

V throws his hands up, the picture of innocence. "Hey now, this one's not on me. Blame Jeon."

"Jeon?" She scoffs like the very idea is ridiculous. "Yeah, right."

You figure you should probably step in before Chaewon decides to slap V again. Not that he doesn't deserve it, but your division chief shouldn't have to deal with assault charges today.

"Actually..." You clear your throat. "It kind of was Jeon. I mean, technically it was my fault."

Everyone turns to stare at you. Even J-Hope pauses his ankle-wrapping to raise an eyebrow.

"I tried to ambush him," you explain, heat creeping up your neck. "There were these weird noises in the forest, then footsteps, and I thought maybe it was an enemy or something. Turned out to be Jeon. And then we found out it was all just V's paintball game."

Chaewon's anger dims a little as she looks at you, but when she turns back to V, there's still plenty of bite in her voice. "Paintball? Again? Are you actually five years old?"

"Guilty." V's grin gets wider, if that's even possible. "But you have to admit, it keeps things interesting around here."

"Can we focus on the actual patient?" J-Hope cuts through the tension, sounding like he's one dramatic moment away from throwing everyone out. "You can kill each other later, preferably not in my infirmary."

Chaewon's shoulders drop a little, but you can still see worry lines creasing her forehead as she moves closer to your bed. Her presence feels protective, almost maternal—which is weird considering she can't be that much older than you.

"You okay?" She asks softly, then shoots V a glare that could melt steel. "I should've known better than to let them handle cross-training. Especially those two."

V just keeps grinning like this is the most entertaining show he's watched all week. He steps back, giving Chaewon space, but you notice he doesn't actually leave. Probably hoping for more drama.

"It's fine," you try to sound reassuring. "Just a sprain. Could've happened to anyone."

Chaewon's face says she's not buying it. The look she gives you reminds you of when your mom knew you were lying about doing your homework. Meanwhile, V's just chilling against the wall, watching everything unfold like it's his personal Netflix series.

J-Hope works on your ankle in silence, occasionally muttering what sounds like curses under his breath. The infirmary fills with an awkward mix of Chaewon's worried sighs, J-Hope's grumpy instructions, and V's unhelpful commentary about proper ankle-wrapping technique that makes J-Hope's eye twitch.

"There." J-Hope finally sits back, your ankle wrapped tight in elastic bandage. "Nothing serious, but you need to rest. Keep it elevated above your heart, keep the compression on. Should be fine in a couple weeks."

Your stomach drops. "I'm sorry—did you say weeks?"

"If you're lucky." He stands up with a scoff that suggests he's seen way too many idiots ignore his advice. "Could be longer if you try to play hero."

You look at Chaewon, hoping she'll say something about how that timeline is ridiculous.

Two weeks of no training?

You'll be behind everyone else, t̶o̶t̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ ̶u̶s̶e̶l̶e̶s̶s̶ completely out of practice by the time you're healed.

"I can't just not train for two weeks." The words come out whiny, but you're desperate. Two weeks of doing nothing while everyone else gets stronger? No way.

"Hell fucking no." J-Hope's voice is definite as he digs through medical drawers. "I'm not dealing with Jeon 2.0. You either rest for two weeks or I'll make it two months."

"That's why he avoids this place like the plague." V's still lounging in the doorway like he owns it, looking way too amused by everything.

J-Hope slams a drawer shut. "God forbid that fucker lets me do my actual job." He finally finds what he's looking for—a small bottle of pills. "Here." He tosses them at you with surprising accuracy. "Ibuprofen. One every eight hours. Six if you're dying, which you won't be if you actually rest."

"But—"

"Two. Weeks." Each word comes out like a threat. "Unless you want to become my permanent resident." His scowl could curdle milk. "And you—" He rounds on V, who's still grinning like this is the best entertainment he's had all day. "Get that bastard in here. His check-up's three months late."

V actually laughs at that. "What makes you think I have any control over what Mr. Stick-up-his-ass does?"

"Maybe he'll show up just to spite you." J-Hope's voice is dry as dust.

"Your optimism is adorable."

"Well, hope is literally my name." A rare smirk crosses J-Hope's face before his signature frown returns. "And you owe me, you dramatic little shit."

"As you wish, oh great healer." V throws his hands up in mock surrender, laying the theatrics on thick. "Your humble servant shall attempt this impossible task."

You stare at the bottle of ibuprofen in your hands, turning it over and over like maybe if you fidget with it enough, the label will change from "two weeks rest" to something more bearable. The thought of being benched for that long makes your stomach twist.

Two weeks is forever in gang time. Everyone else will be getting stronger, better, more valuable, while you're stuck playing invalid. By the time you're back on your feet, you'll be so far behind it'll be like starting over.

"Hey." The bed dips as Chaewon sits beside you, her presence grounding and familiar. "I can see those wheels turning. Don't stress. We'll figure something out."

"Actually," J-Hope pipes up from where he's finally managed to shoo V out the door. "You've got cross-training with my division coming up anyway. Could knock that out while you're healing. We always need an extra pair of hands here, and it'll keep you from going stir-crazy."

"Seriously?" You glance between them, hardly daring to hope. Medical training sounds way better than two weeks of staring at your ceiling.

"Makes sense." Chaewon nods, and something in her tone makes you think she's already working out the details in her head. "We can reschedule your Assassination Division training too. They can do individual sessions to work around your injury."

Wait.

Individual sessions? As in... one-on-one training? With V?

With Jeon?

Your brain short-circuits for a second before logic kicks back in. Cross-training exists for a reason—coordination between divisions is crucial in this life-or-death world you've chosen. One wrong move, one miscommunication, and people end up dead. If private lessons are what it takes to stay in the game, then t̶h̶a̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶t̶e̶r̶r̶i̶f̶y̶i̶n̶g̶ that's what you'll do.

"Okay." Your voice comes out smaller than intended, but you mean it.

"Good." J-Hope shoves his hands in his pockets, already looking done with this conversation. "See you tomorrow before lunch then."

"See you tomorrow, chief." You manage a smile, even as your mind races with possibilities—both exciting and terrifying—of what these next two weeks might bring.

Chaewon insists on wheeling you back to your room herself. The halls feel longer from wheelchair height, and her silence as she pushes you isn't helping. You can practically hear the gears turning in her head, probably already reworking training schedules around your stupid ankle.

She swipes her card at the elevator before you can even reach for yours. The ride up is quiet except for the soft hum of machinery and your own thoughts about how spectacularly you managed to mess up your first cross-training session.

The elevator dings open to your division's floor, and immediately you hear laughter spilling out from the lounge. Eunchae and Sakura are sprawled across the couch, but their smiles fade as soon as they spot you rolling in like some kind of injury parade.

"Holy shit, what happened?" Eunchae practically teleports to your side, crouching next to the wheelchair with wide eyes.

"Yeah, we heard all this commotion earlier but then you just... vanished." Sakura hovers nearby, her gaze bouncing between your wrapped ankle and your face like she's trying to piece together what went wrong.

You let out a long breath. "So... funny story. I tried to ambush Jeon during V's paintball game because I thought he was an enemy infiltrator or something."

"Oh no." Sakura's face does this thing where she's trying not to wince but totally failing.

"What the hell?" Eunchae's protective side flares up immediately. "Did that asshole body slam you or something?"

"Actually, no." You can't help but laugh at how ridiculous it all sounds now. "He just... countered me. Really easily. I'm the one who fucked up my landing."

"That's rough, buddy." Eunchae squeezes your shoulder, and you're grateful for how normal she's making this feel. "We played it smart—just hid behind trees and watched everyone else lose their minds."

"Yeah, except someone turned out to be weirdly good with a paintball gun." Eunchae nudges Sakura with her elbow. "Better watch out, Jeon. You've got competition."

Quick footsteps in the hallway make you look up. Yunjin bursts into the lounge like she's being chased, pink hair flying everywhere, face flushed.

"I heard voices and—oh my god, are you okay?" The words tumble out of her in a rush. "I couldn't find you after all that shooting started and I got so worried and—"

"Just a sprained ankle," you cut off her spiral with what you hope is a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, really."

Her shoulders drop a little, but she's still hovering like a concerned mother hen. "I got you dinner from the cafeteria. Figured you might be hungry after... everything."

The gesture makes something warm bloom in your chest. "Thanks, Yun. You're the best."

Chaewon clears her throat, reminding everyone she's still here. "Alright, enough chit-chat. Time to get you to bed. Doctor's orders."

Your little entourage follows as Chaewon wheels you to your room—Yunjin with the food tray balanced carefully in her hands, Eunchae and Sakura trailing behind like excited puppies. The scene would almost be funny if your ankle wasn't throbbing with every tiny bump in the floor.

Once you're settled in bed (after Yunjin fusses with your pillows for a solid minute), everyone finds spots to perch. The food smells amazing, and you realize you're actually starving.

"So what happened after I got taken out?" you ask between bites. "Did anyone else get ambushed by grumpy snipers?"

Sakura practically bounces in her seat. "Oh my god, you missed the best part! V did this insane action-movie roll thing when someone tried to corner him—"

"He looked like a deranged raccoon," Eunchae cuts in, making Yunjin snort water through her nose.

You lean back against your mountain of pillows (thanks, Yunjin), letting their chatter and laughter wash over you. Your ankle still hurts like a bitch, and the thought of dealing with Jeon and V for the next two weeks makes you want to scream a little. But right now, surrounded by these idiots who somehow became your family...

Maybe it won't be completely terrible.

t̶e̶r̶r̶i̶b̶l̶e̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶J̶e̶o̶n̶'̶s̶ ̶s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ ̶p̶e̶r̶f̶e̶c̶t̶ ̶f̶a̶c̶e̶

Morning hits different when your whole body feels like it's been run over by a truck. Between last night's paintball drama and your throbbing ankle, you sleep through your usual breakfast time. Not that there's much point in early rising when you're stuck playing invalid anyway.

By the time you make it to the cafeteria, the morning rush is long gone. Your beloved croissants are just a distant memory, replaced by sad-looking toast and a fried egg that's probably been sitting under the heat lamp for hours. You grab a cup of earl gray because there's no way in hell you're touching that brown water they call coffee at this hour.

At least Eunchae's still around. She's like Yunjin's louder, bolder evil twin—in the best way possible. While Yunjin's off somewhere being productive (thanks to that whole "new year, new me" thing), Eunchae's happy to keep you company, practically writing poetry about her breakfast sandwich. The girl takes her food seriously, and honestly? You respect that.

When breakfast's done, she insists on walking you to the infirmary. You've swapped the wheelchair for crutches because hobbling around on sticks somehow feels less pathetic than being rolled everywhere like some kind of injured parade float.

You slide your card at J-Hope's private wing, expecting rejection—his space is usually reserved for council members and people who are literally dying. But apparently he's added you to his VIP list because the scanner blinks green without hesitation.

J-Hope actually looks pleased when you walk in, which is weird enough to make you do a double-take. Then again, he probably doesn't get many patients who actually follow his instructions. Must be a nice change from dealing with gang leaders who think they're too important for basic medical care.

Eunchae gives you a warm wave and friendly nod before disappearing, leaving you alone with the medical chief. The quiet efficiency of his workspace and his focused presence makes everything feel weirdly... peaceful.

"Nice to see someone following orders for once," he mutters, not looking up from what appears to be a small mountain of paperwork.

"You didn't exactly make it optional." Your lips twitch into a crooked smile.

"Never do." He grunts, shuffling papers. "Some people are just too stubborn to live."

"Can't you pull rank on them? Being head of medicine and all?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

"Oh, I do. More than I'd like." His voice carries years of dealing with difficult patients. "In here, I'm god. They pull rank, I pull rank. Doesn't matter if you're the supreme leader of the universe—I'll uno reverse card your ass so fast your head will spin."

"Bet that goes over well with the big shots."

"Their faces are always priceless." He actually smirks, tapping a stack of papers into perfect alignment. "Now, ready to learn how to not kill people with medical supplies?"

"Born ready." You settle into a chair, trying not to look too eager. After all, how hard can it be?

The infirmary honestly feels very different from the rest of the castle—all sterile air and quiet efficiency. J-Hope moves around like he's performing some kind of medical ballet, laying out supplies with the kind of precision that makes you think he could probably do this in his sleep.

Which, you guess, he probably can.

"Alright, lesson one." He snaps on latex gloves. "Stitching wounds isn't like sewing clothes. You fuck up, get sloppy with cleanliness, and your patient gets an infection. In our line of work, that's not just inconvenient—it's deadly."

You pull on your own gloves, the latex clinging weird and tight to your fingers. J-Hope picks up a suture needle, holding it between you like he's showing off a prized possession.

"What about when we're in the middle of nowhere?" The question slips out before you can stop it. "You know, during missions when shit goes sideways?"

He sets the needle down, and something in his expression shifts. The overhead light catches the tired lines around his eyes—probably from years of patching up stubborn gang members at ungodly hours.

"Field medicine is different," he says, suddenly sounding more like a battle-hardened mentor than a cranky doctor. "Clean is still better, but sometimes you've got to choose between perfect and alive. When someone's bleeding out in some warehouse, you work with what you've got."

He grabs a bottle of disinfectant, tapping it with one finger. "This? This is your new best friend. Small enough to carry anywhere, strong enough to maybe keep someone from dying of infection in a pinch."

"What about stitches?" The question slips out before you can stop it. The thought of someone bleeding out because you don't know what you're doing makes your stomach turn.

J-Hope nods like he gets it. His usual grumpiness softens into something more teacher-like. "In the field? Use whatever you've got—fishing line, clean thread, even fibers from sterilized cloth. Main thing is getting that wound closed before they bleed out or it gets infected."

He lets that sink in for a moment, fiddling with something metallic between his fingers. For all his crankiness, there's something reassuring about how seriously he takes this stuff.

"But the second—and I mean second—you're back, you bring them to me." His voice goes hard again. "This isn't permanent fixing, it's just keeping them alive until they reach actual medical care."

He holds up what looks like a weirdly curved needle. "This is what we use for stitching. Curved makes it easier to control, especially for beginners." His fingers dance over different types of thread. "Absorbable sutures for internal wounds, non-absorbable for surface cuts."

"Yeah, that means absolutely nothing to me."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Right. Let's dumb it down." He reaches for what looks like a small medical kit. "In the field, you won't have time to play doctor. Your emergency kit will have basic curved needles and non-absorbable thread. Simple, reliable, gets the job done."

"And the other kind? The absorbable ones?"

"Those are for surgery—internal stuff. They dissolve on their own." He waves vaguely at the door. "Out there? Stick to non-absorbable. Quick and dirty fixes until you can get them proper help."

"So it's basically just... sewing someone up?" You try not to sound as skeptical as you feel.

"If you want to oversimplify it, sure." His dark eyes lock onto yours, dead serious. "But this isn't patching up your favorite jeans. You've got to line everything up right, make it tight enough to hold but not so tight it causes damage. And for fuck's sake, keep everything as clean as humanly possible."

You nod along, trying to picture yourself actually doing this in the field. The thought of having someone's life literally in your hands makes your stomach do weird flips.

"What about really bad wounds?" The question slips out before you can stop yourself. "Like, really bad."

J-Hope's hands pause over his supplies. Something in his expression shifts, and suddenly you remember he's probably seen exactly what you're imagining.

"Then your priority is keeping them alive long enough to get to me." His voice goes flat, professional. "Stop the bleeding first. Stabilize what you can. Stitches won't mean shit if they bleed out before you finish the first one." He looks you dead in the eye. "I'm good at what I do, but I can't bring back the dead."

The words hit harder than you expected. It's easy to forget sometimes, working in Seduction, that this isn't just some elaborate roleplay. People actually die in this life.

You watch as J-Hope threads the needle easily, his movements quick and precise. When he turns to what looks like a piece of fake skin, you try not to think too hard about where it came from or why it looks so... realistic.

"Pay attention now." He positions the needle above the practice pad. "Basic interrupted suture—it's your best friend in the field. Simple, reliable, gets the job done."

The way he handles the needle is almost mesmerizing. Each movement flows into the next like he's done this a million times before. Which, considering his job, he probably has. The stitches line up perfectly, neat little soldiers in a row.

"The key is entering at a 90-degree angle," he explains, demonstrating another perfect stitch. "Too shallow, it won't hold. Too deep, you cause more damage."

You lean closer, fascinated despite yourself. It's kind of beautiful, in a morbid way. Like some deadly form of embroidery.

"Your turn." He holds out the needle, and suddenly this doesn't seem so fascinating anymore. "Time to see if you've been paying attention."

Your hand definitely doesn't shake when you take it. Not even a little. And if it does? Well, that's between you and whatever poor bastard ends up needing your stitches someday.

You take a deep breath and try to copy J-Hope's movements. Your hands aren't nearly as steady as his, but he guides you with surprising patience, adjusting your grip here and the angle there. For someone so cranky, he's turning out to be a pretty decent teacher.

"Not completely terrible for a first try." The words sound almost like praise coming from him. "This kind of skill? Could mean the difference between life and death out there."

A soft beep cuts through the quiet, followed by the infirmary door swinging open.

Cool air rushes in, making goosebumps rise on your arms.

You don't need to look to know who it is—there's only one person whose presence makes the air feel this heavy, like the moment before rain.

Jeon walks in, all dark clothes and darker mood. His eyes find yours first, something unreadable flickering across his face before he turns to J-Hope.

"Looks like V didn't hold back," J-Hope says with a smirk.

Jeon just grunts, which seems to be his default response to everything.

"Sit." J-Hope points to a nearby chair like he's commanding a particularly stubborn dog. "I'll deal with you in a minute."

You try not to stare as Jeon drops into the chair, but it's hard to ignore how he fills up the space. Everything about him radiates tension—from the set of his jaw to the way his fingers tap against his thigh. The guy looks about as comfortable as a cat in water.

The contrast between them is almost funny—J-Hope moving around with his usual efficient calm while Jeon sits there emanating pure "don't touch me" energy. You catch a whiff of pine and mint when he shifts, and something in your chest does this weird little flip that you choose to ignore.

You try to focus on your suturing practice, but your eyes keep drifting to Jeon. It's weird seeing him like this—quiet, still, almost t̶a̶m̶e̶ docile. The great Chief of Tactical Assassinations, reduced to sitting in a medical chair waiting for J-Hope like some kind of obedient schoolboy.

He looks... different here. Less like the intimidating force of nature who uses you as paintball bait, more like someone who really, really doesn't want to be at the doctor's. His knee bounces slightly—probably the only sign he'll allow of his discomfort.

The door clicks shut behind J-Hope, and suddenly you're very aware that you're alone with Jeon. The silence feels heavy, broken only by the soft rustle of medical supplies and his measured breathing.

You force yourself to concentrate on the needle in your hand. These stitches aren't going to practice themselves, and the last thing you need is to look incompetent in front of him. But it's hard to focus when you can feel him there.

It's just so strange seeing him hold himself back like this. Usually his presence fills any room he's in, but now he seems almost... contained. Like he's trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable.

It doesn't work though—you're still hyper-aware of every tiny movement he makes.

The silence stretches until it feels like another person in the room. You've never been good with awkward silences, but starting a conversation with Jeon feels about as appealing as pulling teeth. Besides, what would you even say?

Thanks for using me as bait earlier, that was super fun ?

"How's the ankle?"

His voice catches you off guard—low and quiet, missing that sharp edge he usually carries. For a second, you're not sure if you imagined it.

"It's... getting better," you manage, your voice too loud in the quiet room. "J-Hope knows what he's doing."

The corner of Jeon's mouth twitches up, and for a second he looks almost human. "Yeah, give that man a white coat and suddenly he thinks he runs the place."

There's this weird undertone of respect when he says it though. Like maybe he actually appreciates having someone who isn't afraid to boss him around. You get it —there's something weirdly comforting about J-Hope's no-nonsense attitude, even when he's being a grumpy dictator about your ankle.

"He definitely doesn't take shit from anyone." You find yourself smiling a little, because it's true. Even the mighty Jeon has to sit and wait his turn in here.

Something flickers across his face and he looks away quickly, like he just remembered he's supposed to be an intimidating gang leader, not someone who makes small talk about cranky doctors.

You go back to your stitching, trying to focus on the fake skin instead of how weird it feels to have an almost normal conversation with him. The silence creeps back in, but it's different now. Less like you're both waiting for the other to attack, more like... well, like two people just waiting for the doctor.

You try to focus on your stitching practice, but something feels off. There's a rustle that doesn't quite fit with the usual infirmary sounds—too careful, too measured.

When you glance up, you catch Jeon staring at... a pastry bag? One that definitely wasn't there when he first walked in. Or maybe it was and you were too distracted by his whole everything to notice.

He's looking down at it like it holds the secrets of the universe, brow furrowed in concentration. It's weird seeing the Chief of Tactical Assassinations, terror of rival gangs, looking almost t̶e̶r̶r̶i̶f̶i̶e̶d̶ uncertain about a paper bag.

What could possibly have the human hurricane so wrapped up in thought? The last time you saw him this intense, he was lining up a sniper shot. But now he's just... staring. At pastries.

Before you can ponder this mystery further, J-Hope bursts back in, arms loaded with enough medical supplies to patch up a small army. The sudden entrance makes Jeon flinch—just barely, but you catch it. His eyes snap up like he's been caught doing something wrong.

Then, in a move that feels almost panicked (if Jeon did panic, which he obviously doesn't), he thrusts the bag at J-Hope.

"For you." The words come out gruff and quick. His tattooed hand extends the bag like he's diffusing a bomb, gaze fixed somewhere over J-Hope's left shoulder.

J-Hope freezes mid-step, and honestly? Fair reaction. If this was V pulling something like this, it'd be normal—probably part of some elaborate prank. But Jeon? The same guy who treats medical check-ups like personal attacks? Bringing peace offerings?

"You know I don't even like croissants, right?" J-Hope stares at the bag like it might bite him. The disbelief in his voice makes you pause mid-stitch.

"It was the last one." Jeon crosses his arms, all defensive posture and clenched jaw.

J-Hope holds the pastry bag between two fingers like it's evidence in a crime scene. When he looks up at Jeon, his eyebrows disappear into his hairline. "What's the catch? Trying to bribe your way out of the physical?"

"What am I, V now?" Jeon's shrug carries enough attitude to fill the room. "No catch. Just thought I'd... you know." He waves vaguely at the bag, looking like every word physically pains him.

You focus very intently on your stitching practice, pretending you're not eavesdropping on whatever this weird interaction is. The silence stretches until J-Hope breaks it.

"Right..." He drags the word out like he's talking to a particularly suspicious child. "Since when do you do random acts of kindness?"

Something flickers across Jeon's face. His eyes meet yours for a split second, and your stomach does this weird flip that you choose to blame on hunger. The scent of pine gets stronger as his irritation builds.

"Since now, apparently." His voice could freeze hell over. "If you don't want it, give it to her. I don't give a shit."

J-Hope's eyebrows climb even higher as he turns to you, lips twitching. "Want a potentially poisoned croissant? I can test it first if you're feeling brave."

Your ears definitely perk up at the mention of croissant. After that sad excuse for breakfast this morning, you're practically going through withdrawal. The smell of butter and fresh pastry wafting from the bag is t̶o̶r̶t̶u̶r̶e̶ tempting.

"I'll risk it." You can't help but laugh a little. "Can't say no to a good croissant, even if it comes from suspicious sources."

Jeon's eyes find yours for a split second. Something colors his face—too quick to catch—before that familiar blank mask slides back into place. He doesn't say anything, but some of that rigid tension leaves his shoulders.

J-Hope passes you the bag, but his attention stays locked on Jeon like he's trying to solve a particularly frustrating puzzle. The pastry's still warm when you take it, and honestly? If it's poisoned, at least you'll die happy.

"Right then." J-Hope's voice goes stern. "Your turn, Mr. I-Can-Walk-It-Off. You're three months late for your check-up." He emphasizes each word like he's scolding a child. "Three months, Jeon."

Jeon responds with his signature grunt, finally hauling himself out of the chair. He moves to the medical bed a few meters away from you, and you can smell the pine notes slowly dissipating. Not that you're paying attention to how he smells. Obviously.

The infirmary suddenly feels smaller when Jeon steps into the medical bed area. There's something about the way he moves—all quiet power and deadly grace—that reminds you of his rank. Every single one of his steps looks calculated, like he's constantly ready for anything.

He shrugs off his leather jacket, and you try really hard not to stare. t̶r̶y̶ ̶b̶e̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶k̶e̶y̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶d̶ The movement is unfairly fluid, drawing attention to arms that definitely come from years of training. The kind of definition that makes you think he could probably lift you without breaking a sweat. (You already know he can)

Your eyes drift to his hands—the same ones you've seen wrapped around coffee cups or handling weapons, but never really looked at before. The infirmary's harsh lighting makes the tattoos on his wrists pop, intricate designs disappearing under his black t-shirt like secrets waiting to be discovered. His fingers are long and elegant despite their strength, decorated with simple silver and black rings that somehow make them look even more dangerous.

He grabs the hem of his shirt and—oh.

Oh.

The movement is so casual it's almost offensive, the way he just strips off his shirt like it's nothing. Like he doesn't know exactly what he's doing to your blood pressure right now.

A tattoo catches your eye, peeking above his waistband. "Devil never sleeps" inked in bold letters right above the waistband of his pants, and suddenly you're very interested in what that might mean. t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶t̶s̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶l̶a̶t̶e̶r̶

Your gaze definitely doesn't trail up his torso. You absolutely don't notice the thin silver chain you've never seen before, probably always hidden under that stupid leather jacket. And you certainly don't catalog how the muscles in his chest look strong but not bulky, or how his abs are defined but natural-looking, the kind that come from actual fighting instead of just gym sessions.

And for some stupid reason the pine scent comes back, stronger, and you realize you might be staring. But honestly? If he's going to just casually strip in front of you, he can deal with the consequences. You're only human, after all.

You try to focus on your stitching practice. Really, you do. But there's something magnetic about the way his scars and tattoos map stories across his skin. Each mark feels like a chapter you shouldn't want to read but can't help being curious about. It's not just that he's t̶o̶o̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶ physically impressive—it's the way he wears his battle wounds like armor.

Jeon doesn't seem to notice or care about your wandering eyes. He carries himself with this casual confidence that suggests being shirtless in the infirmary is just another weekday for him. He shifts a bit, settling on the edge of the medical bed.

You snap your attention back to your suture pad so fast you nearly stab yourself with the needle. This is not the time to appreciate how the fluorescent lights catch on his silver chain, or how his muscles shift when he—nope. Absolutely not. Back to stitching.

J-Hope transforms before your eyes, seemingly possessed by professional focus. He grabs his stethoscope with ease, moving toward Jeon like he's approaching any other patient. Not a deadly gang leader who could probably kill someone with his a snap of his fingers.

"Let's check that heart of yours first, Jeon." The words come out clinical, detached.

Jeon just nods, and it's weird seeing him this... compliant. His stormy presence seems to settle into something quieter.

When the stethoscope touches Jeon's chest, the room goes so quiet you could hear a pin drop. You definitely don't notice how the metal disc sits right above one of his tattoos, or how his breathing stays perfectly steady despite the cold touch.

"Heart sounds good, strong and regular." J-Hope moves the stethoscope, all business.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes because of course his heart's perfect too.

Stupid, perfect Jeon with his stupid, perfect everything.

Jeon stares straight ahead at some fascinating spot on the wall, the perfect picture of indifference. His chest rises and falls steadily under J-Hope's stethoscope, and you definitely don't notice how the muscles shift with each breath. Nope. Not at all.

"Deep breaths," J-Hope instructs, all business.

Jeon complies without a word. The movement makes his chest expand more noticeably, and you suddenly find your suturing practice absolutely fascinating.

Super interesting, these fake stitches. Totally worth your complete attention.

Except it's not.

Your hands are going through the motions, but your mind keeps wandering. The needle weaves in and out mechanically while you try really hard not to think about the way the infirmary lights catch on Jeon's silver chain, or how his jaw clenches slightly when J-Hope's stethoscope touches a cold spot.

You feel like you're intruding on something private, which is stupid because it's just a medical exam. But there's something weirdly intimate about watching someone like Jeon—who's usually wrapped in leather and attitude—sitting here half-naked and compliant.

The needle slips.

"Shit—" The sharp sting makes you jump.

A bright red bead of blood wells up on your fingertip, because apparently you can't even do basic stitching when you're t̶o̶o̶ ̶b̶u̶s̶y̶ ̶o̶g̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ slightly distracted.

"You okay over there?" J-Hope looks up from his examination.

You're about to brush it off when you feel it—Jeon's eyes on you. The weight of his gaze hits like a physical thing, dark and heavy and way too knowing. Like he can tell exactly why you stabbed yourself, and t̶h̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶e̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ that's... interesting.

There's something in that look—something that makes your skin prickle and your breath catch.

Is he annoyed? Amused? Or maybe...

He turns away before you can figure it out, but the heat lingers on your skin like a brand.

Jeon grabs his shirt and pulls it back on in one smooth motion. You try not to notice how the fabric clings slightly before settling into place, or how his hair gets messed up for just a second before he runs his fingers through it. Just like that, the mask slides back on—Chief of Tactical Assassinations restored, that glimpse of something more human safely locked away again.

Your finger throbs, a tiny punishment for letting yourself get distracted.

t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶w̶h̶y̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶n̶i̶c̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ Real professional, getting caught staring like some rookie. In this life, distractions get people killed. Though usually not by sewing needles.

J-Hope's already moving around the room, putting away his supplies. He definitely catches you trying to hide your pricked finger, because suddenly he's there, slapping a band-aid on it with more force than strictly necessary.

"Pay attention next time," he grumbles, but there's something almost fond in how annoyed he sounds. "These needles aren't toys."

Jeon's already heading for the door, leather jacket back in place. He moves like someone who can't wait to put as much distance between himself and this medical checkup as possible.

Can't really blame him—you'd probably bolt too if you had to deal with J-Hope's judgment this early in the morning.

He pauses at the door though, just for a second. Those dark eyes find yours one last time, and something in your chest does this weird little thing that has nothing to do with the pine and mint scent he leaves behind.

Then he's gone, and you're left wondering what kind of storms are brewing behind those gloomy eyes.

Chapter 7: Charming forks

Summary:

"In Kkangpae, respect is earned in blood—even if it's just from a fork to the palm. But it's the hurricane brewing in Jeon's eyes as he watches you handle yourself that has you wondering if maybe there's more than one way to catch an assassin's attention."

Notes:

WAIT WHAT?! IS IT POSSIBLE?!

JEON HAS...

*whispers dramatically* F E E L I N G S?!

Did our resident ice prince really look at someone with something other than his patented "I'd rather be literally anywhere else including possibly on fire" expression?!

Okay, in all seriousness—stop coming for my boy. I can FEEL some of you judging him through the screen. He has feelings! They're just... buried... under several layers of trauma, bad decisions, and leather jackets. You'll understand him better eventually, I promise. Maybe. If I'm feeling generous. Which I rarely am (￣︶￣)

Here's the thing: I make my characters complicated on purpose. Humans are messy little disaster creatures, and I want my characters to reflect that beautiful chaotic energy. Everyone's actions are based on the personalities and backstories I've created—some of which you have NO idea about yet. *laughs maniacally* Every character has nuances, and I really hope I'm portraying that properly. Watch me stress about character development at 3 AM while chain-drinking tea because coffee stopped working six chapters ago.

ANYWAY! AD HAS ENTERED THE CHAT. The chaotic technology gremlin of my heart! And Sope's dynamic? *chef's kiss* Two cranky old men pretending they don't care about each other while absolutely caring about each other? BEAUTIFUL. MWAH.

I know it's hard to picture everything now because you're just getting the tiniest glimpse of all these relationships. But trust me, there's an intricate web of backstory that you'll discover eventually. Have fun grasping at straws in the meantime because I'm not making it easy for you! Where's the fun if you know everything THIS SOON?!

THERE IS NONE!!!

So hang tight, be patient, and maybe save those curse words for later chapters. Trust me, you're gonna need them. I have PLANS. *ominous music plays*

Love you all, you disaster enablers. Stay hydrated!

Your crutches click-clack against the stone floors of the castle, and it's weird how normal this feels—hobbling through what used to be some fancy abandoned castle and is now home to South Korea's deadliest gang. Nobody even looks twice at you. Then again, in a place where missing fingers are basically fashion statements, a sprained ankle's hardly worth noticing.

The infirmary door swings shut behind you, cutting off the sharp smell of antiseptic and the muffled sounds of people who definitely had worse mornings than you. The hallway feels almost peaceful in comparison. Almost.

The elevator dings, and suddenly you're face to face with what looks like pure rage wrapped in a hoodie. He storms out like the elevator personally offended him, all baggy clothes and barely contained fury. The track pants and oversized hoodie stand out here—most gang members dress to intimidate, but this guy looks ready for a gaming marathon.

You freeze, crutches awkward under your arms, as he practically radiates "don't talk to me" energy into the hallway. Something about him seems familiar, though you've definitely never met. He brushes past you, and the scent of fresh lemons hits your nose—which is when it clicks.

AD. The genius behind Cyber Intelligence. The guy who designed the security system that keeps rival gangs from turning this place into Swiss cheese. His reputation around here is... interesting. Brilliant but brutal, the kind of person who'd hack your phone just because you breathed too loud near his workspace.

You shuffle into the elevator, trying not to drop your crutches or your dignity. Your card beeps against the scanner, and you hit the button for the fourth floor—home sweet home, or at least as sweet as a gang's seduction division can be.

The doors start closing, giving you one last glimpse of AD's retreating back. The whole encounter probably lasted thirty seconds, but it sticks in your mind. You've heard stories about him—how he practically lives in his division's "gamer cave," how he's as loyal to Kkangpae as he is allergic to basic human interaction.

The elevator hums around you, and you can't help wondering what pushed his buttons today. Guy looked ready to set something on fire with his mind. Though maybe that's just his face. Hard to tell with the Council of 9 sometimes—they've all got enough trauma to keep a therapy practice in business for decades.

When the doors open to your floor, the familiar buzz of the Seduction Division wraps around you like a blanket. Back to your world of honey traps and carefully crafted lies. Still, you can't quite shake the image of AD's fury from your mind. 

Guess that's life in Kkangpae—even a simple trip to the infirmary can turn into an encounter with one of the gang's most notorious leaders.

The Seduction Division's floor buzzes with its usual afternoon energy as you hobble through on your crutches. Half your colleagues are sprawled across the common area sofas, deep in mission talk, while others practice their best "come hither" looks in the wall-length mirrors. Just another Tuesday in the art of professional manipulation.

Kazuha doesn't even look up from her iPad as you pass, that wine-red hair falling in perfect waves around her face. She gives you a quick nod though—which, coming from her, might as well be a bear hug. The girl's got that whole "ice queen who could definitely ruin your life but chooses not to" vibe down to an art.

Your shared room feels like heaven after all the hopping around on crutches. Yunjin's exactly where you expected—spread out on her bed like a pink-haired starfish, head hanging off the foot end while she watches what looks like another one of those melodramas she's obsessed with. The contrast between her bubblegum hair and the pastel yellow bedding is probably giving interior designers somewhere an aneurysm.

She brightens up when she spots you, hitting pause mid-dramatic confession scene. "How was medical training?" She twists around to face you, and you can tell she's dying for some good gossip. "Did J-Hope make you practice on oranges?"

"Nah, straight to fake skin." You drop onto your bed, grateful to finally get off your feet. "Though he did spend like twenty minutes ranting about how everyone in this gang stitches like they're drunk toddlers with safety scissors."

The memory makes you laugh. For someone who literally saves lives for a living, J-Hope's got the bedside manner of a grumpy cat. Though you guess when you're dealing with gang members who think they're immortal, maybe being nice stopped working a long time ago.

"Oh!" You perk up, remembering the best part of your morning. "You'll never guess who showed up while I was there."

Yunjin's eyes go wide with interest. She's always been a sucker for castle drama.

"Jeon." You try to keep your voice casual, like you're not still thinking about how he looked without his shirt on. t̶o̶r̶s̶o̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶g̶o̶d̶s̶

Yunjin bolts upright so fast her pink hair whips around her face. "No way. Jeon? What happened?"

"Medical checkup." You grin at how invested she already looks. "You should've seen how much he didn't want to be there."

You can still picture it perfectly—the way he filled the doorway like some dark cloud of attitude, all black clothes and that stupid leather jacket. Even his quick scan of the room felt dismissive, like everything beneath his notice was personally offending him.

"But here's the weird part." You lean in closer, lowering your voice like you're sharing state secrets. "You know how he's usually all... you know, Jeon? Like someone carved him from ice?"

Yunjin nods eagerly.

"Complete different person around J-Hope. I mean, still grumpy as hell, but like... almost human? It was like watching a statue learn to bend."

"Jeon?" Yunjin's eyes go wide. "Are we talking about the same person? Mr. I-Take-Orders-From-Nobody?"

"Oh, it gets better." You can't help the laugh that bubbles up. "He brought J-Hope a croissant."

"A croi—wait." Yunjin sits up straighter. "Oh my god, that explains this morning!"

You raise an eyebrow. "What about this morning?"

"Okay, so you know how he's basically married to that coffee machine, right?"

"First cup of the day, every day," you confirm. Everyone knows that—it's like some weird ritual. The sun rises, birds sing, and Jeon appears to claim the first coffee like it's his divine right.

"Well." Yunjin's practically vibrating with excitement now. "Me and Kazuha were having breakfast, and there he was, just... lurking by the pastries. Like, full-on stalking them. We started betting on what he'd pick because honestly? What else do you do when one of the gang leaders is having an existential crisis over baked goods?"

You frown, something not quite adding up. "Wait, he told J-Hope it was the last pastry left."

"Bullshit." Yunjin flops onto her back, pink hair spreading across her pillow like cotton candy. "It wasn't even 7 AM. The breakfast spread was packed—Kazuha and I had front row seats to his whole pastry-hunting performance."

She stares at the ceiling for a moment, like she's replaying the scene in her head. "Actually... now that I think about it, he was really focused on the croissants. Like, weirdly focused. Standing there analyzing them like they held the secrets of the universe or something."

You both fall quiet, trying to make sense of Mr. Ice Prince going on a dawn croissant mission. It's such a small thing, but it feels... significant somehow. Like finding out your scary math teacher collects Hello Kitty merchandise.

"Well, worked out for me." You shrug, trying to sound casual as you show her the pastry bag. "J-Hope doesn't even like croissants, so."

The look Yunjin gives you could only be described as suspicious. 

“Okay but like... isn't that weird to you?" She sits up straighter, getting that expression she always has when she's about to drop some tea. "Jeon's on the Council of 9. He works with J-Hope all the time. How does he not know what the guy likes?"

"What do you mean?"

She leans forward, eyes sparkling like she's solved a murder mystery. 

“Think about it. Our fearless Chief of Tactical Assassinations spent ten whole minutes picking out the perfect croissant for someone who hates croissants." Her grin gets wider. "But you know who's always having croissants for breakfast?"

The implication hits you like a truck. No way. There's absolutely no way Jeon would... t̶h̶a̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶k̶i̶n̶d̶a̶ ̶s̶w̶e̶e̶t̶ ̶a̶c̶t̶u̶a̶l̶l̶y̶

"You're reading way too much into this." You try to sound dismissive, but your voice comes out weird. "He probably just grabbed whatever was there."

"Uh-huh." Yunjin's not buying it. "That's why he spent longer choosing a croissant than most people spend picking engagement rings."

You throw a pillow at her face. She's being ridiculous. 

Just because Jeon accidentally got you breakfast doesn't mean... anything. He's still the same guy who used you as paintball bait yesterday.

Even if he did pick out a really good croissant.

The weight of Yunjin's words hangs in the air. The idea that Jeon—Mr. Perfect-Planning-Everything—might have deliberately chosen that croissant... it makes something weird flutter in your stomach.

No. Absolutely not.

"As if." You roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck. "How would he even know what I like for breakfast?"

Yunjin just gives you that look—the one that says she knows something you don't want to admit. "You're both always in the cafeteria at dawn, right? Haven't you noticed? He gets his coffee right when you're picking out your croissant."

You pause. She's... not wrong. Your early morning schedule does line up with his weird first-coffee-of-the-day ritual more often than not. But the thought of Jeon actually paying attention to your breakfast preferences? t̶h̶a̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶k̶i̶n̶d̶a̶ ̶c̶u̶t̶e̶ That's ridiculous.

"But why would he suddenly bring me breakfast?" The question comes out smaller than intended. "He doesn't even like me."

"Maybe he doesn't dislike you as much as you think." Yunjin's voice goes soft, thoughtful. "He's still human, you know? Under all that ice. Maybe he actually felt bad about your ankle."

Her logic makes an annoying amount of sense. But accepting that Jeon might have done something... nice? That he might have been paying enough attention to know what you like? That feels like admitting something you're not ready to face.

Could Jeon really have...?

No. t̶h̶e̶r̶e̶'̶s̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶w̶a̶y̶ ̶h̶e̶'̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶s̶w̶e̶e̶t̶ There has to be another explanation. The idea of him noticing your habits, remembering your preferences, actually feeling guilty enough to do something about it—it doesn't fit with the cold, distant chief you know.

Except... maybe it does. And that's even more unsettling than the alternative.

"You need to stop watching those dramas. They're rotting your brain."

"Fine, don't believe me." Yunjin pouts, folding her arms like a scolded kid. "But when has anything in this place ever been simple?" There's this knowing look in her eyes that makes you want to throw another pillow at her, but she mercifully drops the subject.

The pastry bag crinkles as you grab it, desperate for any distraction from t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶t̶s̶ ̶a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶J̶e̶o̶n̶ this whole situation. The croissant looks perfect—because of course it does, this is Jeon you’re talking about. 

Except for that small bite you already gave it back in the infirmary.

You break it in half, offering part to Yunjin like a peace offering.

One bite and—oh.

Oh.

"This is really good," you manage between bites, trying not to sound too impressed. 

Because you hadn’t really had time to savor it, appreciate the taste. But now you do, and holy shit. You've had your fair share of castle croissants—there's a reason you drag yourself out of bed at ungodly hours to get them—but this? This is something else entirely.

Stupid Jeon and his stupid perfectionism. Everyone complains about how anal he is about everything, but apparently that extends to pastry selection too. 

That's just annoying.

"God, I could eat like five of these," Yunjin mumbles around her mouthful, and you hum in agreement.

You both enjoy the quiet for a moment, just appreciating good pastry and each other's company. Then Yunjin sits up straighter, switching into work mode. "Hey, while you're here—mind helping me with something on my iPad? I'm stuck on this one part."

You scoot closer as she pulls up files full of charts and data. This is the real meat of gang work—not the glamorous missions or dramatic showdowns, but hours of planning and strategizing. You and Yunjin fall into an easy rhythm, bouncing ideas off each other and finding solutions.

It's nice, actually. Just you and your friend, doing what you do best, making plans that could mean life or death for someone someday. 

You know, normal people stuff.

Lunchtime at the castle is its own brand of chaos. 

The cafeteria buzzes with life—metal trays clanking, conversations overlapping, and the smell of whatever's cooking today making your stomach growl. 

It's kind of wild how this massive, well-lit space becomes neutral ground where gang divisions actually mix. 

Even if it's just to argue over the last pudding cup.

Yunjin, being the angel she is, grabs a tray for you since you're still stuck with these stupid crutches. You point out what you want—some spicy stir-fried pork that smells like heaven, a mountain of steamed rice, and enough kimchi to make your breath lethal. The kind of comfort food that reminds you of simpler times, before your life involved paintball ambushes and medical training. Yunjin goes for her usual rabbit food—some fancy salad and seaweed soup.

Finding a table is surprisingly easy. There's this unwritten rule about leaving some spots open for people who need the extra space—like, say, someone who got their ankle twisted during a certain chief's brilliant bait plan. So you snag a spot near the food counter, perfect for people-watching.

The cafeteria has this weird energy to it, like a tide of people flowing in and out. Some grabbing quick bites between missions, others lingering over coffee and gossip. It's probably the most normal part of living in a gang headquarters.

"Look who's eating alone again." Yunjin's voice drops as she stabs at her salad, and you don't even need to look up to know who she means.

"Does he ever eat with anyone?" You can't help asking, because seriously, what's with Jeon and his lone wolf act?

"Sometimes." Yunjin talks around a mouthful of greens. "His division members join him occasionally. Especially Takama."

"Who's Takama?" You mix some kimchi into your rice, trying to sound casual.

"His second in command." She covers her mouth as she chews, ever polite even in a gang cafeteria. "You know, deputy officer of Tactical Assassinations."

You can't help but smirk at the way Yunjin's eyes light up. Your roommate might be shy around strangers, but get her talking about castle gossip and she transforms into a one-woman intelligence agency. Her weird talent for reading people makes her better at gathering intel than half the Seduction Division.

"Okay, tea time." She sets down her fork and turns to face you fully, going into full gossip mode. "So Jeon's basically a lone wolf in the cafeteria. Only exceptions are Takama—his second in command—or sometimes J-Hope."

You take another bite of your food, settling in for what promises to be an interesting breakdown of castle dynamics.

"And get this—J-Hope hardly ever eats here. Man's practically married to his office. But when he does show up?" She leans in closer, lowering her voice. "It's either with Jeon or AD. Those two are like his pet projects or something."

"AD and Jeon?" The combination sounds about as likely as V starting a knitting club. "Wouldn't have called that one."

"Oh no, you'll never catch them together." Yunjin waves her fork for emphasis. "There's this weird... thing between them. Nobody knows why, but the tension's so thick you could cut it with a knife. Still working on figuring that one out."

She drops her voice even lower, like she's sharing state secrets. "AD's basically a cryptid though. Lives in his gamer cave like some kind of tech hermit. But word is, if you hang around the snack bar at 3 AM..."

You snort at her dramatic delivery. "Very spooky."

"And get this—he's apparently even grumpier than J-Hope. But somehow they just... click?"

"Grumpier than Dr. Cranky?" You raise an eyebrow. "That's actually impressive."

"Right? Like, next-level antisocial. But I guess their matching bad attitudes cancel each other out or something. They're both fluent in asshole."

"Well, you'd know." You gesture at her with your chopsticks. "You're the people-reading expert here."

"I mean, I haven't seen everything firsthand." Yunjin shrugs, picking at her salad. "But J-Hope's probably the one Jeon tolerates the most. Now V, on the other hand..."

"Yeah, no need to finish that sentence." You snort. "Those two are about as friendly as cats and dogs."

"Right? They hate each other's guts. Though V's weird because he gets along with everyone else—or at least pretends to. Hard to tell with him, honestly." She pauses, eyebrows shooting up as she glances across the cafeteria. "But he seems weirdly obsessed with JM lately."

"JM?" You follow her gaze. "The finance guy?"

"See the guy in the fluffy cardigan over there?" She tilts her head subtly. "That's him. Usually sits with Chaewon and Jessi. He's like, genuinely nice to everyone, which is probably why he puts up with V's... everything."

"Christ, he must have the patience of a saint."

"Right?" Yunjin snickers. "Meanwhile V's like this social chameleon—just plops down wherever he feels like. No fixed spot, just vibing with whoever catches his attention that day."

"What about Chaewon?" You ask, genuinely curious about your division chief. "You mentioned she sits with Jessi?"

"Yeah, see that woman with the red hair next to her? That's Jessi. They're basically joined at the hip, which makes sense." Yunjin lowers her voice. "Only women on the Council of 9, you know? Gotta stick together in this boys' club."

"Must be rough up there." You watch the two women, something tight forming in your chest. "Especially for Chaewon, considering how she feels about men. Makes you wonder what they went through to get those positions."

"Yeah..." Yunjin's voice goes soft. "Gang leaders don't really talk about their past lives. All I know is Chaewon came from another gang. Might explain some things..." She trails off, watching your division chief for a moment before shaking her head. "But that feels like the kind of story you don't ask about, you know?"

"True." You push around some pork with your fork. "What about RM and Moon though? Never seen them down here."

"Oh god, you won't." Yunjin waves her hand dismissively. "Those two are like urban legends in the cafeteria. Pretty sure they're permanently glued to their office chairs, buried in paperwork."

You're about to ask more when something in the air changes. You feel it before you see it, like a wintery breeze sweeping through the room, chilling and unmistakable. Conversations stutter and restart, heads turning just enough to look casual. 

When you follow everyone's not-so-subtle glances, you spot him immediately. 

AD, the human thundercloud from this morning, has decided to grace the cafeteria with his presence. 

His hoodie's pulled low over blonde hair, and everything about his walk screams 'touch me and die.' He moves like someone who's one minor inconvenience away from committing cyber crimes.

He heads straight for the food counter, completely ignoring the line of people waiting their turn. His eyes scan the options like they've personally offended him. You can hear the quiet grumbling from the queue, but nobody seems brave enough to actually say anything.

Well, almost nobody.

"Hey man, line starts back there." Some new guy who clearly hasn't learned the castle's pecking order yet pipes up.

AD turns his head so slowly it's almost cinematic. The look he gives this poor idiot could probably crash every computer in South Korea.

"Shut the fuck up unless you want your keycard to mysteriously stop working." His voice is barely above a whisper but carries enough venom to kill a small army.

The new guy practically shrinks into himself, mouth snapping shut like a trap. Everyone else in line suddenly finds the floor tiles absolutely fascinating. You get it—when the guy who controls every digital aspect of your life threatens to lock you out of the castle, you shut up and take it.

AD turns back to the food counter like nothing happened, loading his tray with... well, everything. It's like watching someone who hasn't eaten in days try to make up for lost meals all at once. Spicy Korean chicken, Caesar salad, pepperoni pizza, and a bowl of ramen that definitely wasn't meant to be a side dish. The combination is as chaotic as his reputation.

When he turns to survey the cafeteria, his eyes briefly meet yours. The air around you drops several degrees, like someone opened a window to a winter morning. Even under that hood, his gaze is sharp enough to cut glass.

He chooses a table not far from yours, dropping into the chair with a sigh that sounds like it started somewhere around his soul. The curious looks from other members bounce right off him as he attacks his food with the same intensity most people reserve for coding or murder.

Then J-Hope walks in.

The medical chief spots AD immediately, and his eye-roll is probably visible from space. With a huff that screams "not this shit again," he marches over to AD's table like a man on a mission.

"Oh, this'll be good." Yunjin leans in, practically vibrating with excitement.

You watch as J-Hope plants himself at AD's table, hands on hips, radiating disapproval. Whatever he's saying gets completely ignored—AD just keeps eating like J-Hope isn't even there. But instead of giving up, J-Hope drops into the chair across from him, apparently settling in for the long haul.

It's kind of fascinating, actually. J-Hope's clearly telling AD off about something, probably his hermit lifestyle, while AD responds in what looks like grunts and eye-rolls. But the weird thing is... he's letting J-Hope stay. For someone who just threatened to digitally exile a guy for speaking to him, that's practically a declaration of friendship.

"They're like a divorced couple who still lives together," Yunjin whispers, barely containing her grin.

You snort into your rice. "Yeah, if both of them were the grumpy one."

It's hard not to stare at AD. There's something fascinating about watching someone who practically lives in code actually interact with humans. The guy who could probably crash South Korea's entire infrastructure with his phone is sitting here eating pizza with salad. 

He's weird for a Council member. The others, like Jeon or V, you can picture them leading divisions. But AD? He feels more like some urban legend the gang created—the grumpy gremlin in the tech cave who might lock you out of your room if you breathe too loud near his servers.

You try not to be too obvious about watching him, but it's kind of mesmerizing. Even now, with J-Hope clearly giving him hell about something, AD maintains this icy distance. Like he's tolerating human interaction because someone forced him to remember he needs food to live.

The cafeteria noise provides perfect cover as you and Yunjin lean in slightly, totally not eavesdropping on what might be the grumpiest conversation in Kkangpae history. 

"For someone who's supposed to be a genius, you eat like a fucking teenager with a death wish." J-Hope's voice carries that special blend of medical concern wrapped in pure irritation.

AD doesn't even look up from his food crime scene, just keeps shoveling spicy chicken into his mouth with the enthusiasm of someone who hasn't seen sunlight in days.

"I'm not kidding, AD. Your last medical results were shit." J-Hope leans back, crossing his arms. "Or did you delete that memory along with your basic survival instincts?"

AD finally looks up, his expression screaming 'I'd rather be getting a root canal than having this conversation.' "Can you not? I can handle my own fucking health."

"Yeah, clearly." J-Hope's voice drips sarcasm. "Because staying up for three days straight surviving on energy drinks and spite is peak healthcare. What's your plan when it catches up to you? Hack yourself a new liver?"

A ghost of amusement flickers across AD's face before he squashes it. "Maybe I will. And while I'm at it, I'll program myself some immunity to your bullshit."

"You're impossible." J-Hope rolls his eyes. "Just eat something green occasionally! I'm tired of playing doctor because you think vegetables are optional."

AD stabs a piece of lettuce with enough force to kill it twice, moving with exaggerated slowness. "There. Happy?"

J-Hope gives a narrowed stare, his gaze softening ever so slightly. "No. Eat another one."

"You're so fucking annoying." AD turns away like if he can't see J-Hope, maybe he'll cease to exist.

You and Yunjin share a look, biting back smiles as you watch AD and J-Hope's weird version of friendship play out. 

It's kind of sweet, in a grumpy-meets-grumpier way. 

Even in Kkangpae, where everyone's got walls built up to their eyeballs, sometimes you catch glimpses of actual human connection. Even if it's just two cranky leaders arguing about salad.

But the peaceful moment doesn’t last long.

Harmony shatters when a group from V's division walks in. The atmosphere shifts immediately—you can feel it in the way conversations quiet down, in how other members subtly shift away. V's assassins always move like they own the place, all swagger and deadly grace.

Your stomach drops when one of them breaks away from the pack, heading straight for your table. He's tall, probably handsome if you could get past the douchebag energy radiating off him. 

He plants his hands on your table, leaning into your space like he's got every right to be there.

"Hey princess, heard about your ankle..." His voice drips fake sympathy before sliding into something that makes your skin crawl. He leans closer, close enough that you can smell whatever cheap cologne he's drowning in. "When you recover, how about some private lessons? I bet you could teach me all about seduction..."

The suggestion hangs in the air like something rotten. 

Your mind floods with comebacks—each one sharper than the last, each one perfectly crafted to cut him down to size. 

But you keep quiet.

Not because you're scared. Not because you don't have anything to say. But because you know how this game works. 

In Kkangpae, everything's about power. One wrong move, one moment of weakness, and suddenly you're marked.

And being a woman in this testosterone-fueled nightmare means always watching your step, always calculating the cost of each word.

Your silence apparently pisses him off more than any insult could. His face twists ugly, that fake charm vanishing like smoke. "I'm talking to you, bitch."

You catch Yunjin starting to rise, all protective big sister energy, but you grab her arm. This isn't her fight. Besides, you've dealt with worse than some bruised ego in a leather jacket.

The cafeteria's gone weirdly quiet. You can feel eyes on you from every direction—AD pausing mid-bite, J-Hope's exasperation shifting to concern, V watching like this is better than cable. Even Jeon's stopped pretending to eat his lunch, those dark eyes fixed on the scene playing out.

You finally look at the guy, really look at him, keeping your face blank. 

“And I'm not interested."

The words hit him like a slap. His face goes red, then purple, and suddenly his hand twitches.

The whole cafeteria seems to hold its breath. 

You catch flickers of movement—Chaewon half-rising from her seat, JM's eyes going wide, Jessi's hand twitching toward what's probably a knife.

But it's Jeon's reaction that catches your attention. He hasn't moved, hasn't said a word, but the look he's giving this guy is like a typhoon gaining speed. The kind of stare that promises violence, calculated and cold and absolutely certain.

Not that you need the backup.

The moment his hand comes down, you move. 

The fork in your hand becomes a weapon, and you catch his wrist mid-swing, driving the tines deep into his palm. The movement is smooth, precise—exactly what they taught you in training. Always use what's available, turn everyday objects into advantages.

He screams (more shock than pain probably), stumbling back like you've burned him. His eyes are huge, that macho confidence evaporating as blood wells up around the fork still stuck in his hand. 

Everyone goes dead silent. 

Like their brains are recalculating, adjusting their mental image of the new girl who just stabbed someone with cutlery.

t̶h̶a̶t̶'̶l̶l̶ ̶t̶e̶a̶c̶h̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶c̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶b̶i̶t̶c̶h̶

"Maybe think twice about who you're messing with next time."

He yanks his hand back with a string of curses, blood dripping onto the pristine cafeteria floor. His face twists ugly, like he can't decide if he's more hurt or pissed. 

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

You lean back in your chair, channeling every ounce of b̶i̶t̶c̶h̶ confidence you've got. The fork might have been impulsive, but now it's time to play smart.

"Someone who has Chaewon's ear." You let that sink in for a second. "And you know who Chaewon's best friends with? Jessi. You know, the one who handles personnel management?" Your smile feels sharp enough to cut. "Wonder what they'd think about some guy from Assassinations harassing their girls."

The color drains from his face so fast it's almost funny. 

Nothing like dropping two of the scariest names in Kkangpae to make a man rethink his life choices. You can practically see him doing the math in his head—is harassing the new girl worth potentially pissing off not one, but two Council members?

"You wouldn't—" His voice wavers between threat and panic.

"Try me." You cut him off clean. "This isn't even about me. You really think they'd let this slide? Their division members getting pushed around by some wannabe tough guy?"

His jaw clenches so hard you're surprised his teeth don't crack. The rage is still there, but now it's got a healthy dose of fear mixed in. Good. Maybe next time he'll think before running his mouth.

"Fucking bitch," he spits, but the words don't have much bite anymore.

You glance pointedly at the bloody fork still sticking out of his hand. 

"Get me a new fork while you're at it. You got blood all over this one."

The cafeteria's still dead silent, everyone probably wondering if they just witnessed career suicide by cutlery. But hey—sometimes you've got to stab a man with a fork to make a point.

He shoots you one last glare before stalking off, still cursing under his breath. 

You watch him go, noticing how the other assassins suddenly find their lunch absolutely fascinating. 

Funny how quickly tough guys back down when someone actually stands up to them.

Conversations resume, though noticeably quieter than before. You can feel the weight of everyone's stares finally lifting—some impressed, others probably wondering if you've got a death wish.

Everyone's except Jeon's.

When you turn to meet his gaze, something's different. Those dark eyes catch yours across the cafeteria, and something electric passes between you. It's different from his usual dismissive glances. Like he's seeing you properly for the first time. Not just as the new girl from Seduction, or the one who twisted her ankle during his paintball game. But as someone who can hold her own.

His expression hasn't changed—he's still got that perfect poker face—but there's something in his eyes that wasn't there before. 

Something that feels almost like respect.

His lips twitch, just barely, before he looks away. 

But that tiny almost-smile says more than words could. 

Maybe stabbing someone with a fork is all it takes to impress the mighty Chief of Tactical Assassinations.

t̶o̶o̶ ̶b̶a̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶'̶s̶ ̶s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶a̶n̶ ̶a̶s̶s̶h̶o̶l̶e̶

Chapter 8: sunshine

Summary:

"Meandering around the castle late at night wasn’t supposed to take you to Jeon. Nor was he supposed to be the one training you. But here you are."

Notes:

Alright, you thirsty little monsters, I knew you'd be STARVING for some action so here are some CRUMBS. Bon appétit! Don't say I never gave you anything (￢‿￢ )

Fun fact: Takama literally didn't exist until I was hate-eating a kiwi at like 2 AM after a terrible day. Just popped into my brain fully formed like Athena from Zeus's forehead but considerably more polite. I don't necessarily intend for him to have a massive role but... well, characters have a way of hijacking the plot when I least expect it.

But he's just??? So nice??? I don't know why I'm surprised by my own creation, but here we are. My little kiwi-inspired shaved-head cinnamon roll. Too pure for this gang. Too pure for this fic, honestly.

ACTUALLY, I love all my characters—even the ones who make objectively terrible life choices. It's like watching your disaster children set things on fire and being like "well, at least they're applying themselves." But I also have WAY more information about them than you do, so my attachment makes sense I guess (•̀ᴗ•́)و

So that leaves me wondering... which character is your favorite so far? And which one makes you want to throw your phone across the room? I have my suspicions about the general consensus, but maybe you'll surprise me. I read all your comments so let me know!

And before anyone asks—no, I will not be giving you more than crumbs. The slow burn tag exists for a reason, and that reason is I enjoy chaos. Your tears sustain me. Stay mad!

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You don't see Jeon for two weeks after the ankle incident.

Not that you saw him much before, mind you. Your paths barely crossed even when you could walk properly. But his absence feels... noticeable. Like missing a storm cloud that usually hovers at the edge of your vision. You wish you could say it's a relief not having him around, but maybe you've just gotten used to being the target of his general disdain.

It's 5 AM and you're wandering the castle halls like some restless ghost. Most people would say roaming a gang headquarters before dawn is asking for trouble, but they don't understand the appeal. Everything's quiet at this hour—no footsteps echoing off stone walls, no voices carrying from common areas.

Just you and your thoughts and the soft hum of the heating system.

Besides, what else are you supposed to do when sleep keeps dodging you? Your legs are itchy with the need to move, to do something. And it's not even about your ankle anymore.

That's actually healing pretty well, thanks to following J-Hope's instructions to the letter. Two weeks of medical training turned out to be more interesting than you expected. You learned how to stitch wounds, dress injuries, even set a broken bone (though hopefully you'll never need that particular skill).

J-Hope's... different than you thought. You wouldn't call yourselves friends exactly—there's still that whole "he's on the Council and you're basically a grunt" thing making things weird. But under all that cranky exterior and constant complaining, there's someone genuinely reliable. The kind of person you'd want patching you up after a mission gone wrong.

He actually cares about people, even if he shows it by threatening to revoke their medical privileges. Which is more than you can say for some people.

l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶a̶ ̶c̶e̶r̶t̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶s̶n̶i̶p̶e̶r̶

At least J-Hope's grumpiness comes with a side of actual human emotion. Unlike Jeon, who seems about as caring as the brick walls you're currently stalking past.

Maybe that's not entirely fair though.

You've caught glimpses of something else beneath all that ice he wraps around himself—little cracks scattered across that stoic shell he wars so well.

Whether that something counts as actual human emotion is still up for debate.

These past two weeks without him have been... easier.

You hate admitting it, even to yourself, but not having to constantly watch your step around Hurricane Jeon has been a relief. No more walking on eggshells, no more bracing for the next storm.

Your feet carry you to the cafeteria's outer corridor before you really think about it. The same spot where you had that lovely second chat with Jeon—the one where he made it crystal clear just how much he enjoyed talking to you.

The memory still stings, which is stupid because why should you care what he thinks?

But the universe, it seems, has a sick sense of humor.

Because there he is.

A shadow against the night sky. Sharp angles. Quiet intensity.

The cigarette between his fingers glows like a dying star, smoke curling into the darkness. Something in your chest does this weird little flip that you choose to ignore.

"What are you doing here?" The words slip out before you can stop them; and as soon as they leave your mouth, you realize how dumb they sound—like you have any more right to be here than he does.

He must think the same thing because he doesn't even bother turning around. "And you?"

"Has anyone ever told you it's rude to answer a question with another question?" You lean against the wall opposite him, trying to look casual.

You study his silhouette against the window—the slight hunch of his shoulders, the way his forearms rest on the ledge. The cigarette looks natural between his ringed fingers, like it belongs there. You catch that familiar scent of pine and mint mixing with tobacco smoke.

Part of you expects him to ignore you completely. That would be classic Jeon—pretending you don't exist unless he needs bait for paintball practice.

But another part hopes he won't.

Because there is something different about him in these quiet hours, something less... hurricane-like. You wonder what keeps someone like him awake at this hour. What ghosts chase sleep away?

"You're really not going to answer my question?" You push a little, testing how far this almost-civil moment can stretch.

"Couldn't sleep." His voice comes out low. "That's all."

"Makes two of us." The sigh slips out before you can catch it.

He makes this soft sound—not quite agreement, not quite dismissal. More like a hum. It nearly gets lost in the pre-dawn quiet.

"Why not grab coffee then?" You can't help asking. The sun's barely thinking about rising.

"Cafeteria doesn't open until six." He says it like it's obvious, like everyone should know the castle's breakfast schedule by heart.

You tilt your head, curious now. You've been doing the early breakfast routine for weeks, chasing those fresh croissants, but you never knew there was an actual schedule.

"How do you know that?"

"Common knowledge." The words come quick, almost defensive. But there's something else there, like maybe he knows the schedule because he's spent his fair share of sleepless nights waiting for that first cup of coffee.

"I see." The words come out quiet, almost lost in the pre-dawn air. It's like something about this hour that makes conversation feel... heavier. Still, curiosity nags at you. "Why not try going back to sleep?"

His jaw clenches—just slightly, but you catch it. "Cafeteria opens in an hour anyway. Might as well wait."

"For an hour?" You can't help the disbelief in your voice. "You must really love that first cup of coffee."

He finally turns to face you, though his hand stays outside, cigarette smoke curling into the darkness. Those dark eyes study you like you're a puzzle he can't quite solve, picking apart every micro-expression.

"So you knew?"

"What?" Your eyebrow arches of its own accord.

"That morning, few weeks back. Same spot." His gaze doesn't waver, like he's trying to read something written on your soul. "You got there first. Took the first coffee."

"I... did?" You frown, trying to remember. Because seriously, who keeps track of stuff like that? Is he actually holding a grudge over coffee? "Oh. Well, I didn't know then. Just found out recently that was your thing."

Something in his expression shifts, those storm-dark eyes softening just a fraction. But instead of saying anything else, he turns back to the window, leaving you to wonder what exactly just happened.

"Second cup's not terrible," he mutters, the words almost lost in the air. "Just doesn't hit the same as the first."

You study his shoulders, the way tension sits there like there's an actual dumbbell; and you can't help but think that seeing him like this—guard slightly lowered, existing in this quiet moment—makes him seem almost human.

"Why's that?"

You don't know why you ask. You don't know why you're curious.

He takes another drag from his cigarette, the ember burning bright against the darkness. Smoke curls from his lips as he considers your question, his ringed fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the window sill.

"It's routine now." His answer comes after a silence that stretches just long enough to be uncomfortable, and the words feel heavy, like they carry more weight than he's letting on.

"Routine?" A small huff of amusement escapes your lips—trust Jeon to make something as simple as coffee sound like a military operation.

But there's something about him that makes you want to dig deeper. Maybe it's the way he almost looks peaceful at this hour, or how the soft pre-dawn light catches on his silver chain. Whatever it is, you find yourself wanting to understand the storm that lives behind those dark eyes.

He lets the silence build again, but it feels different now. Less like he's ignoring you. More like he's actually considering his words.

"I just..." He hesitates for a second, and it's weird—because you haven't seen him hesitate, ever. "I like knowing exactly where things stand when my day begins. Everything else might go to shit, but at least that first cup is always exactly what I expect."

The confession hangs between you, oddly vulnerable for someone who usually keeps his emotions locked down tighter than the castle's security system.

You wonder what it costs him to admit even this small thing.

"I get it." The words come out softer than intended, gentle in a way you didn't mean to be. "Control matters. Especially here."

Your heart does this weird skippy thing that you choose to ignore. Because empathizing with Jeon? That's definitely not part of the plan. t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶l̶o̶o̶k̶s̶ ̶k̶i̶n̶d̶a̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶h̶e̶'̶s̶ ̶v̶u̶l̶n̶e̶r̶a̶b̶l̶e̶

It's almost like the night is wrapping around you both, filled with the kind of silence that feels too heavy to break. His scent is stronger now that he's turned to face you properly, and why the fuck are you noticing stupid shit like that?

He flicks his cigarette out the window, the ember trailing through the darkness like a falling star. When he looks at you again, those dark eyes hit like a physical force.

Suddenly, something storms behind them.

Something you can't quite read but definitely feels dangerous.

"You think you understand?" His voice is rough. "Trust me, you don't know shit about control or lack thereof. Not here."

The words slam into you like a door being shut in your face. Like the moment you thought you'd almost glimpse something real, his walls went up again.

"Maybe I don't know everything about control." You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to back down even though your heart's trying to crawl up your throat. "But I see enough. This isn't just about coffee for you, is it?"

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you know you've pushed too far. You probably don't know anything about what control means to him, about why he needs that first cup of coffee like he needs air. But something about Jeon makes you stupid brave, makes you want to push at his walls until something breaks.

Maybe it's the pre-dawn air making you reckless. Maybe it's the way vulnerability looks on him, rare and fascinating. Or maybe you just never learned when to shut up.

A muscle jumps in Jeon's jaw as he studies you. Those dark eyes narrow like he's trying to dissect your words, find the hidden meaning behind them.

"And what exactly do you think you see?" The question comes out sharp, wrapped in cynicism.

"I see someone who needs their first coffee before dawn not because they love the taste." Your voice drops without you meaning it to, like you're sharing a secret neither of you is ready to acknowledge. "But because they need something certain when everything else isn't."

Silence falls.

But Jeon doesn't look away.

That storm that usually rages behind his eyes goes quiet, replaced by what you think is understanding, or maybe just resignation.

"You're reaching." His smirk doesn't quite land, missing that usual bite. There's a pause before he says it though—just long enough to make you wonder if you hit closer to home than he wants to admit.

"Maybe." You hum. "Or maybe I just pay attention."

Jeon stares at you like he's seeing something new, something that doesn't quite fit with whatever image he had of you before.

"Or maybe," he whispers, eyes dark and tinged with slight amusement, "you just like pushing buttons to see what happens."

"I prefer 'tactical engagement.'" You tilt your head, matching his tone. "Sounds more professional, don't you think?"

He turns back to the window, but not before you catch the ghost of what might have been a smile. The sky's starting to lighten, painting everything in soft greys and blues. When he speaks again, his voice has gone quiet, thoughtful in a way you've never heard before.

"Professional or not, it's still dangerous territory."

"You say that like it's supposed to scare me."

You don't mean for your words to come out that light, almost teasing. But then again, everything about Jeon is uncertain. It's weird how each conversation with him feels like carefully picking your way across thin ice—reckless indeed, but kind of thrilling too.

The scoff he lets out in response sounds almost fond. Almost. When he faces you again, he leans against the windowsill, and you notice how the early light catches on his eyebrow piercing.

"If it doesn't scare you yet..." His voice drops lower. "It should. You can never be too careful around here."

The way he says it makes you think he's not just talking about coffee anymore. Like he's implying something darker. Something that hints at experiences you probably don't want to know about. But instead of making you want to back off, it just makes you more curious about what lies behind all those walls he's built.

You study him for a moment, trying to read between the lines. Everything in Kkangpae has double meanings—even warnings about coffee, apparently.

"I'll keep that in mind." You respond. "And don't worry, your precious first cup is safe from me."

"Aren't you just a ray of sunshine." His lips twitch, and for a second you catch something that might almost be a smile—gone so fast you could've imagined it, but the memory of it lingers like smoke.

"Also..." The words stick in your throat for a second, but fuck it. Here goes nothing. "Thanks for the croissant."

He stiffens. A blink follows—one that lasts a heartbeat too long. If you weren't watching so closely, you might have missed it.

"Don't know what you're talking about." His voice goes flat, dismissive—like you're crazy for even making such assumption. But there's something in his eyes before he turns away—something that colors his reaction. You don't know what color, though.

Maybe Yunjin wasn't so far off after all.

Silence descends again between you two, and so you take that as your cue to leave, pushing off from the wall with a small nod. Your footsteps echo down the hallway as you head for the elevator, each click against stone counting down the seconds until dawn.

Then his voice catches you mid-step, low and quiet like he's talking more to himself than you:

"Glad you liked it."

You freeze, caught between wanting to turn around and knowing you shouldn't. Because this feels oddly like something fragile; perhaps vulnerability he didn't mean to show. Like catching a glimpse of something wild and knowing any sudden movement might make it disappear.

So you stay there, suspended between one step and the next, letting that quiet admission settle in the pre-dawn air.

But you don't turn around.

Jeon deserves that small reprieve.

—-

Takama turns out to be nothing like you expected.

You'd figured Jeon's second-in-command would be a mini-version of him—all stormy eyes and cynical sarcasm, ready to freeze you with a glare. That's what would make sense, right? Deputies usually mirror their leaders, picking up their habits like cats picking up fleas.

But Takama? He's about as similar to Jeon as a gentle breeze is to a hurricane.

Sure, he's quiet and precise—you've never seen someone demonstrate a low kick with such mechanical perfection. But that's where the similarities end. There's nothing cold or distant about the way he corrects your stance, nothing harsh in how he points out your mistakes. Even when you mess up the same move for the fifth time, his patience doesn't crack.

The training room feels different with him here. Less intimidating, somehow, even though Takama commands respect in his own way. His shaved head and slate gray eyes give him this intense monk-warrior vibe, but without the whole "I could kill you with a glance" energy that radiates off Jeon.

You'd been low-key terrified when you first walked in here. Your brain had conjured up all sorts of scenarios—because you didn't know what or who to expect. So the walk to the training room had felt like heading to your execution, each step heavier than the last.

Then you'd pushed open the door and found... just Takama.

No thorny roses. No brewing storms. Just a bald guy in training gear, looking about as threatening as your high school gym teacher.

Relief should've been your first reaction. But honestly? You had been more confused than anything. Yunjin's endless fountain of gang gossip had barely mentioned Takama beyond "he's Jeon's deputy."

Which begs the question—why is he the one teaching you?

The answer came to you a bit later.

After your injury, Jeon disappeared on some mission, and by the time J-Hope grudgingly cleared you for training, he still hadn't surfaced. V stuck around during your recovery, but naturally, the universe had other plans—he got sent out right when you were supposed to start training with Assassination.

So you had ended up assigned to Takama. Which honestly? Might be a blessing in disguise.

That first day, you'd been a nervous wreck. Two weeks of lying around while everyone else trained? Not great for the confidence. You'd walked into the training room expecting to get chewed out for falling behind.

Instead, you got... this.

This half-japanese (according to what he's told you) guy, who is nothing like his boss. Where Jeon fills a room like an incoming storm, Takama's presence is more like early morning fog—quiet, steady, impossible to pin down. No hurricane winds trying to knock you off balance, just... calm.

"Ready?"

His voice pulls you back to the present. The way he asks makes it sound like an actual question, not a challenge or a threat. Like if you said no, he'd actually wait.

You nod, watching as he flows through another set of combat moves. There's something almost peaceful about how he fights—each motion precise, purposeful, no energy wasted. Like watching someone solve a complicated math problem with perfect handwriting.

Your first attempt at copying him is... less graceful. Your body feels clumsy, still remembering two weeks of forced rest. But Takama just watches, gray eyes taking everything in without judgment.

"Your balance is off." He steps closer, adjusting your shoulder with careful hands. "Try shifting your weight here instead."

The training room door creaks open and you freeze mid-movement, that familiar scent of pine and mint hitting you before you even turn around.

Oh.

Jeon stands in the doorway like some drama lead making his entrance, gym bag slung over one shoulder. For a second, surprise flickers across his face (guess he wasn't expecting company). His fingers tighten on the bag strap like he's considering turning around, but then he steps inside anyway, letting the door click shut behind him.

The room feels smaller suddenly.

You catch that slight shift in the air that always comes with his presence, like the pressure drop before a storm. Takama doesn't react beyond a quick glance, probably used to Jeon randomly showing up to brood and punch things.

Those dark eyes sweep over you and Takama, something flashing in them before he looks away. He heads straight for the boxing area, dropping his bag with a thud that echoes in the quiet room. He seems to be starting his prep routine, and it looks almost meditative—like he's done this a thousand times before.

You look at Takama, wondering if you should... what? Leave? Apologize for existing in Jeon's general vicinity? But Takama just gives you this tiny nod that clearly means 'ignore him, keep working.'

So you do. Or try to. Because—easier said than done.

Your rhythm's all off now. You keep catching glimpses of Jeon as he methodically removes his rings, setting each one aside carefully. You don't mean to look but... The way he wraps his hands is almost hypnotic. Years of practice, you bet.

He doesn't look your way once, completely absorbed in his own thing. His brow's furrowed slightly, that little crease appearing that usually means he's either concentrating really hard or plotting someone's murder. h̶o̶p̶e̶f̶u̶l̶l̶y̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶s̶

And honestly? The contrast is almost funny—you and Takama over here doing your best sensei-student routine, while Jeon radiates 'don't fucking talk to me' energy from his corner.

"Focus." Takama adjusts your stance again with gentle hands.

And the thing is... You're trying, really trying, but your attention keeps drifting to the other side of the room like a compass finding north.

Because Jeon's started his shadow boxing routine, and it's... distracting. Each punch flows into the next like water, and you catch yourself wondering how someone who radiates such raw strength can move with such precision.

Then your eyes meet his in the mirror for a split second. Something flickers across his face—maybe surprise, maybe something else—before his signature aloofness slides back into place. His usual scent is stronger now that he's working up a sweat.

You force yourself to look away, taking a deep breath that's supposed to help you focus but just fills your lungs with his scent. t̶h̶a̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶h̶e̶l̶p̶i̶n̶g̶

You try to concentrate on Takama's instructions, but your body won't cooperate. Every movement feels wrong, awkward, like you've forgotten how your limbs work.

"Keep it fluid," Takama reminds you, adjusting your elbow. "You're too stiff."

You nod, but 'fluid' feels impossible right now. Your movements are wobbly, hesitating, nothing like the smooth precision you're aiming for. Against your better judgment, you steal another glance at Jeon.

He's moved to the punching bag now, each hit echoing through the room with a thunderous rhythm. The way his muscles move under his shirt is... d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶a̶c̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ completely irrelevant to your training.

You try again, but your next sequence is even worse.

The sigh that escapes you is pure frustration.

You can feel Jeon's eyes on you sometimes, brief glances that burn like touches, and it's making everything harder.

This would be so much easier if he'd just stayed in his room cleaning sniper rifles or whatever he does. But no —he has to be over there looking like some kind of combat god while you fumble through basic forms like a newborn giraffe.

"You're being too soft, Takama." Jeon's voice cuts through the room like ice.

The steady rhythm of the punching bag has stopped, and suddenly the air feels thunderous.

Takama just nods, that zen master calm never wavering. But before he can resume the lesson, Jeon's already moving toward you both, rolling his shoulders like he's getting ready to pounce.

Your stomach does this weird flip thing as he approaches. The scent of pine gets stronger with each step, and you try very hard not to notice how his tank top shows off those tattoos crawling up his arms.

"Let me show you." His voice drops low, almost a growl, and yeah—that's not helping your concentration at all.

Takama steps back, clearly recognizing when to bow out, the traitor.

Jeon moves behind you, and suddenly breathing becomes an advanced skill you've forgotten how to master. His hands wrap around your wrists—warm and steady and way too gentle for someone who looks like he could break you in half.

"Like this." The words ghost across your ear, and you suppress a shiver.

He adjusts your stance, every touch feeling deliberate, calculated. You try to focus on the actual instructions, but all you can think about is how his chest is barely inches from your back and how he smells like mint and forest and leather.

"You need to relax."

Easy for him to say. You're pretty sure 'relaxed' isn't even in your vocabulary right now, not with him standing so fucking close.

His hands guide you through the movement again, and you wonder if he can feel your pulse racing under his fingers. If he notices how your breath catches when his thumb brushes over your inner wrist.

t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶t̶o̶r̶t̶u̶r̶e̶ This is training. Just training. Nothing else.

"Come on. Hit me." Jeon immediately drops into a defensive stance in front of you, those tattooed arms raised like living art.

You blink at him, caught between t̶h̶i̶r̶s̶t̶y̶ surprise and uncertainty. Those dark eyes watch you through the cage of his hands, waiting. Patient. Testing.

When you finally throw a punch, it's half-hearted at best. Not because you think he can't take it—you're pretty sure Jeon could stare down a freight train until it apologized—but because you're too busy trying not to notice his fucking biceps.

His eyebrows draw together, disappointment written all over his stupidly perfect face. "Are you trying to dance tango with the enemy?" The scoff in his voice hits like a slap. "Again."

The criticism stings, but it also lights something inside you. That familiar spark of fuck you that Jeon seems particularly good at igniting. You reset your stance, squaring up to face him properly this time.

"Didn't know you danced." You can't help the smirk that tugs at your lips. "Though tango does take two. Unless you're scared to lead?"

His eyes narrow, and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. He doesn't move an inch, but somehow his stillness feels dangerous. Like a storm gathering strength.

"I always lead." His voice drops lower, rougher. The words feel like fingers trailing down your spine. "Question is, can you keep up?"

You know he's talking about fighting. He has to be. But there's something else in his voice, in the way his eyes track your movements, that makes your mind go places.

You throw yourself into the next punch with everything you've got. No more half-measures—if he wants a fight, he'll get one. Even if you know he'll probably dodge it because he's t̶i̶n̶f̶u̶r̶i̶a̶t̶i̶n̶g̶l̶y̶ annoyingly good at this.

Sure enough, Jeon deflects your fist like he's swatting away a fly. The movement is so smooth it's almost insulting. His eyes catch yours as you follow through, and you swear you see a spark of actual amusement breaking through.

"Maybe you should try leading better."

You don't know what you expect when the words fly out your mouth.

Maybe a disbelieving laugh.

Maybe a reprimand.

But then something weird happens.

Because Jeon smirks. Actually smirks, like the ice sculpture suddenly remembered how to have human expressions.

It's so unexpected you almost miss your next block.

"And maybe," his voice drops lower, teasing in a way that does funny things to your stomach, "you should follow instructions better."

You've never heard him sound like that. Playful. None of his usual arctic blast. It's... h̶o̶t̶ distracting.

"Can't when the instructor doesn't know how to give them." You fire back because apparently your mouth has a death wish and your heart's racing, and you tell yourself it's just from the exercise.

"That's why you're here getting lessons, and I'm here teaching them?"

The condescension in his voice should be annoying.

It is annoying.

But somehow it's hot too.

You're suddenly very aware of how close he is, how his eyes haven't left yours, how the thin fabric of his tank top clings to his shoulders.

"Guess seduction skills don't translate to combat," Jeon says, and god, you want to wipe that smug look off his face.

"Good thing I'm not trying to seduce you then." You quip, heart pounding against your ribs fighting a mix of exertion and something else you'd rather not examine.

He scoffs, circling you. "Good indeed. Because you'd fail miserably."

"Don't flatter yourself, Jeon." You mirror his movements, keeping your distance. Your muscles tense, ready to dodge. "You're just a man. My division's bread and butter."

"Is that why you keep dancing around me instead of landing a blow?"

"Maybe I'm studying you. That's what we do—find the cracks, the weak spots."

"And have you found mine?"

"Still working on it." You fake left, but he reads you like an open book. Bastard.

"Keep trying." His lips quirk up, just barely. "You might surprise yourself."

Fuck it. You're done playing defense. You lunge forward, aiming for his left side. Your movements are sharper now, more deliberate. The countless hours of training are finally starting to show.

Jeon blocks your attack, but there's a slight nod—the closest thing to approval you'll probably ever get from him.

"Not bad." He steps back, giving you space to reset your stance. "You're learning."

You drop your arms and watch him. He seems to smile now, head tilting. He looks less hostile now, more... huh?

"But don't get too comfortable, sunshine." His voice drops low, and what the fuck is that nickname supposed to mean? "In both seduction and assassination, the moment you think you've figured it all out is the moment you've lost."

You barely have time to process the s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ unexpected nickname before he's moving. It's a feint to the left—you can tell by the way his weight shifts. You dodge right, proud for reading him correctly, but he swipes you off your feet with a low kick.

Oh shit.

You're going down, but your seduction training kicks in—never waste an opportunity. Your fingers grab his shirt, pulling him with you.

If you're eating mat today, he's joining the menu.

His eyes widen slightly—ha, bet he didn't see that coming. His perfect little training session just went off-script.

Your back hits the mat with a loud thud, and he catches himself on his forearms, caging you beneath him. A strand of his black hair falls forward, and god, it's unfair how he manages to look good even when you've just ruined his whole flow.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, and you tell yourself it's just the adrenaline from the fall. Nothing to do with how his dark eyes are locked on yours, or how the scent of pine and wood seems stronger this close.

Your fingers are still twisted in his shirt—you should let go, but you don't. The fabric bunches under your grip. He doesn't move, but his muscles flex. It's n̶i̶c̶e̶ irrelevant how solid he feels.

The silver chain around his neck dangles between you, catching the fluorescent lights. You focus on that instead of his face, watching it swing with each breath he takes. Better than meeting his eyes or thinking about how his minty breath fans across your cheeks.

But your gaze betrays you, drifting up to his face anyway, and the way his dark eyes are slightly wider than usual... makes him look—

A throat clearing shatters the moment.

Takama.

Great. You forgot he existed.

Jeon tenses above you, jaw tightening as he acknowledges his deputy with a short nod. Less than a second, and his whole leader persona is back.

He pushes himself up in one fluid motion, extending a hand to help you. Honestly, weird polite coming from him, but you take it anyway. His palm is warm and calloused against yours as he pulls you to your feet.

"If we're done with the k-drama moments," you say, hoping your voice sounds steadier than you feel, "I'd like to try that move again, thundercloud."

The nickname slips out before you can stop it—petty payback for his "sunshine" earlier. His eyebrow ticks up slightly, and his face is a mix of amusement and deadpan.

But you force yourself to focus. You have a point to prove, after all. You're not some swooning romance novel heroine, and he's definitely not your prince charming.

He's just Jeon—cold, distant, p̶r̶e̶t̶t̶y̶ irritating Jeon. And you're just trying to learn how to fight better. That's all this is.

That's all this will be.

But then, he says:

"Sure thing, sunshine."

And it's pure sin.

 

Chapter 9: chai

Summary:

"Sweetness doesn’t have a place in Jeon’s life, or at least it didn’t, until now. Because he’s been craving vanilla and cardamom and… chai? Hoseok is as annoying as always, and the fact that you may be at tonight’s celebration is… something he doesn’t quite know how to process."

Notes:

I can literally HEAR all your "I can fix him" screams from here and honestly? SAME. I, too, want to fix the emotionally constipated sniper who probably sleeps with his combat boots on (￣ω￣)

Here's the thing—I started this whole endeavor thinking I'd stick strictly to the protagonist's POV. Very tunnel vision, very "we only know what she knows" vibes. But then Jeon's broody ass started living rent-free in my head and I was like... fuck, I want to show what's happening in that disaster brain of his too???

I'm sure you know the feeling. When reading, you just NEED to know what the hell is going on behind those cold eyes and that jaw that could cut glass. But it gets tricky, especially when you're trying to do this whole slow reveal thing without dumping too much info at once.

And trust me, the character of Jeon is like a cocktail made by a bartender who's having an existential crisis—way too many conflicting ingredients, definitely going to give you a hangover, but you're still going to drink it because you hate yourself. Or love pain. Or both.

So I decided to include snippets of his POV sometimes. It feels necessary—some conversations need to happen when our protagonist isn't there, and some emotional baggage needs unpacking for you readers to understand what's actually going on (like back in chapter 2 when we got that glimpse into his head).

Now, I'd love to ask for your opinion on this whole POV-switching business, but let's be real—this story is pretty much gonna be completed by the time you're reading this author's note. So... I'm just gonna trust my chaotic writer instincts on this one.

And if you don't like getting glimpses into Jeon's beautiful disaster of a mind? Well... you're gonna like it today anyway (•̀ᴗ•́)━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

Jungkook doesn't do sweets. Never has.

His world operates in darker shades, tactical operations and precise calculations. Sweetness belongs to a different universe—one of bright colors and soft edges that he left behind long ago.

Sometimes a piece of candy appears in his pocket, usually after a meeting with JM who keeps bowls of them everywhere. He'll unwrap it absently, the crinkle of plastic echoing in his quiet office. Let it dissolve on his tongue while reviewing mission reports. The initial sweetness isn't unpleasant, stirring something old and forgotten in his chest.

But it never lasts.

The sugar becomes too much, coating his mouth like an unwelcome invasion. 

Cloying. 

Suffocating. 

He usually tosses the rest, wondering why he even bothered.

Lately though, something's changed. 

He finds himself reaching for vanilla cookies in the cafeteria. Ordering cardamom tea instead of his usual black coffee. Small impulses he can't explain, like his body's searching for something his mind hasn't caught up to yet.

And now?

Now the clock reads 4:16 AM. 

It's yet another night of minimal sleep—three and a half hours if he's being generous. The neon numbers mock him from his bedside table, surrounded by an array of pills that could probably tranquilize an elephant. 

All prescribed by J-Hope.

All increasingly useless.

Benzos. Narcotics. Nothing touches the corners of his insomnia anymore.

He's been fighting with his sheets for the past hour, tangled evidence of another failed attempt at rest. The black covers pool around his feet like spilled ink. His bedroom surrounds him in familiar darkness—walls painted to absorb light rather than reflect it, matching the void that lives behind his ribs.

The king-sized bed stretches out like empty territory, conquered by nothing but restless thoughts and the occasional phantom of memory. His room is a fortress built of clean lines and minimal decoration, a cell of his own design where even the shadows know better than to dance.

But lately, even this usually comforting solitude feels... different. Like something's missing. Something warm and sweet that he can't quite name.

Jungkook steps into the cold, the floor a shock against his bare feet. The shadows stretch across his bedroom, making the space feel hollow and vast at 4 AM. His movements are silent—years of training making even his insomnia graceful.

The lounge area of his wing feels abandoned. Empty sofas and tables wait like props on a stage, missing their usual cast of lieutenants and strategists. During the day, this space buzzes with mission plans and tactical discussions. Now it's just him and the quiet.

He closes the door to his wing, crossing into the neutral territory of the entrance hall. It's the DMZ between his domain and V's—a thought that makes his head hurt. Even at this hour, he can feel the shift in energy. 

V's presence lingers here like a bad taste.

The access card feels heavy in his hand. A small piece of tech that reminds him of his rank, his responsibilities. AD's security system responds with a soft beep, elevator doors sliding open on silent tracks. He steps in, presses the button for the common area. It's not his usual haunt—too exposed, too public—but lately he's been drawn there.

The descent gives him time to think. His mind drifts between fragments of nightmares and that strange, persistent craving for sweetness. It's been haunting him for weeks now, this urge for vanilla and cardamom. 

For chai and spices.

Maybe his brain is trying to balance out the bitterness that fills his days, or maybe he's finally losing it.

The elevator announces his arrival with a quiet ding. The corridor stretches before him, dark and empty. Somewhere down there is the snack area, and maybe, if he's lucky, a moment of peace.

He moves towards the corridor. Posters and artwork splash color across the cream walls—a jarring contrast to his stark quarters. He never quite understood the need for decoration, but the members insist on making the space "lived in." Whatever that means.

After 3 minutes, the common lounge sprawls before him, so different from his wing's militant precision. Here, rank means little. Divisions blur. The high ceiling should make the space feel cold, but somehow it doesn't. Maybe it's the worn leather sofas or the gaming consoles scattered about like abandoned toys. 

The air smells of polish and something unknown yet weirdly tranquil—comfort, maybe. 

He pushes that thought away.

Vending machines hum quietly in the snack area. Behind the glass, rows of sweets beckon. His eyes linger on a vanilla protein bar, then drift to some cardamom cookies. The craving hits again, piercing and mercilessly insistent.

But he's not alone.

AD slouches in a puff chair, bathed in the blue light of his game screen. His face twisted in its usual scowl, fingers jabbing at buttons with unnecessary force. 

The sight stirs something in Jungkook's chest—regret, maybe. 

Or guilt. 

Both emotions he'd rather not examine.

Their eyes meet. The air grows heavy. Unspoken words. Shared trauma.

The gaming console beeps softly. AD's character dies on screen. The silence that follows feels like an accusation.

Jungkook notes the way AD's blonde hair glints in the dim light as his eyes snap to Jungkook. His fingers still on the controller, body shifting into something more guarded, more alert. 

Jungkook feels his muscles tense automatically. The late-night sugar craving fades to background noise as AD's frosty stare pins him in place. 

Like a fucking needle cutting into skin. 

His hand hovers over the door handle, and he can't decide whether to stay or retreat. There's too much history here, too many buried regrets—and AD's presence brings it all rushing back—memories Jungkook would rather keep locked away with his other nightmares.

He immediately clocks the way AD's face contorts—sharp and bitter—and it makes Jungkook's chest tighten with familiar remorse. 

The younger man has never quite forgiven him. 

Probably never will.

Just as Jungkook decides to leave, to return to the safety of his isolation, AD's voice slices through the silence.

"No need for you to scurry off." The words barely mask the hostility underneath. "Was about to leave anyway."

Jungkook forces his shoulders to relax, though his jaw remains tight. Their paths cross rarely these days, and when they do, it's always like this—loaded silences and measured distance.

AD sets the controller down. Sharp. Angry. His movements are stiff as he rises, radiating enmity in waves that fill the common room. The scent of fresh lemons—AD's signature—grows stronger as he approaches.

But Jungkook doesn't move. 

Doesn't flinch. 

He deserves this, after all. This anger, this hostility, this remorse that reminds him of betrayals he can never make right.

The collision comes swift and deliberate—AD's shoulder slamming into his with force. The impact jolts through Jungkook's body, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the guilt that floods his system. His throat tightens with dusty apologies he knows AD would never accept.

He watches him stride away, the blonde's back rigid with years of accumulated anger. The sound of his footsteps fades down the corridor, leaving Jungkook alone with the quiet hum of the vending machines and his own thoughts.

There was a time when AD looked up to him, when their dynamic was different—better. Now all that remains is this bitter aftermath, this chasm Jungkook carved with his own choices. The memory of who they used to be makes the present cut deeper.

The gaming console's screen still glows, enhancing AD's absence in the empty chair he left behind. The 'GAME OVER' message blinks mockingly. Jungkook's fingers twitch, remembering late nights spent teaching AD new gaming strategies, back when trust wasn't such a foreign concept between them.

He should feel angry at the shoulder check; at the constant hostility that feels like a reprimand. 

But all he feels is hollow. 

Empty. 

Because how can he blame AD for hating him when he did this? When he destroyed something irreplaceable with decisions he can never take back?

He can't help but stare down the empty corridor where AD disappeared, the bitter taste of their encounter lingering longer than he'd like. His craving for sweetness feels almost desperate now—a childish attempt to wash away the guilt that gnaws at his chest.

His throat tightens. He swallows hard, trying to maintain the aloofness expected of Kkangpae's deadliest sniper. 

But it's hard, when AD's hostility has cracked something open inside him, letting old memories seep through like poison.

The vending machines hum quietly, offering a welcome distraction. He scans the selection without really seeing it, until—

Croissants.

Something shifts in his stomach at the sight of those packaged pastries. They're nothing like the fresh ones from the cafeteria, the ones you always grab during breakfast. Not that he's been watching. It's just that you're always there when he is, picking up one of those flaky pastries along with your coffee.

He's noticed, despite himself, how early you arrive to snag them before they run out. Same time as him, though his early mornings are spent running from nightmares rather than hunting down breakfast.

The memory of your routine feels oddly grounding after his encounter with AD. It's something simple, predictable. 

Unlike the mess of guilt and regret that follows him through these halls at night.

It's a strange comfort, this knowledge of your habits. 

One he doesn't understand.

One he probably doesn't deserve.

The scent of fresh lemons still lingers in the air, like a ghost of bridges burned and trust fractured. But as Jungkook stares at those artificially-made croissants, he finds himself thinking of chai tea instead.

He tears his gaze away, scanning other options until he spots a nutty protein bar. Practical. Sensible. The kind of choice the Chief of Tactical Assassinations should make. 

He jabs at the keypad hastily, and then, the machine whirs and drops his selection with a dull thud.

The wrapper crinkles in his grip as he retrieves it. Such a simple thing—choosing a late-night snack. No one gets hurt. No trust gets broken. No consequences ripple through the gang's hierarchy. 

Just him and a protein bar at 4 AM.

The common room feels different now that AD's gone. Quieter. Jungkook lets himself breathe, really breathe, for what feels like the first time since AD's shoulder slammed into his.

He should feel worse, probably. Should let the weight of past betrayals and broken friendships crush him like they usually do. But something about this moment—this stupid protein bar in his hand, the quiet of the room, the lingering thought of croissants and early mornings—makes everything feel a bit lighter.

His lips almost twitch into what could be a smile. It's weird, this tiny bubble of something in his chest. Almost like contentment. He doesn't examine it too closely, afraid it might shatter.

The corridors don't feel as suffocating as he makes his way back to his wing. The shadows seem less interested in reminding him of his sins. 

For now, in this small hour between night and dawn, he allows himself this moment of peace.

He probably doesn't deserve it. But for once, he takes it anyway.

Jungkook stares at his lunch without really seeing it. 

The cafeteria bustles around him, but he's carved out his own bubble of silence at the far end of a long table. It's better this way—no small talk, no pretending to care about division gossip.

His chopsticks push a piece of fish back and forth across his plate. The encounter with AD keeps replaying in his mind, each memory tasting bitter like the coffee he's been nursing for the past hour. Some wounds, he's learning, don't heal with time. They just scab over, waiting to be picked open again.

And then, a tray clatters across from him. 

J-Hope drops into the seat, his white medical coat slightly rumpled from what's probably been a busy morning in the infirmary. The doctor's eyes scan Jungkook's face with scrutiny, his mouth pulling into that familiar worried frown.

"You look like shit," J-Hope announces, ever the picture of bedside manner. "Two hours of sleep? Maybe less?"

Jungkook shrugs, still focused on mutilating his fish. "Don't count anymore."

"Those new meds I gave you—" J-Hope starts, unwrapping his sandwich with more force than necessary. "You're actually taking them, right?"

"They don't work." The words come out flat. "Nothing does."

"Jesus christ," J-Hope mumbles through a bite of sandwich. "Have you tried, I don't know, taking them before you spend six hours staring at your ceiling? Maybe with some tea?"

The concern in J-Hope's voice makes something twist in Jungkook's chest. 

He doesn't deserve this—the worry, the care, any of it. 

Not after everything. 

But J-Hope is one of the few people who still treats him like a person rather than a cautionary tale, so he tries to sound less dismissive when he responds.

"I don't need a lesson on how to take pills. They just don't work for me."

The doctor sets his sandwich down, eyebrows pulling together. A bit of lettuce falls out. "Look, I know you've built up tolerance, but we need to find something that works. You can't keep going like this."

"I'm fine." He's not, but he doesn't truly care. "Function better on less sleep anyway. More efficient."

"That's bullshit and you know it." J-Hope's voice rises slightly, anger seeping through. "You think I can't see what this is doing to you? The mood swings? The isolation? This isn't healthy, Jungkook."

Jungkook flinches at the use of his real name. "I don't need a lecture. I'm handling it."

"Oh yeah, real healthy coping strategy." J-Hope's scoff holds more concern than mockery. "Just pretend everything's fine while you run yourself into the ground."

Exhaustion weighs heavy on Jungkook's bones. Three hours of sleep and memories of AD's hostility from last night make his tongue looser than usual. "Maybe you should prescribe me your finest benzos. Let me wash them down with vodka. That ought to do the trick."

The slam of J-Hope's palm against the table makes the silverware jump. Several heads turn their way, but Jungkook can't bring himself to care. 

"If you want to kill yourself," J-Hope's voice is deadly quiet, trembling with rage, "don't you dare make it my prescription."

The cafeteria suddenly feels too small, too crowded. J-Hope's worry tastes bitter in the back of Jungkook's throat, mixing with guilt he doesn't have the energy to process. He shouldn't have said that—shouldn't have joked about something so dark. But three hours of sleep and a lifetime of regrets make it hard to care about much of anything anymore.

Silence stretches between them. Jungkook stares at his mangled fish, not really eating anymore. He knows what's coming—J-Hope never could leave well enough alone.

The doctor's voice softens, trying a different approach. "Have you considered meditation? Or maybe some calming music? I know a sleep therapist who—"

"I don't need a damn therapist." Jungkook's tongue plays with his lip ring, a nervous habit he can't shake. 

The metal tastes bitter, or maybe that's just the exhaustion talking.

Because J-Hope is wrong. Therapy won't fix this. Pills won't fix this. Nothing can erase what happened, what he let happen. Some stains don't wash out, no matter how hard you scrub.

"Look, Jungkook." J-Hope uses his real name again, and his throat constricts uncontrollably. "Ever since what happened with—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharp enough to cut.

J-Hope holds his gaze, unflinching. "You can't keep punishing yourself forever."

"I'm not discussing this." His voice turns to steel, matching the cold weight that's made a home in his chest.

Another sigh from J-Hope as he leans back. "Fine. But you know where to find me when you're ready to actually try and fix this."

Jungkook's jaw clenches so hard it hurts, a muscle jumping under his skin. But he stays quiet. What's the point of arguing when J-Hope doesn't understand? 

Some things aren't meant to be fixed. 

Some people don't deserve to be.

Jungkook pushes his half-eaten lunch away with a tired sigh. He can feel it coming—the same conversation they have every year.

"So," J-Hope starts, right on cue. "Making an appearance tonight or pulling your usual disappearing act?" He peers at Jungkook over his coffee mug, eyes too knowing for comfort.

"Haven't decided." The words come out clipped, because he feels already exhausted by the mere thought of socializing.

"You should come." J-Hope takes a careful sip. "Might help to interact with actual humans instead of just your rifle for a change."

"I interact plenty." It sounds defensive even to his own ears.

"Glaring at people from across the room doesn't count as interaction." J-Hope's voice is dry as desert sand. "Neither does grunting one-word responses."

Jungkook's tongue finds his lip ring, playing with it absently. "It's just a casual thing. Not mandatory."

"Right, just our leader's rise to power celebration. Totally insignificant." The doctor's sarcasm could cut glass. "Definitely not something a Council member should show face at."

"RM himself said it's not formal." 

"Maybe not officially. But you know what it means to everyone else. Especially the newer ones—shows them what we're about, what matters to us."

Newer ones. The words make him hold his breath. He thinks of Yunjin's bright enthusiasm, of your sharp wit. Of how you'll probably be there tonight.

The thought doesn't help him decide whether he wants to go more, or run faster in the opposite direction.

"You seem perfectly capable of handling traditions without me."

"For fuck's sake, Jungkook." The doctor's frustration bleeds through. "This isn't about tradition. It's about you actually being part of the team for once. Don't you ever get tired of the whole lone wolf act?"

Something bitter rises in Jungkook's throat. His tongue presses against his cheek—a habit from childhood he never quite shook.

Silence. He takes a slow breath, measuring his words. 

"I'll think about showing up."

It's not a yes, but J-Hope takes what he can get. The doctor's shoulders relax slightly as he leans back, apparently satisfied with even this crumb of compliance.

"Got patients waiting," J-Hope says, collecting his things. The coffee mug scrapes against the tray. "Try to sleep before tonight, yeah?"

Jungkook makes a noncommittal sound, already drifting into thoughts of empty corridors and quiet corners where he won't have to pretend to be social. Where he won't have to see AD's hatred or V's cruel smile. Where he won't have to watch you move through the crowd, chai-scented and d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶a̶c̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ irrelevant.

J-Hope's footsteps fade into the cafeteria buzz, leaving Jungkook alone with his cold coffee and colder thoughts. 

Another conversation that changes nothing, fixes nothing.

Just like everything else in his life.

"What?"

The word tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it. 

Smooth, real smooth.

Chaewon snorts, eyes crinkling. "Right, keep forgetting you're still a baby gang member. Tonight's the whole 'RM took over this shitshow' party."

You frown, because seriously? Four months in and you're just now hearing about this? Some Seduction Division recruit you are.

"It's not a big deal," Chaewon adds, probably seeing the confusion on your face. "RM didn't even start it. We just got drunk on the first anniversary and now it's a thing."

Eunchae pops her head between you and Chaewon, her light brown hair tickling your cheek. "Plus, you know. Give gang members an excuse to drink and we'll run with it."

You lean back against the couch, letting your head fall back softly. 

Great. 

Another Kkangpae tradition you and Yunjin missed the memo on. At this rate, you'll still be the clueless newbies when you're both grey and wrinkled.

"So what, we just show up and get wasted?" you ask, trying to sound casual. Like you're not low-key freaking out about what to wear or how to act around the higher-ups when they're three sheets to the wind.

Chaewon shrugs, picking at her nails. "Pretty much. Some people get all fancy, others come in sweatpants. It's not like RM gives a shit either way."

A flash of bubblegum pink catches your eye. Yunjin shuffles in, hair wrapped in a towel and dripping onto her shoulders. Perfect timing, as always.

"Did someone say alcohol?" She plops down on the sofa arm, water droplets flying everywhere. "Because I'm not playing nurse again tonight."

"That was one time!" Eunchae's voice pitches up in defense. "And that mark needed me to drink!"

Kazuha snorts. "You could've said no."

"To free drinks?" Eunchae spins around, hand on her chest like she's been mortally wounded. "In this economy?"

"She's got a point," Sakura drawls from her sprawl across the couch. Her long legs dangle over the armrest, taking up way too much space.

Yunjin tugs at her towel, rolling her eyes. "Well, don't come crying to me when you're hugging the toilet later."

You can't help but laugh. These idiots are really your team now. "I take it parties get pretty wild around here?"

"Oh honey." Kazuha's lips twitch. "There's a reason strip poker got banned."

"I'm sorry, what?" Your eyes go wide. Because what.

"It was brief but iconic." Eunchae grins, nudging your shoulder. "Sakura tried to slide across a table."

"And I would've made it!" Sakura calls out, not even bothering to lift her head. "That loose board was sabotage, I swear."

"Sure, blame the table." Eunchae turns to you with a conspiratorial wink. "Just wait till you see what happens when someone breaks out the tequila."

You raise an eyebrow, already mentally noting which Council members to avoid when the drinks start flowing. 

"Thanks for the warning. I'll stay away from any furniture surfing attempts."

Your teammates' laughter fills the room, and something warm blooms in your chest. It's weird how these chaotic idiots have become your f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶y̶ friends in just four months.

Chaewon leans back, crossing her legs. "Tonight's pretty chill though. Eat, drink, try not to pass out in a bush somewhere."

"Now that's what I'm talking about." Eunchae bounces in her seat like an overexcited golden retriever.

"Open field, 8 PM." Chaewon's voice shifts into what you've dubbed her 'mom tone.' "We're doing BBQ, and there'll be enough booze to knock out a small army. Wear whatever, but bundle up—it gets cold as balls out there."

"That's two hours from now!" Eunchae flops dramatically across the couch. "Two whole hours. I'm starving now."

"Is food literally all you think about?" Kazuha rolls her eyes, but there's fondness in her tone.

"I could think about other things." Eunchae wiggles her eyebrows. "But food's never disappointed me like men do."

You snort at that. She's not wrong. In your four months here, you've learned (mostly from Yunjin's gossip) that Kkangpae men are like a box of chocolates—mostly bitter, occasionally nutty, and always complicated.

The girls dissolve into giggles again, and you find yourself joining in. Maybe it's the promise of alcohol, or maybe it's just the way these dorks make even a deadly criminal organization feel weirdly homey, but you're actually looking forward to tonight.

God help you.

It's 8:10 PM when you finally head out. You went with comfy over fancy—oversized grey hoodie over a white turtleneck, because fuck freezing to death. The thermal lining is probably the best purchase you've made since joining Kkangpae. That, and these loose jeans that actually have functional pockets.

A flash of pink appears in your peripheral vision before Yunjin loops her arm through yours, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

"Aren't you excited?" She bounces on her toes like a kid with a sugar rush. "I heard these parties are insane!"

You can't help but laugh. Her enthusiasm is s̶w̶e̶e̶t̶ infectious. But the elevator dings before you can respond, doors sliding open to reveal—oh.

V lounges inside, arm draped over JM's shoulders like the Finance Chief is his personal armrest. JM seems unbothered, wearing that patient smile he gets when dealing with V's... everything. His salmon-colored hair looks soft under the elevator lights.

"Ladiessssss!" V draws out the word like he's auditioning for Parseltongue lessons. He shifts to make room, though his arm stays firmly around JM. "Coming to party with us common folk?"

"Free food's free food." You shrug, stepping in beside Yunjin who's still clinging to your arm.

She giggles at your response, squeezing your arm tighter. You catch JM's eye and nod—proper respect for a Council member and all that. He returns it with a warm smile that makes his eyes crinkle behind his round glasses.

The elevator feels smaller with four people, especially when one of them is V taking up space like it's his job. But hey, at least it's not AD. Or worse, J̶e̶o̶n̶ certain other Council members.

"Evening, JM." You smile at him, because it's hard not to. His aura always feels like a warm blanket—the complete opposite of V's chaotic energy.

"Good evening." JM's voice is soft, gentle. "I hope the night finds you well."

"What is this, fucking Shakespeare?" V waves his hand dismissively. "Save the fancy talk for business hours. Tonight's for getting wasted and making bad decisions. Luckily we will be free of certain judgemental stares."

"V." JM's warning comes with a poorly hidden smile.

"What? Just saying what everyone thinks." V grins, all teeth. "Not my fault someone walks around like they've got a steel rod up their ass."

"Pretty sure that's just the natural reaction to dealing with you for years." The words slip out before you can stop them.

"Wow. Wow." V pretends you've stabbed him in the chest. "Already picking sides? And here I thought we were gonna be besties."

You roll your eyes. "Not picking sides. Just speaking from personal experience."

"Brief experience," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "You haven't seen all my charms yet. I grow on people, like mold."

"That's... not the selling point you think it is."

Finally the metallic doors open to the ground floor. Through the glass gates, you can see the open field where everyone's gathering. The sky's already dark, stars peeking through like tiny paint droplets.

Here goes nothing.

The field buzzes with activity, gang members scattered around like the stars peppered across the night sky. A bonfire crackles in the middle, throwing warm light over everyone's faces. The smell of BBQ makes your stomach growl—you haven't eaten since lunch.

RM's white hair catches the firelight, making him look almost ethereal. It's weird seeing him like this, gesturing animatedly as he talks. The fearsome leader of Kkangpae, actually laughing. Who knew?

Moon hovers by the drinks, playing bartender—although still maintaining his usual polite efficiency. Though tonight his smile seems more genuine, less 'I'm being nice because I'm your superior' and more 'want another beer?'

Jessi and Chaewon huddle together near the fire, probably plotting world domination or sharing gossip. The flames dance in Jessi's red hair while Chaewon leans in close, looking more relaxed than you've ever seen her during training.

V drags JM toward the grill, still attached to him like a very loud, very clingy octopus. "Make way for the master chefs!" he hollers, making JM shake his head with fond exasperation.

Your eyes scan the crowd before you can stop yourself. Looking for broad shoulders in black leather, for silver piercings catching firelight. For that scent of pine and wood that's become way too f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶i̶a̶r̶ noticeable lately.

But Jeon isn't here.

You feel something waver in your chest—disappointment maybe, or just hunger. 

Yeah, definitely hunger. 

You push the thought away and focus on the party. There's food and alcohol and your friends are here. That's what matters.

Yunjin tugs you toward the bonfire, and god, the warmth feels good after the castle's perpetual AC chill. It's weird seeing everyone so relaxed—like someone hit pause on all the gang politics and murder plots for one night.

You sink onto a log bench, letting the fire chase away the evening cold. The flames bathe everyone in soft gold, making even the most hardened killers look almost n̶i̶c̶e̶ normal for once.

J-Hope appears through the crowd like a ghost in his white medical coat, looking like he's about to collapse. The bags under his eyes have bags of their own, but he's still got that manic energy that keeps him running on fumes and spite.

He drops onto the bench nearby with a groan that sounds like his soul trying to escape. The scent of sandalwood follows him, mixing with woodsmoke.

"Rough day?" you ask, eyeing his very out-of-place doctor getup.

His laugh comes out more like a wheeze. "You could say that." He waves vaguely at his coat. "Didn't exactly get a wardrobe change break."

Yunjin giggles beside you, still clutching your arm like a pink-haired koala.

Your eyes scan the crowd again, definitely not looking for anyone s̶p̶e̶c̶i̶f̶i̶c̶ particular. "Where's the rest of the Council?"

"Well," J-Hope snorts, "AD's busy losing at League of Legends. Says he'll grace us with his presence when he's done raging at his screen."

"And Jeon?" The question slips out. Smooth. 

J-Hope answers your question with a nod toward the field entrance. Your eyes follow and—oh.

Jeon strides in with Takama, both of them loaded down with enough meat to feed a small country. The firelight catches on his silver piercings, and fuck, he shouldn't look this good just carrying groceries. Your heart does that stupid little skip thing it's been doing lately whenever he's around.

But it's like... something's different about him tonight. The usual ice-prince vibe is dialed down a notch, replaced by something almost... approachable.

Unapproachably approachable.

Takama actually has him engaged in conversation—a miracle in itself. His shaved head immediately grabs your attention as he says something that makes Jeon relax slightly.

They drop the meat by the grill, and you notice how Jeon's eyes sweep across the crowd. It's quick, casual, but you catch it anyway. There's something searching in his gaze, like he's looking for... well. Probably just checking the perimeter or whatever security shit he does.

You turn back to J-Hope, trying to ignore the warmth in your cheeks. "Even party night comes with duties, huh?"

"That's Kkangpae for you." J-Hope's voice carries a touch of dry humor. "We don't do proper days off here."

He's right. Even now, surrounded by laughter and firelight and the promise of good food, you're all still playing your parts. Though watching Jeon handle those heavy bags like they're nothing makes you think some roles aren't so bad to watch.

Get it together. 

You sink deeper into the bench, letting the bonfire's warmth seep into your bones. The sound of laughter and sizzling meat hovers around you; everyone's guard lowered just a fraction under the stars.

Takama then leads Jeon toward the fire, some members sprawled out on the grass around them like lazy cats. The deputy's eyes find yours, his smile genuine—a rare sight in your line of work.

"Ankle doing better?" he asks, and you're touched he remembers.

"All healed up, thanks." You return his smile, because Takama's one of the few higher-ups who actually seems to give a shit about the recruits.

Jeon just nods at you, dark eyes meeting yours for a split second before sliding away. You're starting to notice is his thing—minimal effort, maximum impact. Your skin prickles despite the fire's heat.

The conversation naturally flows around you, mission stories and inside jokes mixing seamlessly even between different divisions. You half-listen, too aware of Jeon's presence at the edge of the group. He pulls out his cigarettes with those r̶i̶d̶i̶c̶u̶l̶o̶u̶s̶l̶y̶ ̶n̶i̶c̶e̶ steady hands, placing one between his pierced lips in a way that makes your mouth go dry.

But before he can light up, J-Hope shoots him a look that could freeze hell. Some silent doctor-patient communication passes between them, and Jeon clicks his tongue, shoving the cigarette back in its pack. Frustration flashes across his face before he quickly shoves it down. 

But you catch yourself studying him—the way his fingers fidget with the lighter he can't use, how his jaw clenches when he's annoyed. Little details that paint a picture of the man behind the cold exterior. 

Not that you're paying special attention or anything.

Moon's got a nice little bar setup going by the drinks station. You could use something to take the edge off this weird night. So you stand up, already missing the bonfire's warmth whilst stretching your arms above your head.

"Getting drinks," you tell Yunjin, who's deep in conversation with some other recruits. "Want anything?"

Her eyes light up. "Beer, please!"

You glance at Takama, still chatting with his boss. "Beer run. You in?"

"That'd be great, thanks." His smile is genuinely warm.

You look at the doctor—J-Hope's been quiet, watching everything with those too-observant eyes—and ask him too. 

"Can I grab you something?"

"I don't drink." His tone is light but final. Like a door closing.

You nod, not pushing it. Your eyes drift to Jeon last, catching him staring into the flames like they hold all life's answers. He meets your gaze for a second, and you'd swear something unreadable flickering across his face before he looks away.

"Whisky on the rocks," he mutters, barely audible over the crackling fire.

You bite back a smile. Of course he drinks whisky. Probably the expensive kind too, the pretentious a̶s̶s̶h̶o̶l̶e̶ guy.

Moon's showing off his bartending skills to an impressed crowd when you approach. Time to see if the Deputy Commander makes drinks as precisely as he runs operations.

His back is turned to you as you approach, mixing something that probably has enough alcohol to knock out a horse. But he moves confidently, like he's done this a thousand times before.

When he finally finishes serving another member, you step up. His serious bartender face melts into something more welcoming.

"What can I get you?" He wipes his hands on a towel, all proper and polite as usual.

"Vodka lemonade for me," you say. "Plus whisky on the rocks and two beers for the others."

He nods, already reaching for bottles. "Coming right up."

You watch him work, impressed despite yourself. "Where'd you learn all this fancy mixing stuff?"

"Been around a while," he chuckles, measuring vodka into a shaker. "It's useful—nothing settles gang politics like a good drink."

"You're really good at this," you say, leaning against the counter. "Like, seriously good."

His hands pause for a split second. A small smile tugs at his lips. 

"Thanks. It's an old passion. Actually wanted to open my own bar once—somewhere quiet, away from all..." He gestures vaguely at the chaos around you.

"That's... not what I expected." You watch him pour whisky over ice with perfect precision. 

"Life's funny that way." He slices a lemon expertly. "We all had different plans before this. Different dreams. But here we are."

Something in his voice makes you pause—because yeah, it's so easy to forget sometimes that everyone here has a story, a before. Even Moon, with his perfect posture and formal suits, had different dreams once.

The thought sits heavy in your chest as he lines up your drinks. You wonder what dreams everyone else gave up to end up here, in a criminal organization's makeshift bar under the stars.

"What about you?" Moon asks, stirring your drink now. "Got any derailed dreams?"

You consider the question, because it feels surreal to be having this kind of talk with the Deputy Commander—usually conversations here stick to missions and murder plots.

"Pretty sure we all left something behind when we joined." The words come out slower than intended. "Different paths all leading to the same fucked up destination, right?"

Moon hands you the drinks, and his expression is softer. "That's gang life for you. Trade in your old self, get a new family and some trauma in return."

"Any regrets?"

He gets this far-away look, like he's seeing something beyond the makeshift bar. Then he shakes his head. 

"Made my choice. Even the darkest paths have their bright spots."

You take the drinks, mentally filing away this unexpectedly deep conversation with Kkangpae's second-in-command. Who knew he had a philosophical side under all that formality?

"Thanks for the drinks. And the..." You gesture vaguely with your chin, since your hands are full. "This whole thing."

His smile actually reaches his eyes this time. "Anytime. Now go before those drinks get warm."

"You joining us later?"

"Once dinner's ready." He's already turning to help another member.

You nod, somehow managing to stuff the beer cans in your hoodie pocket while balancing two glasses. The bonfire calls you back, its warmth promising more interesting conversations ahead.

Though probably none as surprising as this one.

Chapter 10: leather jacket

Notes:

OOOOP? Early chapter drop? Yup yup! Your support and enthusiasm reaching the goal for FMU 14 has truly motivated me and I was honestly SO hyped to post this and see you guys reactions? 👀

Not me having written a completely different version of how this chapter could have gone and keeping it from you all... (◕‿◕✿)

What can I say? That's what happens when you’re sad and horny. Don't worry though, I've saved it for... research purposes???

ANYWAY! There will be time for that in the future. Many times. Many, many times. *cackles maniacally while typing*

Is the slow burn slow burning enough for you? I don't know about you, but I LIVE for that charged atmosphere where every accidental brush of hands feels like someone dropped a toaster in a bathtub. The lingering stares! The almost-moments! The internal screaming! Beautiful stuff, truly.

And we're finally delving deeper into the plot! Nine chapters in and you finally know the reason behind the number one rule of the gang. Took long enough, right? In my defense, building tension is an art form, and I am but a humble disaster pretending to be an artist.

Also, for everybody that’s reading this through AO3 only—I’ve changed my update schedule to goal-based system because of my ADHD. If you’re feeling adventurous you can go check my Tumblr where I yap about this, but basically from now on chapters will be posted when we reach the established goal on either Tumblr or Wattpad.

So basically the moment the goal is reached, the moment a new chapter will be uploaded (because KGP chapters are pre-written until chapter 29). So if you’re feeling particularly generous… go give them some love (especially on Wattpad ??? our numbers are quite low over there.)

ALSO smut is on the horizon, and I'm 100% going to make you work for it because I'm the god of this fictional universe and chaos is my love language. Start engaging, peasants! Your frustration fuels me. 🙂‍↕️

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

The walk back to the bonfire feels like playing hopscotch between shadows and firelight. There's gang members scattered around like party decorations, laughing and drinking like it's literally their only worry.

You reach Jeon first, holding out his whisky. When his fingers brush yours, something electric zips through your skin. He takes the glass quickly—but not quick enough to hide that moment of hesitation.

"Thanks," he mutters, voice softer than usual—not as stormy as it usually is.

You just nod, trying to ignore how your skin tingles where he touched you.

Stop being a stupid bitch.

You fish out a beer from your hoodie and pass it to Takama.

"Here."

"Thanks!" Takama's grin is always genuine, you notice.

You drop onto the bench next to Yunjin, whose bubblegum hair looks almost neon in the firelight. She brightens when you hand her the other beer.

"You're actually the best," she declares, popping the tab. "What'd you get?"

You lift your glass. "Vodka lemonade. Moon knows his stuff."

"It's weird seeing everyone so... normal," she muses, watching the crowd. "Like we're just regular people having drinks."

"Right?" You take a sip, enjoying the perfect balance of sweet and sharp. "No ranks, no murder plots. Just vibing."

She hums. "Moon's got skills though. That drink looks good."

"He's amazing at it." Another sip confirms it. "Said he wanted to own a bar once. Can you imagine? Our Deputy Commander mixing drinks in some cozy pub?"

"That's... actually kind of perfect for him?" Yunjin tilts her head. "He's got that whole calm, 'everything's under control' energy. Makes perfect sense as to why RM would choose him as his right hand."

"Yeah." You swirl your drink, thinking about what he said earlier. "Makes you wonder what everyone else wanted to be before... all this."

She goes quiet for a moment. "Weird how we all ended up here, huh? Different paths leading to the same psychotic family."

"At least the company's good." You bump her shoulder with yours.

"Yeah." Her smile turns soft. "Really good."

The vodka warms your chest, or maybe it's just the way Yunjin leans against you, comfortable and familiar.

Eunchae suddenly throws her arms around you and Yunjin, all tipsy affection and bright smiles. Her body sways slightly, using you both for balance.

"My favorite bitchessss," she sing-songs, words already slurring. "How're you doing?"

Yunjin melts into the group hug, giggling. "Just vibing. How many drinks have you had?"

"Who's counting?" Eunchae's laughing in that drunken way she has when she's on her third glass of rum. "It's a party!"

You snort, patting her arm. "Maybe slow down though? Night's still young."

"And I plan to make the most of it!" She beams like it's the most brilliant plan ever.

The moment shatters when V practically twirls into the firelight, radiating that chaotic energy that always accompanies him wherever he goes.

His smile, of course, is all teeth—sharp and bright.

"Heeeey everyone!" He throws his arms wide, commanding attention like he was born for it. "Let's remember why we're here! Celebrating our dear leader taking over after his brother got fucking murdered!"

The crowd actually cheers—because of course they do. V could probably announce the apocalypse and make it sound fun. But J-Hope steps in, doctor mode activated.

"V." His tone carries a warning. "Dial it back."

V rolls his eyes like a teenager caught sneaking out, but his grin never falters. You sense weird vibes oozing off him under that playful expression he wears—but it's like he's wrapped it in enough charm that it goes unnoticed.

Or maybe you're reaching?

"His brother's dead?" The words slip out before you can stop them. You turn to J-Hope, curiosity burning. "What happened?"

J-Hope sighs, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. His fingers tap against his thigh—a nervous tell if you know how to spot one.

"It's not exactly classified," he says carefully, weighing each word. "But it's... complicated. RM wasn't always in charge. The gang belonged to his brother first."

You exchange looks with Yunjin, both leaning in slightly. This is the kind of story that explains so much about how Kkangpae operates.

About why certain rules exist.

J-Hope's face contorts in the dim light, shadows dancing over his features he debates how much to share. V watches from across the flames, that sharp smile still in place, like he's enjoying the tension he's created.

"His brother?" Yunjin's eyes go wide with curiosity.

"It's about betrayal," J-Hope says, voice dropping low. "RM's brother led Kkangpae before him. His fiancée sold him out to MDF, and..." He trails off, letting the implication hang in the air.

A chill runs down your spine despite the bonfire's warmth.

"So RM had to take over?"

J-Hope nods, running a hand through his hair.

"Nam—" He catches himself, clearing his throat. "RM stepped up when everything was falling apart. Gang was splitting at the seams, losing territory to MDF."

"Built it back from nothing," Chaewon adds quietly. "That's why he's so strict about relationships. He's seen what they can do to people."

You notice Jeon tense at that last part on your periphery, though he's trying to look uninvolved. Something flickers across his face—pain maybe, or guilt—before his expression locks down again. His fingers twitch toward the cigarette pack he can't use.

"That's..." Yunjin leans closer, voice barely above a whisper. "It explains a lot about how things work around here."

"Heavy legacy to carry," you murmur, watching RM across the fire. He's laughing at something Moon said, but there's weight in his shoulders that makes more sense now.

"Can't forget where we came from." J-Hope's eyes drift to his glass of water. "Makes us stronger, but also more careful. Trust is..." He shakes his head. "Trust is complicated here."

The conversation dies out naturally, leaving you all to digest the story. Smoke from the bonfire drifts up in weird rivulets, as if dissolving the thick fog of tension that seems to have settled over all of you. You find yourself studying RM with new eyes, seeing past the white hair and commanding presence to the brother who had to rebuild from ashes.

You can't help but wonder how many other secrets this gang holds, how many other stories wait in the dark corners of the castle.

"Must've taken some serious balls," Yunjin says softly, respect clear in her voice. "Building everything back up like that."

"It did." J-Hope responds in a hushed tone. "RM rebuilt from scratch—new recruits, stronger divisions. Dragged us back from the edge. Now look at us."

You let the weight of it sink in, watching the flames dance. Because this? This explains so much. About everything and everyone.

The strict rules, the emphasis on loyalty, why everyone walks on eggshells around certain topics.

"That's why we celebrate." JM appears beside you, hands tucked into his oversized cardigan. "Remembering where we started, how far we've come."

The energy shifts suddenly as RM approaches, beer in hand, firelight catching on his dyed hair. His smile is crooked, eyebrow raised like he knows you've been talking about him.

"Why's everyone looking so serious?" He asks, though playfully.

V materializes like he's been summoned, snatching someone's beer out of their hands like it's normal. He clinks his bottle against RM's with dramatic flair.

"Oh, just sharing tales of our glorious leader." V grins, and it sounds almost mocking—were it not for the respect clearly coloring his tone despite all that theatrical bullshit.

RM's eyebrow climbs higher, amusement flickering across his face. He takes a slow sip, eyes scanning your little group like he's reading a particularly interesting book.

"Legendary tales?" He chuckles, the sound warming the night air. "Should I be worried?"

"Just telling it like it is." J-Hope's smile is soft. "What you've built here."

Silence falls, but it's not weird, or tense or uncomfortable. Rather, it's like a brief respite where everyone can gather their thoughts, really look at RM and ponder all he has achieved.

No wonder everyone respects him so much.

"Not just me," he says quietly. "Every person here made Kkangpae what it is today."

You watch him immediately work the crowd, joking and talking with members from every division. It's impressive how he balances it all—being both the guy who can order executions and the one who remembers everyone's birthday.

You know now why people would literally die for him.

RM is not only a leader—but a mentor. A companion. A friend.

AD finally graces everyone with his presence about twenty minutes later.

And holy shit, he's wearing actual pajamas with a puffer jacket thrown over them—giving exactly zero fucks about dress codes or basic social norms.

His hands are stuffed in his pockets as he approaches, moving with his usual 'everyone here is an idiot' energy. The crowd parts for him automatically—partly out of respect, partly because nobody wants to deal with his grumpy ass when he's been interrupted mid-game.

"This meat better be worth dropping League for," he announces to no one in particular, a mix of annoyance and vague threat.

A few people laugh because, well, of course AD was gaming. Man would probably try to finish a match during the apocalypse.

You catch Jeon using the distraction to slip away, moving toward the BBQ area with that silent grace that makes him such a good sniper. His timing is s̶u̶s̶p̶i̶c̶i̶o̶u̶s̶l̶y̶ perfectly calculated to avoid AD.

Takama notices too, because that man apparently notices everything. He gives the group a small smile.

"Going to help with dinner prep," he says casually, but the knowing look in his eyes says he's well aware of what he's actually doing—running interference between two of Kkangpae's most complicated relationships.

You watch Takama head for the grill, where Moon and Jeon are already setting up for dinner.

AD drops into a spot near the fire, his puffer jacket rustling against pajama pants. Only he could show up to a gang celebration dressed for a gaming marathon and still command respect.

The perks of being a genius, you guess.

"He's always like this." Yunjin whispers, leaning her pink head against your shoulder. "All grumpy but like... in a way that works?"

"Yeah." You watch AD pull out his phone, probably checking League stats. "Like he exists in his own dimension but somehow still runs cyber security for a whole criminal organization."

Eunchae sways closer, definitely past tipsy now. "He's literally just a cat in human form." She giggles. "A really smart, really angry cat who can hack the government."

"That's AD for you." J-Hope's smile is fond despite his words. "Brilliant bastard works best when we leave him alone with his computers."

The conversation drifts into lighter territory, gang members sharing stories about missions gone wrong and parties gone wild.

Someone brings up the time V tried to convince everyone he could parkour off the castle roof (he couldn't), and another mentions how AD once hacked the castle's speaker system to blast K-pop when RM pissed him off.

At some point, your eyes end up drifting to the grill again, where Jeon's rolled up his sleeves to help with the meat. The distant light catches on his silver chain, on the tattoos snaking down his arms, and—

Noooope. You take a long sip of your drink.

Tonight's about having fun with your friends, not staring at your division chief like some horny teenager.

After a couple minutes, RM's got everyone hooked on some wild story about a past operation. He's actually a good storyteller—knows exactly when to pause for dramatic effect, when to throw in a joke. His white hair glows as he gestures, painting pictures of close calls and clever escapes.

Everyone goes quiet as he hits the climax, especially the new recruits like you.

Because this is more than just a story—it's their story, really. All the shit they've been through together, all the wins and losses that made Kkangpae what it is.

Movement catches your eye as Jeon comes back from the grill, empty-handed but smelling like smoke and grilled meat. His eyes sweep the crowd before landing on you for a beat too long. You don't know why you shift in your seat.

The smell of dinner gets stronger, making your stomach growl. Moon and Takama have outdone themselves, judging by the heavenly aromas drifting over.

You stretch as you stand, joints popping after sitting so long. Everyone migrates toward the food like moths to flame, and you walk behind everyone right along Yunjin.

Once it's your turn, Takama hands you a plate with a little bow, looking stupidly proud of himself. The grill's loaded with enough food to feed an army, everything sizzling and perfectly charred.

"What'll it be?" He grins, waving at the spread. "Got spicy pork, garlic shrimp, Moon's fancy chicken..."

You're still trying to decide when Jeon appears beside you like a s̶e̶x̶y̶ stealthy shadow. The heat from the grill has nothing on the warmth he radiates like a fucking stove.

"Try the bulgogi," he says quietly, like he's sharing a secret. "Moon's got a special marinade."

You turn to him, eyebrows raised. "Yeah? That what you usually get?"

His lips quirk up slightly, pupils reflecting the firelight. "I know good food when I see it. Trust me on this one."

"Fine," you match his almost-smile. "But if it sucks, I'm blaming you."

Something flickers across his face—amusement maybe, or satisfaction. "Deal. But it won't."

Takama watches this exchange with poorly hidden surprise.

"He's right though," he adds, grinning. "Moon really outdid himself tonight."

Takama loads your plate with bulgogi and all the fixings, somehow making even serving food look elegant. You catch Jeon watching you, his dark eyes lingering on you for a hot second before snapping back to the grill.

The plate feels heavy as you turn away.

Was that—

No.

You definitely didn't just see the ghost of a smile on Jeon's stupidly p̶r̶e̶t̶t̶y̶ annoying face.

You shake your head, trying to dislodge that thought along with the weird flutter in your chest. Walk back to the bonfire, where everyone has gathered once again.

You catch AD practically drooling over his plate of meat when J-Hope strikes like a particularly aggressive mother hen. In one smooth motion, he swaps AD's feast for what looks like a garden threw up on a plate.

"What the fuck?" AD stares at his new plate of greens like it personally offended his entire family. "The hell is this shit?"

J-Hope grins, way too pleased with himself. "It's called vegetables, genius. Some of us care if you die of scurvy."

"Did I fucking ask?" AD's eye twitches. "Give me my food back before I hack your medical license."

"Not happening." J-Hope holds the meat plate higher. "Your blood work was atrocious last check. You need fiber."

AD rises from his seat like a hissing cat. "Listen here, you overgrown nurse—"

"Fucking—!" J-Hope dances backward, still holding the plate hostage. "I swear to god, you're worse than a toddler—"

"At least toddlers don't have to deal with control freak doctors!" AD lunges for the plate. "Give it back before I reprogram all the hospital equipment to play Baby Shark!"

"Try it!" J-Hope dodges. "I'm not letting you die of a heart attack at thirty just because you refuse to eat a vegetable!"

They chase each other around the fire like two cats fighting over territory, completely forgetting they're supposed to be respected Council members.

Truly, the sight of Kkangpae's scariest hacker trying to tackle their head doctor over grilled meat is... something else.

J-Hope scurries away from AD's grab, his face scrunching with frustration. "God, you're so difficult. Maybe if you ate a vegetable once in your life, I wouldn't have to babysit you!"

"Fuck off!" AD snarls. "I survived this long without your fucking helicopter parenting."

"Oh, I don't know, maybe it's thanks to my job as Chief Medical Officer?" J-Hope throws his hands up.

"Which you're gonna lose if you—that's it." AD's eyes narrow dangerously. "I'm revoking your med bay access. Have fun treating patients from the parking lot, doc."

"Are you actually insane?" J-Hope's voice rises. "You want people to die because you're throwing a tantrum over vegetables?"

"There's plenty of doctors in your division." AD's voice drips venom.

"You little—"

"Give me my damn food," AD cuts him off, eyes glinting with malice, "or I'll double your clinic hours too."

J-Hope hands the plate back with a heavy sigh. AD's victory grin would be cute if he wasn't such an insufferable brat about it. He tears into the meat like he hasn't eaten in days, and J-Hope watches with the tired resignation of someone who's fought this battle too many times.

You don't miss how V drapes himself over JM like an overly affectionate puppy, all charm in one package. His voice drops low, honey-sweet with poison underneath.

"Your hair's like moonlight on the Han River tonight, Chim."

JM flushes pink, fingers twisting the hem of his oversized cardigan. It's weird seeing the Finance Chief so f̶l̶u̶s̶t̶e̶r̶e̶d̶ vulnerable—usually he's all gentle smiles.

"Stop it, Tae," he mumbles, but there's no real protest in it.

V leans back, looking way too pleased with himself. His laugh sounds like dark chocolate tastes. "What? Can't admire how pretty you make yourself?"

"Not for you," JM says, but his lips twitch upward.

"No?" V's eyes glitter dangerously. "For the stars then? Giving them competition?"

JM shakes his head, laughing despite himself. "You're absolutely ridiculous."

"You love it though." V tilts his face skyward, looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. But you've seen him throw knives without blinking. "Admit it, Jimin. You'd be so bored without me."

"Maybe." JM's voice goes soft. Fond.

You watch them, these two opposite forces... It's like watching a mouse play with a snake, except the mouse knows exactly what game they're playing.

The fire makes V's face look almost tender, and you wonder if that smile is sincere at all.

The bonfire's died down to a gentle pulse now.

Most of the gang's cleared out, leaving just the Council and a few others scattered around.

You smell it in the air—woodsmoke and lingering BBQ smell, plus that weird mix of everyone's signature scents—cinnamon, sandalwood, fresh lemons.

Pine.

AD sways on his feet, drink sloshing dangerously in his hand.

"One more round?" His words blur together, eyes squinting like he's trying to focus on three J-Hopes at once.

SMACK.

J-Hope's hand connects with the back of AD's neck. "You're already wasted, dumbass. Put the glass down."

"Fuck off," AD rubs his neck, scowling like an angry kid. "I'm celebrating."

"Celebrating what? Your last functioning brain cell?" J-Hope's eyebrow shoots up. "Remember last time? When you redecorated my clinic walls?"

"That was—" AD waves vaguely, almost falling over. "Different."

"Right." J-Hope's voice drips sarcasm. "Just like when I had to carry your drunk ass upstairs while you rambled about beating RM at Mario Kart?"

"Never happened." AD tries to stand straighter, fails spectacularly. "I never lose Mario Kart. 'Specially not to that... that dimpled nerd..."

"Sure." J-Hope watches him sway with tired resignation. "I'm not playing nursemaid tonight. Last time I practically had to read you a bedtime story."

"Got there fine myself!" AD protests.

"After decorating the hallway with your dinner!" J-Hope throws his hands up. "The recruits thought someone had poisoned you!"

Everyone laughs, because watching Kkangpae's scariest hacker get mothered by their head doctor is honestly peak entertainment.

The fire catches on AD's blonde hair as he wobbles again, and you catch J-Hope tensing, ready to catch him if needed.

For all their bickering, it's kind of s̶w̶e̶e̶t̶ amusing how they look out for each other.

"Let's play truth or dare." AD's eyes gleam with drunk mischief. "Keep the party going without dying of alcohol poisoning."

Everyone shuffles closer to the dying fire, and you settle between Yunjin and Eunchae, feeling the warmth of both the fire and the vodka in your system.

"No life-threatening dares," RM warns, using his Commander Voice™ despite the slight slur in his words.

Eunchae bounces in her seat, hair vibrating with her. "I'll start!" She zeroes in on JM. "Truth or dare?"

JM fidgets with his cardigan sleeve, firelight catching on his round glasses. "Truth."

"Ever stolen from anyone here?" She leans forward, grinning.

Pink creeps across JM's cheeks. "I... maybe borrowed V's favorite lighter once? But I gave it back!"

"Knew it wasn't just misplaced." V drapes himself over JM's shoulders, smile sharp. "My little thief."

The nickname makes JM flush darker. Everyone laughs, and he quickly redirects attention to AD. "Your turn. Truth or dare?"

"Dare." AD's still rubbing his neck where J-Hope smacked him earlier. "Do your worst."

"Most embarrassing mission moment. Spill."

AD's cocky grin falters. "Fuck. Fine. Had to hide in a dumpster once. Got attacked by this demon cat for two hours straight. Came back looking and smelling like actual garbage."

You snort so hard your drink almost comes out your nose. Even Jeon's lips twitch, which is practically rolling on the floor laughing by his standards.

"Yeah, yeah." AD waves off the laughter. "V, truth or dare?"

"Dare, obviously." V's eyes glitter dangerously.

"Do your best Flower impression."

V stands with theatrical grace, straightening his posture until he looks eerily like your division chief. His voice goes sharp, nailing Chaewon's don't test me tone.

"Listen up, you worthless men. Touch my girls, I remove your hands. This is a crucial mission—no room for your masculine incompetence. Follow the plan or face consequences. I hate all of you equally." He pauses, then adds sweetly, "Except Jimin, of course."

Everyone loses it at V's impression, especially JM who's clapping like an excited seal. V takes an exaggerated bow before dropping back down next to JM.

"Not bad." Chaewon tries to hide her smile and fails. "But we'll work on that impression later."

"My turn." V's eyes lock onto RM with some kind of sharp focus he gets sometimes. "Boss man, truth or dare?"

RM sets his drink down, looking thoughtful. "Truth."

"Ever regret any decisions as our fearless leader?"

RM goes quiet. Something dark passes over his face, and you remember what J-Hope said earlier about his brother, about betrayal and loss.

"Yes." His voice comes out rough. "Leadership comes with its share of regrets."

Silence descends, only the crackling fire interrupting it.
It's like momentarily, everyone is holding their breath, like they've stumbled onto something they weren't meant to see.

"But that's in the past." RM shakes it off, mask sliding back into place. "Jessi, truth or dare?"

"Dare." She sits up straighter, ready for anything.

"Dance around the fire." RM's smile turns playful again.

"Pffft. Easy."

Jessi jumps up without hesitation because of course she does. She moves like she fights—confident, though clearly powerful. Everyone cheers her on, the earlier tension dissolving into laughter.

"That was fun." She drops back into her seat, grinning. "Moon, truth or dare?"

"Truth." Moon adjusts his glasses, looking amused.

"Got any secret wine stashes in that castle of yours?"

"Not so secret now." He chuckles. "A man needs his vices, and good wine happens to be mine."

The game continues, everyone getting progressively bolder with their challenges as the alcohol flows.

You're about to call it a night when V's eyes land on you.

A dangerous sparkle glints on them, and you don't like it one bit.

"Your turn, princess. Truth or dare?"

You blame the vodka for what comes out of your mouth next.

"Dare."

The way V's smile spreads across his face makes your stomach drop. He looks like a cat that just cornered a mouse, which is never a good sign.

"Swap clothes with Jeon."

The group goes quiet. Your eyes snap to Jeon automatically—he's gone rigid, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. His eyebrow piercing glints as he quirks it up.

"Pick something else." Jeon's voice is sharp and direct.

"Nope." V pops the 'p', clearly enjoying this. "Rules are rules."

"This isn't—"

"What's wrong?" V cuts him off. "Scared of a little clothing swap?"

Jeon's gaze goes rigid. The fire catches his silver chain as he shifts, and you catch a whiff of pine and mint. His eyes meet yours for a split second before darting away.

"Fine." He practically spits the word. "But just the jacket."

Everyone goes quiet, heads swiveling between you and Jeon. You can practically hear V's inner thoughts as if he's considering pushing for more, but even he knows when he's pushed far enough.

Your heart does a stupid little flip when Jeon shrugs off his leather jacket. Because it's going to smell like him, you realize. Like pine and wood and s̶m̶o̶k̶e̶ whatever.

This is fine. Everything's fine.

He walks over to you, jacket finally off him—the one he practically lives in, and jesus christ—the black turtleneck underneath fits him like a second skin. Your eyes trace the way it clings to his shoulders, his chest, every muscle clearly defined under the fabric.

You peel off your hoodie before you can overthink it, though it catches in your hair because of course it does. When you finally emerge, your white turtleneck suddenly feels too tight, too revealing.

Especially when Jeon's eyes darken as they sweep over you, and his tongue flicks out to play with his lip ring.

Something hot coils in your stomach.

You try very hard not to stare at his mouth.

His gaze feels like a tongue licking down your neck, lingering where the turtleneck hugs your curves. His Adam's apple bobs, and he wets his lips again.

You catch yourself wondering what that lip ring would feel like against your—

Stop being horny around your superior, damn slut.

The night air raises goosebumps on your arms, but you barely notice. You're too busy trying not to gawk at him again, to openly stare at how his turtleneck stretches across his pecs. Your fingers itch to trace the lines of muscle you can see through the fabric.

But then V's laugh breaks through the tension like a bucket of cold water.

Right. You have an audience.

You thrust your hoodie toward Jeon, desperate to end whatever this heat is.

His fingers brush yours during the exchange, sending electricity shooting up your arm.

You slip into his jacket and immediately regret everything.

You were wrong.

It doesn't smell like pine and wood and whatever.

It smells like leather and tobacco and something wild, like pine trees after rain. Like a fresh breeze coming through the forest on an autumn morning.

Your heart hammers against your ribs as his scent wraps around you.

Jeon looks almost p̶a̶i̶n̶e̶d̶ uncomfortable as he pulls on your hoodie. His usual fluid grace is gone, movements stiff and awkward. The hoodie that drowns you barely fits across his shoulders, and something about seeing him in your clothes makes your pulse skitter.

Okay, no. This is not fine.

Because his goddamn shoulders strain against your hoodie like it's trying to contain a force of nature.

It's weird seeing him in something so... soft?

He moves, trying to adjust in the smaller piece of clothing—clearly not his size. So it rides up, revealing a strip of tattooed skin right above his waistband.

You've seen his tattoos before.

Yet, somehow, this accidental glimpse feels more i̶n̶t̶i̶m̶a̶t̶e̶ inappropriate than all your training sessions combined.

His eyes snap to yours, catching you staring. Suddenly it feels like all oxygen has been depleted. His jaw clenches, the muscles working under his skin in a way that's suddenly very distracting.

Everything feels magnified—the rise and fall of his chest under your hoodie, the flex of his fingers at his sides, the way his silver chain slightly bounces with his breathing.

The party fades to background noise, and all you can focus on is how his presence seems to fill every inch of space around you.

He looks impossibly hot, and it's unfair, really.

It's unfair how your heart pounds so loud you wonder if he can hear it. It's unfair how there's something magnetic about him tonight, something that makes you want to step closer even as your brain screams to maintain distance.

It's in his stance, his gaze, the storm brewing behind his dark eyes.

And then he speaks, low, gravelly and utterly, utterly unfair.

"Looks like it fits you better than it does me, sunshine."

It sends shivers down your spine, that nickname again. Because the way he says it? Like it melts down his lips like honey dripping right from the comb?

Not fair.

But nothing about Jeon has ever seemed fair.

Not now, not before. Not even as you two make it back to your previous sitting spots.

But you saw it—the way something flashed across his face when he said it, like he was allowing himself that tiny reprieve. Something so wild and unguarded that had disappeared so fast you almost think you had imagined it.

Truth or Dare keeps going, each round getting bolder, but you're having trouble focusing. Your brain keeps circling back to the leather jacket wrapped around you, to the scent of forest that's definitely not helping your concentration.

Jeon's eyes find yours across the fire for the hundredth time tonight. The way he's looking at you now... It's definitely different. It makes your neck burn hot.

Because it's like every time your gazes lock, the air gets a little thicker, a little harder to breathe.

"You good?" Yunjin's whisper cuts through your thoughts. She bumps your shoulder, pink hair falling in her face as she studies you with that too-knowing look of hers.

"Yeah, just thinking." You manage a smile, hoping the firelight hides how warm your face feels.

Someone then dares AD to do aegyo and nearly gets their laptop privileges revoked. You laugh, enjoying the moment with your crew.

But you can't lie to yourself. You're still stuck in this weird bubble where all you can focus on is how Jeon's jacket feels against your skin, how it carries his warmth like it's trying to brand you.

It's not long before the bonfire burns low, casting longer shadows across familiar faces. People start drifting away in twos and threes, sleepy and dizzy.

RM stretches. "Time to wrap it up. Early start tomorrow."

"Ready to go?" Yunjin tugs at your sleeve. "I'm about to pass out."

You nod, pushing yourself up on slightly unsteady legs.

The walk back to the castle feels dreamlike, caught between the quiet forest sounds and your own thundering heartbeat. You tell yourself it's just the alcohol making everything feel so intense.

Yunjin is chattering about something and you feel kinda bad—because you're not really listening. Your brain's too busy replaying every moment by the fire, every loaded glance, every touch.

Your room feels smaller somehow when you finally get there. You close the door and lean against it, trying to get your head straight. The fabric over your shoulders heavier now that you're alone, like it's carrying more than just Jeon's scent.

You shrug it off slowly, fingers catching on worn spots in the leather. The smell of pine and wood hits you again, making your stomach do that stupid little flip thing.

You don't want to analyze what that means.

Taking a deep breath (that definitely doesn't make your head spin with his scent), you lay the jacket at the end of your bed.

It looks wrong there, too dark and dangerous against your regular bedding.

You change into pajamas quickly, like you're trying to outrun your own thoughts, and the truth is the cotton feels too soft after the weight of leather, too normal after everything that happened tonight.

Sliding under the covers, your eyes drift back to the jacket.

It's just clothing, just leather and zippers and thread. It lies there, so inanimate—and yet, somehow, so full of meaning.

The castle creaks and settles around you, leaves rustling outside your window as you wait for drowsiness to drag you under.

You tell yourself the only reason you're not hanging the jacket up is because you're too tired.

Chapter 11: wound tight

Summary:

"You’re in the Seduction Division, you’re supposed to be the seductress here, not the other way around. But then he falls asleep on your bed, and he suddenly looks so human… The morning brings him back to normal though, as you remain unaware of how thoroughly he has to wash your scent off his skin. And if that wasn’t enough… AD’s cryptic warning seems more acidic than the lemon breeze that wafts off him."

Notes:

As promised, chapter 10 delivered the SECOND we hit that goal! Took y'all less than 24 hours on Wattpad which is both flattering and deeply concerning. You're all menaces and I love you, but the bar is officially being raised. I refuse to be bullied by my own readers (ノಠ益ಠ)ノ彡┻━┻

MY SLEEPY BOYYYYY (;'༎ຶٹ༎ຶ')

He's so traumatized and I am so mean SORRY *dodges all your punches with the grace of someone who absolutely deserves to be punched*

—Don't worry Y/N, we all feel that way towards Jeon, it's totally normal. The "I want to simultaneously slap him and kiss him" experience is universal. Don't beat yourself up over it (〜￣▽￣)〜

This chapter was a whole cocktail of POVs, I know! But there were so many things happening simultaneously that it just came out like this. Think of it as one of those split-screen moments in action movies except instead of car chases it's just traumatized gang members making questionable life choices.

I must say I'm actually happy with how this chapter turned out because we're finally diving deeper into the spicier themes! The thrill of forbidden attraction! The danger lurking around every corner! The "I shouldn't want this but I REALLY want this" internal struggle! And the sexual tension thick enough to cut with one of V's knives! PEAK FICTION!

Anyway, thanks for reading as always! Your comments sustain me through the dark nights of writer's block and existential dread. Love you all, you magnificent enablers!

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You're about to crawl into bed when someone knocks on your door. At 3 AM. Because of course.

Opening it reveals Jeon standing there like this is totally normal, holding a plastic bag with your hoodie peeking out.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" You whisper-yell, heart immediately kicking into overdrive.

"Just want my jacket ba—" You slap your hand over his mouth before he can finish.

His lips are warm against your palm and you try very hard not to think about that.

"Are you actually insane?" Your voice drops even lower. "You can't be here!"

"I know." He scowls when you remove your hand. "That's why I want to make this quick."

"Ever heard of morning? You know, when people normally wake up?"

"Not like I'm sleeping anywa—"

A cough echoes from one of the other rooms and your body moves on pure instinct. You grab his wrist and yank him inside before anyone can catch Kkangpae's deadliest assassin lurking outside your door at ass o'clock.

He stumbles, definitely more from surprise than your strength, and his mouth opens—maybe to curse you out—but you slap your hand over it again, gesturing frantically at Yunjin's sleeping form with your free hand.

"Don't," you mouth, somewhere between begging and threatening.

His dark eyes lock with yours, and something electric crackles between you. Your hand is still pressed against his mouth, his skin burning against your palm, and suddenly you're very aware that you just dragged Jeon into your bedroom in the middle of the night.

Shit.

You drop your hand from his mouth, careful and slow. The jacket's on your bed, and you edge toward it like you're approaching a wild animal. Jeon follows, surprisingly quiet for someone who radiates danger like a space heater. Sets the plastic bag with your hoodie by the bed.

Just as you reach for his jacket—because of course this whole mess started with that stupid piece of leather—it slips through your fingers. The thud it makes hitting the floor might as well be a bomb going off in the silent room.

Your heart stops.

"Y/N?" Yunjin's sleepy voice makes your blood run cold.

Pure panic takes over.

Before you can think it through, you're shoving Jeon onto your bed and climbing on top of him. His hands grab your hips automatically, and you press yourself against him, trying to make his tall frame disappear under yours.

You yank the blankets over both of you, praying they hide his shape. Your heart's beating so hard you're sure Jeon can feel it where your chest meets his. The whole situation would be m̶o̶r̶t̶i̶f̶y̶i̶n̶g̶ dangerous if you weren't so terrified of getting caught.

"Everything's fine," you whisper-call back. "Just dropped the jacket."

Jeon's frozen underneath you, every muscle locked tight. You can feel his chest rising and falling, his breath hitting your neck in controlled bursts. He's warm—too warm—and solid in all the places you're trying very hard not to think about.

"'Kay..." Yunjin mumbles. "Sleep soon..."

You nod uselessly in the dark, too aware of Jeon's hands still gripping your hips. Moonlight catches his eyes, and even in the shadows, his gaze burns into yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter.

This is fine. Everything's fine.

But it's like time itself freezes.

You hold your breath as Yunjin shifts in her bed, the sheets rustling before she settles back into sleep with a soft sigh. You stay perfectly still, counting heartbeats, waiting to make sure she's really out.

When her breathing evens out again, you let yourself relax—as much as anyone can relax while straddling Jeon in the middle of the night. The room goes quiet except for your matched breathing, and suddenly the blanket cocoon feels very small, very intimate.

You lift your head slowly, trying to minimize movement, and fuck—his face is right there, barely inches from yours. His dark eyes catch what little moonlight filters through the blanket, and there's something in them beyond the usual annoyance.

Something that makes you almost sigh.

"Don't move," you breathe, barely a whisper. "Just... wait till she's deeper asleep."

The silence feels thick enough to choke on. Because everything seems to shrink to this moment: the warmth of his hands on your hips, how solid his chest feels against yours, the way his breath mingles with yours in the tiny space between you.

His eyes dance upwards, gaze locking with yours momentarily.

Then it drops to your mouth—for a split second—before snapping back up, and your whole body tingles like you've been shocked.

This is insane. This is really fucking insane.

How his fingers press into your hips, how your thighs are bracketing his sides, how close your faces are.

You can see little details you've never noticed before, like the faint freckles across his nose you've somehow ignored all this time.

You don't know why you seem to catalog that information.

But you do know why your heart pounds so hard you're sure he can feel it where your chests meet.

Because you can say whatever, but he's definitely hot. And this is dangerous.

So, so dangerous.

Jeon shifts under you—just barely, but enough to make you notice how tense he is. His whole body feels impressively stiff, and you ponder if he's really as unbothered by this position as he's trying to act.

You need to focus. Need to ignore how his eyes look softer in the dim lighting, or how his hands seem the perfect fucking size on your hips. There must still be some remnants of vodka on your body that making it hard to think about anything except how close he is.

"Jeon," you breathe against his cheek. "You need to—"

He moves again, more obviously this time.

You lose your balance for a split second, shifting to catch yourself, and—oh.

Oh fuck.

"Shit—" The word hisses out between his teeth like he's been burned.

You want to die.

You want to drown.

Because that's definitely his cock pressing against your ass through the thin cotton of your pajamas.

A tiny gasp escapes before you can stop it as everything clicks into place—why he's so tense, why his breathing sounds so controlled.

He's hard.

You freeze, heart thundering in your chest. This was already dangerous, but now it's dangerous dangerous. You try to tell yourself it's just biology, just a normal reaction to having someone straddling him. Nothing personal.

He's just a guy, after all. These things happen.

That's what you tell yourself, but it's getting real hard to think straight when you can feel exactly how hard Jeon is underneath you.

And why does that knowledge give you chills?

This is Jeon—the guy who's been nothing but cold and distant since day one. Mr. Perfect Sniper with his perfect control, dick hard just because you're straddling him.

It shouldn't be hot.

You shouldn't find it hot.

But then again... you're already thinking about how easy would be to shift your hips, to feel more of that thick line pressing against you.

You could play it off as getting comfortable, just an innocent adjustment.

Your body practically vibrates with the urge to move.

But no. No. You're not that desperate. This is just adrenaline and proximity making you stupid.

Except... you can't make yourself pull away. His warmth seeps through your thin pajamas, and when did his eyes get so gentle? You've never seen him look like this—all that ice melted into something darker, hungrier.

That goddamn silver chain around his neck catches some light, drawing your eyes to where his black turtleneck hugs every muscle. You wonder if his tattoos extend past what you can see, if his skin is as hot everywhere else as it is under your palms.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out how right he feels under you. But the question burns in your mind anyway, dangerous and tempting:

What if?

You jerk away from him like you've been burned, the what if still echoing in your head. Your heart slams against your ribs so hard you're surprised Yunjin can't hear it from her bed.

Now you're lying next to him, shoulders touching, and his body heat feels like it's trying to brand you.

Embarrassment hits you in waves, hot and suffocating.

What the actual fuck just happened?

You're supposed to be better than this. You're in the fucking Seduction Division—you're trained to be the hunter, not the prey. You're the one who's supposed to make people fall apart with a look, not the one getting flustered over an accidental boner pressed against your ass.

But here you are anyway, frozen like a rookie, your body still tingling everywhere he touched you. The ghost of his hardness against you refuses to fade, and you hate how your stomach flips at the memory.

"Get it together," you whisper to yourself, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

You close your eyes, take a big breath, willing your heart to slow the fuck down.

The minutes crawl by as you listen to Yunjin's breathing, waiting for it to even out into sleep. And when her breaths finally turn deep and rhythmic, you allow yourself to relax slightly.

Time to end this disaster.

"Jeon." You elbow him gently. "Coast is clear."

Nothing.

You frown, poking him harder. "Jeon, get up."

Still nothing.

Annoyance bubbles up in your chest, mixing with something that feels dangerously close to concern. You turn carefully, trying not to make noise, and—

This motherfucker fell asleep.

The notorious Chief of Tactical Assassinations, Kkangpae's deadliest sniper, passed out in your bed like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Perfect. Just perfect.

You almost want to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here you are, having a whole crisis, and this asshole just... falls asleep. The audacity.

You let out a long breath, trying to calm your racing thoughts. You should be planning how to get him out without anyone noticing, or worrying about what happens if someone catches you. Instead, your traitorous brain keeps replaying how his hands felt on your hips, how his breath hitched when you—nope. Not going there.

You turn around slightly, noticing the little details of his face. You've never seen him like this before. All those sharp edges are soft in sleep, his usual scowl smoothed away. His stupidly long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm that's weirdly hypnotic.

Something twists in your chest. It's strange seeing him so... vulnerable.

No ice-prince mask, no walls—just...

Jeon.

You can't help but stare a little. It's not every day you get to see him with his guard down. Not that you want to see him like this. He's still an ass. A very attractive ass who's currently making little sighing noises in his sleep, but still an ass.

The anger from earlier starts to fade, replaced by something d̶a̶n̶g̶e̶r̶o̶u̶s̶ inconvenient. You blame it on the late hour and leftover adrenaline from earlier. Because you definitely don't care about how peaceful he looks right now, or how his hair falls across his forehead in a way that makes your fingers itch to brush it back.

You sigh in defeat. No way to wake him without risking Yunjin catching you, which means you're stuck with your division chief in your bed until morning.

Ideal, really.

You pull the blanket up over him carefully, definitely not caring about waking him up. It's just common courtesy. You'd do it for anyone.

Right.

Sleep tugs at your eyes as the adrenaline crash hits. Your last thought before drifting off is that Jeon better not snore, or you're smothering him with a pillow, Council member or not.

What a fucking mess.

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

Jungkook drifts into consciousness slowly, which is... strange. Usually his body snaps awake like a rubber band, heart racing from whatever nightmare decided to visit.

But this morning feels different. Peaceful. His mind is oddly quiet.

Then the cold hits him—an empty space beside him where warmth should be. His eyes flutter open, adjusting to unfamiliar shadows.

This isn't his room.

The realization shoots through him like ice water.

He bolts upright, heart finally doing that familiar panicked dance against his ribs. Everything's wrong—the walls are too close, the air too soft. Even the smell is different. No pine or wood here, just something milky and spiced that makes his insides whirl.

His eyes scan the room frantically, survival instincts kicking in as he—

Oh.

Oh right.

Last night.

The jacket exchange. The whispered arguments. You shoving him onto your bed when Yunjin almost caught you two. The weight of you on top of him, how his body betrayed him, the way you felt pressed against—

Jungkook cuts that thought off sharply. More important is the fact that he slept. Actually slept, without a single nightmare tearing him awake. No blood-soaked memories, no echoes of gunshots, no accusing eyes.

Just... peace.

He sits there, trying to process this impossibility. His fingers find his lip ring automatically, playing with it as his mind races.

When was the last time he slept through the night?

Months?

Years?

But you're gone now, the room empty except for lingering traces of chai tea in the air. Something uncomfortable twists in his chest.

Where are you?

The thought comes unbidden, unwanted. He pushes it away, along with the memory of how perfectly you fit against him in the dark.

The door opens and you walk in, wearing fresh clothes like this is any normal morning. Jungkook's jaw clenches automatically. Your casual confidence grates against his nerves, reminding him that he's somehow let himself get tangled in something he can't control.

This isn't how things are supposed to work. His world operates on precision, on distance. On rifles and gunshots and detachment.

But here in your room, surrounded by vanilla and chai tea and you, all his careful walls feel paper-thin.

You look at him and he feels exposed, like you can see right through him. His hair falls messily into his eyes, a far cry from his usual slicked-back perfection. He knows he must look disheveled, vulnerable in a way that makes his skin crawl.

"Good morning, thundercloud."

Your voice is gentle, warm and buttery like the aroma you embody. He manages a nod and a vague sound of acknowledgment, the nickname washing over him without really landing. His brain feels fuzzy, slow—but not in the usual way, not with the sharp edges of sleep deprivation and nightmares.

For the first time in... he can't even remember how long, his mind isn't screaming with V's cold glare or AD's hatred.

Something coils in his stomach.

"What time is it?" The question comes out rougher than intended, an attempt to ground himself in something concrete and measurable.

Your presence feels too solid, too real in the soft morning light. Like if he looks at you too long, he'll have to acknowledge how well he slept with you nearby, how the nightmares stayed away for once.

He doesn't want to think about what that means.

Your eyes dart to the digital clock between your and Yunjin's beds, then back to Jeon. You can't help but think he looks weirdly soft in the morning light, all rumpled clothes and messy hair.

"10:30AM."

His eyelashes flutter like he's still processing, then his eyes go wide. You can practically see the moment it clicks.

"What?"

It's weird, seeing him process this. For someone like Jeon, who probably schedules his bathroom breaks, sleeping past dawn must feel like the world's tilted off its axis.

And truly, the contrast is striking—this is the same man who can take out targets from impossible distances, who makes seasoned gang members nervous with just a look.

Yet right now, looking like he just rolled out of bed, he looks almost c̶u̶t̶e̶ stupid.

You can't help but study him while he's too thrown off to notice. The sharp edges of his jawline seem softer, the perpetual tension in his shoulders gone. Even his stormy aura feels rather like a gentle summer brain.

You wonder what it means that he actually slept here. The man who probably counts sheep with a sniper scope, passed out in your bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But those aren't questions you get to ask, and they definitely aren't ones he'd answer.

Still. It's kind of fascinating, really, seeing Jeon so out of it. Like catching a trick of the great and powerful Oz.

And the thing is... It's a well-known thing, his morning routine. Always first at breakfast, like some kind of deadly alarm clock for the rest of the gang... His empty table by the window is probably sitting there right now, throwing off the whole cafeteria's ecosystem.

You see the exact moment reality crashes in. Ten-thirty means he's missed his usual spot, missed being the first one there.

It means people must have noticed.

You drift to the little table by your window, pouring water just to have something to do with your hands. Because there are so many ways this could go wrong. The Chief of Tactical Assassinations sleeping in a recruit's room? That's the kind of scandal that gets people transferred to different divisions—or worse.

"People are gonna notice you weren't at your usual brooding spot this morning."

"I know." His voice is steady, controlled—familiar coldness seeping back in. "I'll handle it."

Something about his confidence settles your nerves a bit. This is Jeon after all—co-leader of the Assassination Division. If anyone can get out of this mess without starting gang-wide gossip, it's him.

Still. The sight of him in your room, black turtleneck rumpled from sleep, is going to be burned into your brain for a while.

"What about your roommate?" His voice is low, tense.

And okay, it's a bit funny. The fearsome Jeon, worried about getting caught in a recruit's room like a teenager sneaking out past curfew. Sounds like a joke.

"Training session." You watch his face carefully. "Yunjin left early. Didn't see you."

The relief that washes over him is subtle—just a slight drop in his shoulders, a loosening around his eyes. But you catch it anyway. The last thing either of you needs is gossip about why Jeon spent the night in Seduction.

He sighs like he's been holding his breath all morning, pushing tattooed fingers through his messy hair. You realize it's not often you see him without his usual rings, without that careful polish he maintains.

It shouldn't be hot.

It is.

His eyes track from your door to the space outside, probably calculating escape routes like the assassin he is.

Old habits die hard, apparently.

"Need to get back before people start asking questions." He stands in one fluid motion, and there's the Jeon you know—precisely lethal and absolutely in control.

"Yeah, we should be careful." You try to keep your voice neutral. "This could cause problems if anyone finds out."

His dark eyes meet yours, and silence tickles between you.

You both know what's at stake here. One whisper about Jeon sleeping in your room could start an avalanche neither of you is ready for.

Kkangpae might feel like family sometimes, but rules are rules. And you've heard enough stories about what happens to people who break them.

Plus, after last night's revelations about RM's brother and his fiancée's betrayal, the "no attachments" policy makes a lot more sense.

The irony of looking like you have broken that exact rule less than twelve hours after learning why it exists isn't lost on you.

Especially with Jeon, who lives by them like they're written in his DNA. Being on the Council means setting an example, and last night was... an accident. A weird collision of circumstances that shouldn't have happened.

Still, when he pauses at your door, something twists in your chest. You wonder if you'll ever be this close to him again.

It's probably for the best if you're not.

"Thanks." The word sounds foreign coming from him, like he's not used to saying it.

"For what?"

"For... not waking me up." His voice drops so low you barely catch it.

"Don't mention it." You try to sound casual, like your heart isn't doing stupid flips. "Looked like you needed it."

He nods, and holy shit, is that...

A smile?

His hand lingers on the doorknob a second too long, which is weird for someone usually so decisive. Then he's gone, slipping into the hallway like a shadow.

The door clicks shut and you lean against it, letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. Your room feels too big now, too quiet. Like all the air got sucked out with him.

Get your heart out the gutter, bitch.

This is stupid. Attraction isn't a luxury you can afford in Kkangpae, especially not to someone like Jeon. He's literally the kind of danger that comes wrapped in leather jackets and piercings.

It's not just his physical skills that make him lethal. It's the way he commands attention without saying a word, how his gaze pins you in place more effectively than handcuffs ever could.

But fuck if that isn't exactly what makes your heart race.

You push away from the door, pacing your room like a caged animal. It's too early for this shit. These thoughts are dangerous—the kind that get people killed in places like Kkangpae. But your brain keeps circling back to the weight of him against you, to that split second when his breathing stuttered.

Focus.

You've seen what Jeon can do. The way he moves like death given form, how people scramble to clear his path in the hallways. It's m̶a̶g̶n̶e̶t̶i̶c̶ terrifying how much power he holds.

He's powerful. Dangerous in a way that shouldn't be alluring.

Your eyes drift to the morning light streaming through your window, painting greenery in soft gold. Out there, people are going about their normal lives, no idea that one of Korea's deadliest assassins just spent the night in your bed.

And that thought makes you laugh—a weird, choked sound that holds no humor.

Because Jeon isn't just a bad idea. He's career suicide wrapped in pine and tobacco scent. He's everything you should run from if you want to survive in this world.

You keep pacing, trying to outrun the memory of his body pressed against yours, the hard line of his cock against your ass.

It was just biology, you tell yourself. Basic human reaction to having someone straddle you. Nothing personal.

But god—the way his breath hitched, how his fingers dug into your hips... When was the last time anyone looked at you with that kind of raw hunger? Like they wanted to d̶e̶v̶o̶u̶r̶ destroy you?

Stop it. You're supposed to be the seductress here, not the one getting all hot and bothered over an accidental boner.

You know exactly how Jeon operates, how his division operates.

He's not the type to lose his cool over something as basic as physical contact. And yet... the way he reacted to you was definitely not part of his usual 'get away from me' persona.

Nah.

You're probably reading way too much into this. Making up some romance novel fantasy about the deadly assassin who secretly wants you. He's probably in his office right now, rolling his eyes at how obviously affected you were. Because this is Jeon—cold, aloof Jeon who can pin a target blindfolded while solving complex math equations in his head.

So his dick got hard. Big fucking deal. He's human, unfortunately equipped with basic biological responses. Doesn't mean anything except that friction plus pressure equals exactly what you'd expect.

But... You bet he'd look fucking hot losing that control, having all that stupid lethality focused entirely on f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ having you... Your body hums with the memory of his hands on your hips, how easily he could have f̶l̶i̶p̶p̶e̶d̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶o̶v̶e̶r̶ moved you.

And the thing is—it wouldn't have to mean anything, right? Just sex. No feelings, no drama, no breaking RM's precious rules. You're both adults who sometimes need to blow off steam. Simple solution to a simple problem.

Except nothing about Jeon is simple.

Honestly, he's probably already forgotten about the whole thing, while you're here having a whole crisis over how his hands felt on your hips.

You're just another recruit to him, an inconvenience at best.

Right?

Yet... Maybe he still wants you? Sexually, at least?

Fuck. You don't know anymore.

"For fuck's sake," you groan into your pillow.

Enough. This is pointless. Jeon is who he is—cold, controlled, untouchable. Even if technically hooking up wouldn't break any rules (it's not a relationship if it's just sex, right?), he'd never go for it. Trying to seduce him would be like trying to melt a glacier with a match.

Last night was a fluke. A perfect storm of circumstances that'll never happen again. You need to focus on training, on surviving in this cutthroat world. Focus on anything but how his fingers dug into your skin, how his voice roughened when—

"Fuck," you tell your empty room.

Maybe that's exactly what you need, b̶i̶t̶c̶h̶ though.

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

The scent of you haunts him like a ghost he can't exorcise.

Jeon slips from your room like a shadow, silent, deathly like he's been trained to. The door clicks shut behind him and he exhales slowly, only now realizing he'd been holding his breath.

Your scent—chai tea with undertones of something softer, more intimate—clings to his clothes, his skin, his fucking hair. It makes his head spin in a way that's dangerously close to intoxication.

The morning light streaming through the hallway windows hits different somehow. Brighter. Sharper. More real than it has any right to be. Or maybe it's just his sleep-addled brain trying to process the fact that he actually slept through the night.

No nightmares clawing at his consciousness.

No haunting memories of thorned roses and blood-soaked floors.

No phantom voices snarling accusations in his ear.

Just... peace.

Weird, unsettling, unwanted peace.

He needs to move. Questions will start flying if anyone notices his absence from breakfast. Eyebrows raised at the feared assassin missing his usual spot at the corner table, back to the wall, eyes on every entrance.

The thought makes his jaw clench hard enough to hurt. He needs his quarters, his routine, anything to ground him back in the cold reality he's built for himself.

The common area of the Seduction Division stretches before him like a minefield. His footsteps make no sound as he crosses it—a habit born from years of training and necessity. His ears strain for any sign of movement, any hint that he's not alone—but the silence is clear.

There's no one around to see him, to wonder why the Chief of Tactical Assassinations is sneaking through the Seduction Division at dawn like some guilty fucking teenager.

His card practically stabs the elevator scanner, urgency making his movements sharp and jerky. The wait feels endless, each second increasing the risk of discovery. The faster he can get back to his floor—back to his world of order and control—the sooner he can forget how w̶e̶l̶l̶ strange it felt waking up in your bed drenched in buttery smells.

As soon as the elevator arrives he steps in, jabbing his floor number with force. The doors slide close, and another wave of chai tea hits him—your goddamn cloying scent.

It's absurd, how your presence somehow kept the demons at bay when nothing else has worked for years.

No.

He shakes the thought away violently, like a dog trying to dislodge a tick. The elevator descends, and he forces his breathing to slow, to steady. Rebuild the walls brick by brick. Lock away anything resembling vulnerability.

By the time the doors open, his face is a perfect mask again, all traces of the man who slept beside you locked away behind steel and concrete.

The walk to his room feels longer than usual, each step carrying him further from your door but not from the memory of what happened there. Only when he's inside his quarters, surrounded by the familiar scents of pine and wood that he's cultivated so carefully, does some of the tension leave his shoulders.

He stands frozen in the center of his room, trying to piece himself together.

But your scent still clings to him, sweet and spicy and maddeningly comforting. Because he can't escape the memory of your body pressed against his, warm and soft in all the places he's been cold and hard for so long.

A groan slips past his defenses as he scrubs a hand over his face. Chai tea has invaded every fiber of his clothing, every pore of his skin. It's suffocating, asphyxiating, and he can't fucking breathe without inhaling more of you.

"Shit," he mutters, fingers fumbling with his shirt buttons with uncharacteristic clumsiness.

The fabric feels charged somehow, holding the ghost of your curves like some kind of cruel imprint against his skin. He needs to get it off, needs to wash away every trace of you before it sinks in any deeper than it already has.

His clothes hit the floor in a messy heap that would shock anyone who's seen the military precision of his quarters.

But right now he doesn't care, because he needs to wash off the lingering remnants of your proximity. So he stalks to the bathroom, steps echoing his frustration against the tile floor.

This shouldn't be getting to him. You're nothing but an annoyance, a complication he never asked for.

So why can't he shake the feeling of your hands on him, your breath against his neck, your body yielding beneath his?

The shower spray hits like ice, shocking a hiss from between clenched teeth. Good. Let it freeze out the lingering heat of you, the maddening softness that threatens to unravel years of curated self-control.

He braces against the wall, water pounding down his back as he hangs his head. It's been so long since anyone touched him like that. Not since...

The thought stings, an old wound that never quite closed, still seeping poison into his veins after all this time.

But his body is a fucking traitor because it clearly gives 0 fucks about old wounds or hard-learned lessons. All it knows is the memory of your hips under his hands, your thighs straddling his lap, the perfect curve of your ass that he's caught himself staring at more times than he'd ever admit. Arousal flares hot and insistent despite his best efforts to quash it.

His tongue finds his lip ring automatically, worrying the metal in that nervous tell he can never quite shake. But even this small habit betrays him, reminding him of how your eyes had lingered there, dark with want that mirrored his own.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

It was just biology. Basic human response to friction and warmth and proximity. It's not like he wants to f̶u̶c̶k̶ touch you specifically. It could have been anyone. It should be anyone else.

But lust is a bitch, so naturally, horror floods him as he glances down to find himself hardening—a basic impulse he can't seem to control no matter how much he despises himself for it.

And maybe for one dangerous moment, he considers giving in. Because how long has it been since he last touched himself?

The memory feels distant, buried under missions and paperwork and endless nights of insomnia, and his hand drifts lower, drawn by the promise of relief after so many months of n̶o̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ numbness.

"Fuck." He jerks his hand back like it's been burned, water droplets flying from his fingertips.

What the hell is he doing? He's the Chief of Tactical Assassinations, not some hormone-driven rookie who can't control his basic urges. You're just an ensign in the Seduction Division, and he's already learned what happens when chiefs get involved with recruits. The scars from last time still keep him up at night, still haunt him every time he closes his eyes.

This isn't him. He doesn't do this—doesn't let physical needs compromise his control. That's V's territory, letting desire override discipline and common sense. Jeon is better than that. Has to be better than that. The alternative is unthinkable.

He cranks the water to ice cold with a snarl, punishment for his body's rebellion. The shock of it steals his breath and sends goosebumps racing across his skin, but at least it kills the arousal. He finishes washing mechanically, movements sharp with self-directed anger that borders on violence.

The freezing air hits him like a slap as he steps out, raising goosebumps across his skin and making his muscles tense.

Good. The cold helps him think clearly, helps him remember who he is and what's expected of him.

He dries off quickly and dresses mechanically, creating barriers between himself and the untamed arousal stirring somewhere in the lower regions of his brain.

By the time he emerges from his quarters, he feels like he's back to normal—no trace remains of the man who woke up in your bed. His expression is pure ice, posture rigid, shoulders straight.

Though if someone were to look deep into his eyes, they'd see them dark and stormy with everything he's trying to bury.

But that doesn't matter, because the Chief of Tactical Assassinations doesn't lose control.

Not for anyone.

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

Your body feels like it's been through a meat grinder, and honestly? You're kind of into it.

You drag yourself toward the elevator, muscles screaming in that satisfying way that only comes from getting absolutely demolished during training.

Kazuha had you doing laps for what felt like eternity, her burgundy hair streaming behind her like some predatory sea creature as she demonstrated "proper form" for the fifteenth time. The chlorine smell still clings to your skin despite the quick shower, and your hair's doing that weird half-damp thing that's going to look like absolute trash in about twenty minutes.

"Swimming builds stealth," she'd said earlier, pushing wet strands from her face with that intense look she gets when she's in full instructor mode. "Helps you move silently. Might save your life someday."

Can't really argue with that. In this line of work, the more ways you know how to not die, the better your chances of, well, not dying. Even if your arms currently feel like overcooked noodles and you're pretty sure your lungs have filed for divorce.

The hallway stretches ahead like a never-ending tunnel. Whoever designed this place clearly had a hard-on for minimalism—all sleek surfaces and indirect lighting. Very "secret criminal organization with excellent taste," which you suppose is the point.

You notice Kazuha keeps glancing at her digital card as you walk, the blue glow illuminating her face in quick flashes. She's got that look—the one that says she's sitting on information and trying to decide if it's worth sharing. After about the fifth glance, she finally breaks the comfortable silence between you.

"Heard about the camping trip?" she asks, voice casual but eyes watchful.

"The what now?" You slow your pace, raising an eyebrow so high it might actually leave your face. The words 'camping' and 'deadly criminal organization' don't exactly go together in your mind.

"Moon's latest idea." Her lips quirk up in that way that means she finds something both ridiculous and amusing. "Team building or whatever. Though knowing him, it's probably more about testing survival skills than roasting marshmallows."

You snort—actually snort—imagining Seoul's deadliest criminals sitting cross-legged in a circle singing campfire songs: V with a guitar. Jeon scowling at a marshmallow. AD refusing to leave his tent without Wi-Fi. The mental image is too much.

"When's this happening?" you ask, already mentally cataloging what outdoor gear you own (approximately none) and what you'll need to borrow (approximately everything).

"Next weekend. Mandatory for everyone—even the Council." She grins, and there's something almost childishly delighted in her expression. "Can't wait to see how some of them handle roughing it."

"Bet Jeon's secretly a wilderness expert." The words tumble out before your brain can slam on the brakes. "Probably knows fifty ways to start a fire with just his glare."

And why the fuck do you always do this? It's like your mouth has a direct line to the Jeon-obsessed part of your brain that you try so hard to keep locked in a box labeled 'do not open, contains bad decisions.'

Kazuha's laugh bounces off the walls, bright and genuine. "True. But I'm more excited to watch V try to pitch a tent. That'll be worth all the mosquito bites."

You both crack up at the mental image—V, with his designer clothes and perfectly styled hair, struggling with tent poles and swearing elegantly. Doing some dramatic gestures as he insists this is beyond his pay grade.

The conversation flows easier after that, like a dam breaking. Division gossip (apparently someone from Logistics hooked up with one of J-Hope's medics), latest missions (Flower's team extracted information from some politician last week), the weird mix of normal and deadly that makes up your daily life.

But part of your brain keeps circling back to the camping trip. It might be interesting, seeing everyone outside these walls. Away from the usual hierarchy and rules. Maybe even see certain people—a certain person—in a different light...

Stop it. Bad brain.

The elevator takes its sweet time arriving, but for once you don't mind. These moments—just chatting and laughing like you're normal twenty-somethings instead of trained criminals—make the whole "chose a life of crime" thing a bit more bearable. Almost like you could be two friends heading to a coffee shop instead of two members of a seduction team returning from combat training.

Then the doors slide open with that soft pneumatic hiss, and the mood shifts faster than V's trigger finger.

Because AD is there, and he looms in the elevator like a human popsicle in pajamas. His blonde hair's a disaster zone, like he's been running his hands through it for hours, and his expression screams 'I will digitally erase your entire existence if you so much as breathe in my direction.'

You and Kazuha instinctively hang back, keeping a respectful distance as you step inside.

The silence is thick enough to choke on. You exchange glances with Kazuha, her eyes wide in a silent what the actual fuck is his deal today? AD's usually grumpy—it's like his personality setting is permanently stuck on 'irritated genius'—but this is next level, even for him.

The elevator hums, counting floors with soft electronic beeps. You study the back of AD's head, noting how his shoulders are hunched forward like he's carrying something heavy.

Something's definitely got the Chief of Cyber Intelligence more pissy than usual.

Maybe someone touched his keyboard. Or breathed near his servers. Or existed in his general vicinity when he was coding.

"Seduction Division?" His voice breaks the silence suddenly, barely above a mumble but somehow filling the entire space.

You stiffen, feeling your spine straighten automatically. Kazuha goes still beside you, her usual fluid energy freezing in place.

"Yes?" you answer, because someone has to and she's not opening her mouth.

AD turns slowly, pivoting on his heel. His dark eyes meet yours, and there's something in them that makes your stomach drop—not anger or irritation, but... Concern? Fear? Something you've never seen on his face before.

"Be careful," he says softly, but there's steel under the words, a warning wrapped in those two simple syllables.

Before you can process what that means—before you can even think to ask what the hell he's talking about—the elevator stops, and AD steps out without another word, his pajama-clad form disappearing down the hallway like some bizarre sleep-deprived ghost.

The doors slide shut, and you let out a heavy breath.

"What was that about?" Kazuha whispers, looking as confused as you feel.

"No idea." You shake your head. "But when AD warns you about something..."

"You listen." She finishes, expression thoughtful.

The elevator continues its descent, but your mind's stuck on AD's warning. He's not exactly known for caring about other divisions' business. Whatever prompted that cryptic message must be serious.

Question is: what's he trying to warn you about?

 

Chapter 12: embers in the night

Summary:

"Camping trips are not your favorite thing in the world, but if Moon made it a thing, then you might as well swallow it up. Just like you swallow up Jeon's glances across the fire during the truth or dare game, or the way the flame of his cigarette glows amber in the distance and you somehow manage to know it's him.

Notes:

You bitches. You unhinged little chaos goblins. DID YOU miss you trees, tension, and team-building trauma? Well, here's more of that.

Who would've thought? Not Moon. He just wanted to force the criminal girlies into the woods like it was a corporate retreat gone feral.

This chapter was so much fun to write. Like. The sheer range. One second we’re all sunburnt and pissed, and the next we’re watching Jessi roundhouse-kick a flagpole while V monologues like he’s in Phantom of the Opera (Violent Remix).

I really loved exploring the absolute clownery of this “team bonding” mission while sneaking in all these little character moments. Jessi and V’s rivalry? I LOVE THEM. SIBLING VIBES BUT MAKE IT DEADLY. ALSOOOO JM’s cardigan diplomacy? Flawless. Takama being a soft deadly kiwi?? I weep.

And then there’s Jeon.

Brooding. Smoking. Being allergic to feelings like it’s his job. (Which, to be fair, it kind of is.)

That last scene?? Baby girl. Baby DARLING. If you didn’t feel that in your knees, go reread.

Also. Also. Can we take a moment to appreciate the absolute tomfoolery of “Never Have I Ever” in a group full of criminals?? Like—everyone’s drinking. Everyone’s unwell. AD’s collecting blackmail. JM’s watching V with that “I’m not touching you but I’m thinking about it” gaze.

And Y/N?? Dropping that bomb about attraction like the menace she is. Girlie took a sip of that chaos juice and said “bet.” Queen behavior.

The sun is being a real bitch today.

You wipe the sweat off your forehead for what feels like the millionth time, cursing whoever decided winter should feel like summer.

Moon, that conniving bastard.

His brilliant idea of "team bonding" in the mountains somehow got RM's stamp of approval, and now here you are, hiking up this godforsaken trail with the rest of Kkangpae's finest.

The gravel crunches under your boots as you trudge along. Something about seeing each other's "true colors" and "building trust," Moon had said. You snort. Leave it to him to turn a camping trip into some deep psychological experiment.

Up ahead, Jeon's leading the pack like the brooding commander he is. You watch him navigate the path with that focused intensity of his, all broad shoulders and purposeful strides. Everyone else keeps their distance—smart of them, really. His storm-cloud aura is doing that thing again, the one that makes the air feel electric and h̶o̶t̶ dangerous.

V bounces around near him like some deranged mountain sprite, which would be funny if it wasn't so unnerving. One second he's scaling rocks like some kind of professional climber, the next he's pelting people with pine cones, cackling like a kid on a sugar rush.

The contrast between him and Jeon is almost comical—darkness and chaos, wrapped up in two very different packages.

"Watch your step here," Flower calls out from behind you, her voice steady and sure.

You glance back to see her expertly maneuvering around a particularly treacherous patch of loose rocks. She makes everything look effortless, even hiking in this heat.

God, teach you her ways.

Jessi's voice cuts through suddenly: "Keep up the pace, we're not here for sightseeing!"

You can't help but grin as you watch her march ahead, red ponytail swinging like a battle flag. Even in hiking gear, she manages to look fierce as hell. Her division members trail behind her like ducklings, trying (and failing) to match her energy.

Something about seeing everyone out here, away from the castle's shadows and politics, feels weirdly raw. Real. You're all still the same dangerous people, just... dustier. Sweatier.

Maybe that was Moon's point all along.

Sneaky bastard.

The late afternoon sun bathes everything in gold, and you can't help but snort at the sight before you. It's absurdly funny seeing Kkangpae's finest trudging through nature like some twisted corporate retreat.

AD looks particularly out of place, blonde hair catching the light like a beacon as he leads his team of tech nerds through the wilderness. They're all following him like lost puppies, probably experiencing their first dose of vitamin D in months. You notice how his casual slouch doesn't quite mask the way his eyes keep scanning the treeline. Old habits die hard, huh?

"For fuck's sake, watch where you're stepping!" J-Hope's voice cuts through the air, his usual crankiness making a brief appearance as one of his medics nearly trips over a root.

Still, there's something different about him out here.

Less Dr. Jekyll, more... well, still Dr. Jekyll, but maybe after a cup of chamomile tea.

His team's got enough medical supplies to handle a small apocalypse, which is probably smart given this crowd.

And then there's JM, floating through it all like some ethereal woodland creature in his oversized cardigan. His financial team looks hilariously out of their element, but they're managing to keep up, probably because JM's presence is as calming as ever.

Though you'd bet good money those designer shoes aren't going to survive this trip.

The path finally opens up to a view that actually makes you pause.

Damn.

The valley stretches out below, all misty blues and greens, and for a moment, you forget you're part of a criminal organization of sorts. Everyone else seems to feel it too—this weird, peaceful vibe that has no business existing among a bunch of gang members.

"Alright, let's set up camp here." Moon's voice breaks the spell, all business as usual. But even his sunglasses can't hide the fact that he's actually enjoying this ridiculous situation.

You watch as everyone scrambles to follow his orders, divisions mixing like some bizarre summer camp activity—and it's kinda funny, seeing assassins and hackers arguing over how to pitch a tent.

Moon clears his voice like a professor about to announce a pop quiz. "Alright, everyone!"

You fight back an eye roll. Of course. The camping trip is not but some structured learning experience.

"Before we set up for the night, we have an activity." There's something almost gleeful in his tone that makes you nervous. "It's a team-building exercise, but with a Kkangpae twist."

Oh great. You watch as everyone exchanges looks, probably sharing your thought that nothing good ever comes from the words "team-building" and "twist" in the same sentence.

"We're going to split into mixed teams," Moon explains, pushing his round glasses up his nose. "Your task is to find and retrieve a flag hidden somewhere in this area. First team back wins."

You catch Jeon's subtle shift in posture—that slight straightening of his shoulders that means his competitive side just woke up. Meanwhile, V's grinning like someone told him there's cookies, which is honestly terrifying given his track record with "games."

"You'll need to use your skills cooperatively," Moon adds, like he's reading from some corporate manual. "This exercise is about strategy, teamwork, and understanding each other's strengths."

"Sounds like fun," Jessi cuts in, hands on her hips. "But what's the catch, Moon?"

Moon's lips curl into what might actually be a grin—holy shit, someone document this rare occurrence—before he drops the bomb: "You must stick together at all times, no one can be left behind. And remember, the forest can be deceptive. Stay alert." He pauses for dramatic effect. "Whoever wins gets to choose sleeping tent and partner."

Well, fuck.

The clearing erupts into motion as people start grouping up, and suddenly you're caught in the middle of what feels like the world's most dangerous game of musical chairs.

Your team's a weird mix, but maybe that's the point.

There's Jessi, JM, and Takama—the powerhouse trio you actually know—plus a handful of faces you usually just pass in the castle hallways.

There's Hyun from Medical, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else but manages to radiate competence anyway. Seojoon from Cyber's got that twitchy energy all AD's people seem to share, like he's searching for a WiFi signal in this godforsaken forest. And then there's Minji from Stealth, who moves like she's made of smoke—seriously, how does she make hiking look graceful?

"Okay, team." Jessi's already taking charge, because of course she is. Her ponytail swings as she surveys your group like a general reviewing troops. "We've got a diverse set of skills here, and we're going to use them to win this."

JM hums in agreement, somehow making his oversized cardigan look appropriate for a hike. "Let's keep communication open and clear."

"The flag's probably hidden somewhere difficult," Takama cuts in. You've seen him around Jeon enough to recognize that tactical mind at work. "We should start in the denser areas."

The others chime in with their two cents—Hyun promising to play medic (thanks, but let's not need that), Seojoon muttering about search grids like this is some kind of programming problem, and Minji suggesting stealth like she's on an actual mission.

You nod along, trying not to roll your eyes at how seriously everyone's taking this glorified scavenger hunt. "Alright, we've got a plan. Let's just... not die in the process?"

Your ragtag team heads into the forest, and wow, Moon really picked the worst terrain possible. The ground's basically trying to trip you with every step, and these bushes are definitely winning the war against your clothes. But between Seojoon's weirdly effective grid system and Minji's silent-assassin routine, you're actually making decent progress.

Maybe this won't be a total disaster after all.

You can't help but grin as you listen to Jessi and JM's back-and-forth.

"You know," Jessi starts, that trademark smirk of hers making an appearance, "I'm not one for all this sneaking around. If it were up to me, I'd charge through these woods, make a beeline for that flag, and dare anyone to try and stop me."

JM chuckles, and you swear you can feel the calming effect it has on everyone. "That's exactly why we're here, Jessi. To learn different approaches. Besides, subtlety can be just as powerful as brute force, don't you think?"

"Maybe there's some strength in silence," Jessi admits, nodding at Minji. "But come on, it's hard to deny the rush of a good brawl."

"I get that," JM says, his eyes scanning the trees like he's trying to find a hidden Excel spreadsheet or something. "But we're a team. This is about more than just strength. It's about using our heads, too."

Jessi lets out a laugh that probably scares off half the wildlife in a five-mile radius. She claps JM on the back, and you wince, half-expecting him to topple over. But nope, he doesn't even flinch.

Guess that cardigan's hiding some muscle.

"That's why you're here, Jimin," Jessi grins. "You keep us grounded and thinking. But if we do come across another team, I'm not holding back!"

"You wouldn't be Jessi if you did," JM responds with a smile that's way too sweet for a guy who probably knows twenty-five ways to launder money through a lemonade stand. "Just make sure to keep that energy until we find the flag. We'll need it."

You watch as they fall into step together, and it's kind of... nice? In a weird, 'we're-all-criminals-but-hey-found-family' kind of way.

"You're the calm to my storm, Chimchim," Jessi says, and oh, this is the first time you're seeing her softer side. "But let's not forget, we've got Chaewon in another team and there's no way I'm letting her beat us."

JM grins, and you swear you can see the gears turning in that big brain of his. "Not a chance. We've got this." His eyes flick to Jessi's feet. "Just watch your step, though. Can't have you charging off and spraining an ankle. We need you in top form, Jessi."

You bite back a snort. Leave it to JM to be all caring while also low-key telling Jessi to chill the fuck out.

As you trudge along behind them, you can't help but wonder what the other teams are up to. E̶s̶p̶e̶c̶i̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ ̶J̶e̶o̶n̶'s.

Not that you care. Nope. Not at all.

Your throat feels like sandpaper, and you realize with growing irritation that your water bottle is probably sitting pretty back at camp, completely useless to you right now. Great going, genius.

You're in the middle of cursing your own stupidity when Takama falls into step beside you. For Jeon's second-in-command, he's surprisingly... not terrifying?

"You look like you could use this," he says, offering his canteen with a smile that actually reaches his eyes. It's weird seeing such a genuine expression on someone from the Assassination Division.

"Thanks, Takama." You accept the water, trying not to look as desperately thirsty as you feel. "I can't believe I left mine back at camp."

The water hits different when you're this thirsty. You try not to chug it like some dehydrated gremlin, but it's a close call.

"It happens to the best of us," he says, and there's something almost kind in his voice. "Just remember to stay hydrated. We've got a long day ahead of us."

You hand back his canteen, feeling weirdly touched by the gesture. "I owe you one."

"No worries. We're all here to look out for each other, right?"

He says it so easily, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like we're not all part of a criminal organization where trust usually comes with a price tag.

It hits you then—Takama's actually nice. Not in that fake, calculated way some gang members are, but genuinely considerate. The kind of person who notices when someone's struggling and helps without making a big deal out of it.

You watch him scan the forest ahead, radiating both competence and awareness at the same time. You can't help but think it's almost funny how he ended up as Jeon's right hand—they're like night and day. Where Jeon's all storm clouds and sharp edges, Takama's more like... well, a really deadly teddy bear with a shaved head?

A soft kiwi, maybe?

What even is this gang anymore?

Hyun's voice interrupts your inner chatter. "Eyes peeled, everyone. We're approaching a likely area."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. No shit, Sherlock.

And then the trees loom overhead, casting weird shadows that make every bush look like a potential hiding spot. You're starting to think Moon's got a sadistic streak, making you play hide and seek in this green maze.

Minji glides forward like some forest nymph, graceful and silent. It's almost annoying how effortlessly she moves. You, on the other hand, feel about as stealthy as a drunk elephant.

"We're making good progress," Seojoon mutters, probably to his imaginary friend.

The guy's been muttering to himself this whole time. You're half convinced he's got a spreadsheet running in his head.

The sun's starting to dip, painting everything in that Instagram-worthy golden hour light. It'd be pretty if it didn't also mean you're running out of time, because where the fuck is the goddamn flag?

You all keep moving together until Jessi throws up her hand like she's hailing a taxi in the middle of the woods.

"You hear that?" she whispers, and there's this glint in her eye that screams 'trouble'.

You strain your ears and—oh. Oh shit. That's definitely the sound of people nearby. Your heart does this weird little skip, part 'fuck yeah' and part 'oh fuck'.

"We move quiet, we move fast," Jessi hisses. "Remember, they're not expecting us. We've got the element of surprise. Let's use it."

You all nod like a bunch of bobbleheads and spread out. You try your best to channel your inner Minji, but you're pretty sure you look more like a constipated ninja.

Jessi peeks over some bushes, and bam—there it is.

The flag.

Your golden ticket to a decent night's sleep and maybe, just maybe, a chance to stick it to Jeon.

Your heart's pounding so hard you're surprised it hasn't alerted the other team.

This is it.

You watch as Jessi's eyes narrow, and you know that look. She's not just seeing what's there—she's looking for all the ways this could go wrong.

Then it happens. A rustle in the trees that's definitely not the wind, and before you can process it, you spot him. V, looking like some demented forest creature, perched in a tree like he's auditioning for a horror movie.

The moment Jessi and V lock eyes, the whole atmosphere shifts. Because fuck. You've seen enough of the chiefs' competitive bullshit to know this is about to get wild.

They both move at once, like someone fired a starting gun. V launches himself from the tree with that unnatural grace of his—so that's where Minji's gotten it from huh?—while Jessi... well, Jessi does what Jessi does best: something absolutely batshit crazy.

Instead of going for the flag like a normal person, she fucking roundhouse kicks the pole. The flag goes flying through the air like some patriotic frisbee, and you have to bite back a laugh because of course she'd pull something like this.

The look V and Jessi share is almost funny—like two cats who just realized they're both after the same mouse. Although it seems to be accompanied by this weird respect, probably buried under layers of competitive spite.

They both land, and V's got that smile on his face. You know the one—that 'I'm about to be an absolute shit' smile that you're really starting to associate with him.

"Well, well," he drawls, brushing off his hands like he didn't just parkour through the forest. "I must say, Jessi, you still know how to make a man's heart race."

Jessi straightens up, and you can practically feel the eye roll coming. "Please, V. The day you can outmaneuver me is the day the Council of Nine turns into a knitting circle."

V's chuckle is low and lazy, like he has all the time in the world. His grin stretches wide, equal parts mischief and provocation.

"But isn't that what makes it so fun?" He gestures between himself and Jessi with a flourish. "You, all brute force and chaos. Me, dripping with finesse. A perfect match, don't you think?"

Jessi crosses her arms, utterly unimpressed. Her gaze could cut steel, but V? He's eating it up.

"Finesse? Is that what we're calling your sneaky little stunts now? Sounds like bullshit with extra steps to me."

The air suddenly turns... weird. Like it's cracking with adrenaline and... whatever the hell their dynamic is. Though it's clear neither is willing to flinch, and the rest of you might as well not exist.

"Ah, but—" V bows theatrically, one arm sweeping out like he's on a stage instead of about to throw hands. "Subtlety is an art form. And me? I'm nothing short of a masterpiece. You know, not everyone gets the honor of sparring with the Stealth Chief."

Jessi barks out a laugh so sharp it echoes through the trees, momentarily silencing the usual rustle of leaves.

"Stealth Chief? Is that what you call scurrying around like some feral house cat? Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but sneaking isn't exactly fighting. It's just running away in slow motion."

Her stance shifts slightly, weight rolling to the balls of her feet. It's the kind of posture that makes you take a cautious step back, because you've heard of Jessi when she's motivated, and it's not pretty—for the idiot on the receiving end.

V doesn't even blink. Instead, his smirk deepens, resilient as ever.

"Coward, hmm? That's what sore losers say when they can't keep up." He tuts softly, shaking his head as if she's the one being unreasonable.

Oh, boy.

You can almost feel Jessi's hackles rise. Her eyes narrow into slits, a dangerous glint stealing across her face.

"The only finesse you're gonna have is figuring out how to pick your teeth out of the dirt, pretty boy."

It's like the temperature drops a few degrees—or maybe it's just the shadow of their looming chaos. Everyone else stays frozen, like one wrong move will get them caught in the crossfire, and honestly? You wouldn't blame them.

V circles her slowly, scornful expression still intact, obviously. But there's an edge to it now, playful but keen, like the blade of a knife.

"Oh, Jess," his voice turns mocking, "I'd consider you competition... if we were in the same league."

And that's it. That's the match to her gasoline fire.

Jessi lunges first—of course she does. She's all instinct, fast and explosive, and it's honestly terrifying how much energy she has left even after the trek through the forest. Her feint is quick, purposeful, a snap to the left designed to bait him.

But V's not a rookie. He doesn't take the bait. Instead, he stays planted, watching her with that maddening patience of his, tracking her every move like she's easy to figure out.

"Come on, V," Jessi taunts, her voice bright. "What's the matter? Scared I'll knock that smirk off your face?"

V leans back slightly, just enough to dodge her next swipe. He looks far too calm, that smirk of his like a permanent fixture.

"Oh, Jessi, Jessi, Jessi." His voice is mockingly soothing, like he's trying to calm a rabid dog. "I'd actually have to notice you to be scared."

You don't know whether to laugh or take cover. Probably both.

V springs into action like some unholy mixture of a cat and a ninja. This is the first time you've seen him fight, and honestly you're not entirely sure he's actually trying.

Maybe it's just the pure glee radiating off him as he dances around Jessi's attacks.

Jessi's not making it easy for him. She's fierce, determined—and girl's got stamina for days. But V? The bastard's treating this like his own personal performance art, ducking and weaving like he does this while eating a bagel for breakfast.

"Come on, Joo," V taunts, narrowly avoiding Jessi's grab. "Getting slow in your old age?"

"I'll show you slow, you little shit!"

Suddenly V feints left and Jessi takes the bait, lunging forward with enough force to probably knock out a bear. But V's already spinning away, cackling as he dives for the flag.

His fingers brush the fabric, and for a second, you think he's got it. But Jessi? She's not Logistics Chief for nothing. She hooks her foot around his ankle—dirty move, you love it—sending him slightly off balance. It's not much, but it's enough.

They both grab the flag at almost the same moment, and suddenly it's a weird game of tug-of-war mixed with what looks like interpretive dance. V's got the advantage of height, but Jessi's got pure stubborn determination on her side.

"Let go, you overgrown weed!" Jessi grunts, yanking hard.

"Ladies first," V purrs, and you see the exact moment Jessi's eye twitches.

She does something then—some crazy mix of a twist and a roll that makes you dizzy just watching—and suddenly V's grip slips. The flag comes free, and Jessi stumbles back, barely keeping her balance but clutching her prize like it's made of gold.

V's jaw falls, and it's like he's about to curse her out.

But then, he simply straightens up, brushing dirt from his clothes with exaggerated care. His hair's a mess and there's a leaf stuck to his shoulder, but he's still grinning.

"Well played, Jessi." The words come out warm, genuine. "You've still got the moves."

Jessi's victory dance consists mainly of waving the flag in V's face. "Not too shabby yourself, pretty boy. But let's not forget who the winner is here."

You watch them, these two ridiculous powerhouses of Kkangpae, playfully shoving each other like actual siblings.

Maybe this is exactly what Moon wanted you to see.

The walk back to camp feels like a victory parade.

If... victory parades involved a bunch of criminals trampling through the woods.

Jessi's leading the charge, waving that flag like she just conquered a small country.

The clearing comes into view, and suddenly you're all celebrities. The other teams are gathered around, some actually cheering, others looking like they just bit into a lemon. You catch a few eye rolls—sore losers much?

"And then—" Jessi's voice booms across as she launches into her dramatic retelling. She demonstrates her kick, nearly taking out a poor sapling in the process. "—the flag was mine!"

"Ours." JM corrects.

You bite back a laugh. Trust Jessi to turn a game of capture the flag into an epic saga.

"That's my girl!" Chaewon hollers from the sidelines, looking like a proud mom at a soccer game. She bounces over to Jessi, and they fall into their usual rhythm of playful jabs and inside jokes.

The attention shifts to JM, who's scanning the crowd intently—but before he can even open his mouth, V materializes next to him like some kind of demented jack-in-the-box.

"Come on, JM," V purrs, draping himself over JM's shoulders. "You know you want to bunk with me. I'll keep the monsters away."

JM sighs, but you catch that little smile he's trying to hide.

"I suppose someone needs to make sure you don't terrorize the entire camp." He shakes his head, fond exasperation written all over his face. "Fine, you win."

Now it's your turn. You glance around the clearing, weighing your options. Your eyes land on Yunjin, and something in your chest settles.

After all this chaos, her gentle presence feels like finding a quiet corner in a noisy room.

"I choose Yunjin," you say, and watch her face light up like a sunrise. "We'll take a two-person tent."

"I'd like that," she replies softly, and you know you made the right choice.

At least someone in this camp won't try to murder you in your sleep.

Hopefully.

The sun finally gives up its assault as evening rolls in.

Everyone's hustling around, pitching tents like they actually know what they're doing (spoiler: most don't), while someone gets a bonfire going. You find yourself plopped down next to Yunjin, watching the flames dance.

The clearing's alive with chatter and laughter—gang members discussing random stuff like normal citizens.

You notice from your periphery that Chaewon and Jessi are cackling about something, probably roasting someone (metaphorically, for once).

Their friendship hits different when you see them like this, all guard down and genuine.

Not far from them, V's got JM trapped in what looks like the world's most animated conversation. He's all dramatic hand gestures and shit-eating grins while JM just sits there, dropping these little zingers that have V practically bouncing.

The fire crackles, bottles clink, and for a moment it's like... you're at some normal camping trip.

If normal meant with your dysfunctional criminal found family thing.

"Alright, folks!" V slaps his thigh like some demented camp counselor, grinning like he just thought of the best worst idea ever. "How about we spice things up a bit? Never Have I Ever—you drink if you've done it."

The response is a mix of "hell yeah" and "oh god no," but you know everyone's going to play anyway. That's just how V's chaos works—it's like a black hole, sucking everyone into its orbit.

AD shifts against his log, looking way too comfortable for someone sitting on literal dirt.

"This should be good," he drawls, and you can practically see the blackmail material forming in his brain.

"Just remember," J-Hope cuts in, trying (and failing) to sound responsible, "I'm not drinking tonight."

You notice how AD's eyes flick to him for just a second, unspoken words being thrown into the space between them.

You don't have enough time to decipher it though, because soon enough everyone is grabbing their drink (or in J-Hope's case, what looks suspiciously like apple juice).

This is either going to be the best team-building exercise ever or the start of World War III.

"Never have I ever..." V drawls, and you just know he's about to say something stupid. "Gotten a tattoo I regretted the next day."

A few drinks go up, and AD mutters something about a phoenix that sounds suspiciously like a drunk decision gone wrong. You catch J-Hope trying not to laugh at that—probably because he's the one who had to deal with the infection afterward.

The game picks up speed, stories getting bolder with each round. Your brain's starting to feel fuzzy around the edges when it's your turn.

"Never have I ever..." You tap your bottle against your chin, grinning. "Bailed someone out of jail before sunrise."

The response is instant—bottles going up everywhere like some weird criminal toast. Jeon takes a particularly long drink, and you can't help but wonder how many times he's had to rescue his disaster squad from lockup.

"Never have I ever," AD announces, shooting J-Hope that shit-eating grin of his, "been caught in a ridiculous, bright yellow suit that could be seen from space.

J-Hope doesn't miss a beat. "Never have I ever walked into a glass door because I was too busy admiring my own reflection."

The clearing erupts with laughter, and AD shoves him like he wants to murder him. You swear these two are one bickering session away from either killing each other or adopting each other.

Then it's your leader's turn, and she confesses to some wild midnight adventure that has Jessi cackling, and then Jessi drops the bomb about her secret karaoke obsession—which weirdly, surprises nobody.

The alcohol's doing its job, making everything feel warm and loose, when V suddenly turns to you. His eyes are glinting with mischief in the firelight, and you know you're about to be targeted.

"Your turn," he purrs, and everyone's eyes swing your way. "Let's hear something juicy."

Oh, it's on.

Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's the fire's dancing in your vision, making faces blur like some abstract painting—but suddenly you've got what might be either the best or worst idea ever.

You lean forward, propping your elbows on your knees, and oh—maybe sitting up so fast wasn't the smartest move. Still, you've committed now.

"Never have I ever," you drawl, feeling particularly bold (or stupid), "found someone in this circle attractive."

The silence that follows is delicious.

Then, the clearing erupts in laughter and the telling clink of bottles.

Your eyes scan the circle, catching all those little tells—the shifted gazes, the not-so-subtle glances. And then—

Oh.

Across the fire, Jeon moves. It's subtle—barely anything at all. But you see it. The way his dark eyes find yours, steady and unwavering, even as he lifts his bottle to his lips.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Your breath catches, just for a moment, before you collect yourself. The fire crackles as if mocking the heat suddenly pooling in your chest. Goddamn him.

Yunjin's trying (and failing) to be subtle about her giggles, taking the tiniest sip from her bottle. Next to her, Eunchae's practically glowing, her laugh carrying across the fire as she drinks.

Kazuha makes drinking look like some fancy tea ceremony, all grace and poise, while Sakura's grinning like she's got secrets to spare. They share this look that makes you wonder if there's a story there.

And then; there's Takama. His face does this thing where it's completely blank before he drinks, but there's this little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth that says he's in on some joke the rest of you aren't.

V, though? He doesn't even hesitate. "Looks like we've got a crowd full of admirers," he says dramatically, raising his bottle like he's toasting to a room full of fans.

Your eyes catch how they flick toward JM for just a split second, and well—that's interesting.

Laughter ripples through the group again, and the tension eases, though your heart hasn't quite caught up yet.

It's still hammering in your chest, louder than it has any right to be, especially with Jeon sitting there, calm as a fucking statue.

You dare another glance at him, only to find his eyes still on you, half-lidded but watching.

Always watching.

The firelight dances across his face, catching on the silver of his lip ring, the sharp line of his jaw. You can't read him, and that pisses you off more than it probably should.

"Think you're clever, huh?" V says, pulling you back to the moment. His voice is teasing, but there's that signature chaos behind it, something wild and unapologetic. "Careful, sweetheart. Questions like that just set the wolves loose."

You smirk, forcing your gaze away from Jeon. "Good thing I don't mind wolves."

V laughs, throwing his head back dramatically as if you've just made his entire night. Meanwhile, Jeon hasn't moved, hasn't said a word. But you swear you can feel the weight of his presence pressing against you.

Like the goddamn hurricane he is.

You don't miss how JM takes a slow, deliberate sip from his bottle, and that little smirk playing on his lips. His eyes flick briefly toward V before darting away.

Huh.

"Guess we're all a bit fucked up, huh?" Jessi announces with 0 subtlety, taking a long drink and throwing a wink across the fire.

J-Hope leans back against his log, grinning despite his apple juice. "What can we say? We're a good-looking bunch."

Coming from anyone else, it might sound conceited. But J-Hope manages to make it sound like he's sharing some universal truth.

AD just sits there with that infuriating eyebrow raised, looking like he's cataloging every reaction for future reference—and the way his lips curve up at the corners... Yeah, he's probably acquiring blackmail material.

The game keeps going, and you all keep drinking. Everyone redoubles on the alcohol, guards slip a little bit and then the fire's dying down, but the energy around the circle is still very much present.

You blame the booze for the way your skin prickles every time you feel Jeon's gaze slide over to you.

Not that you're keeping track.

The crowd around the fire thins out as the night deepens.

A few stragglers remain—Yunjin and Eunchae huddled together like gossiping schoolgirls, while Kazuha and Sakura stare into the flames like they're trying to divine their futures or something.

You sit there, watching the fire die down, feeling that pleasant buzz from earlier starting to fade.

Then you spot it—a tiny orange glow in the darkness, like a misplaced star.

Cigarette.

And there's only one brooding asshole who'd be lurking in the shadows at this hour.

You get up, picking your way through what feels like a minefield of sleeping bags and empty bottles. You make it through some trees and bushes, and an owl hoots somewhere in the distance, probably judging your life choices.

Then he's there.

Jeon.

Standing there like some noir film character, all broad shoulders and moody silence.

The cigarette between his lips is the only thing giving him away in the darkness.

Dramatic bastard.

"Smoking again?" You try to keep your voice casual, but it comes out softer than intended. Maybe it's the lingering alcohol, or maybe it's just... him.

He doesn't even flinch—of course he doesn't. Mr. Perfect Assassin probably knew you were coming before you did.

He takes a long drag before answering, smoke curling from his lips.

"Yeah." His voice is rough, low. "Had to hide from J-Hope. He'd have my ass for this."

"And here I thought you quit." You lean against his tree, close enough to smell that addictive mix of tobacco and him.

Pine and wood and petrichor.

He finally turns to look at you, and fuck—the way the cigarette's glow catches his features should be illegal.

That smirk doesn't help either.

"Old habits die hard."

"Bad for your health, you know." You're not sure why you're still talking, but something about this moment feels... different. Significant.

His laugh is dark, barely there. "Ain't much about our lives that's good for health, is there?"

Silence falls between you, like tiny droplets of water during a sizzle.

You both know what this is—what it isn't.

You watch him take another drag, mesmerized by the way his lips wrap around the filter. The only sounds are some distant snoring and the occasional hoot of that judgmental owl from earlier.

"You ever think about quitting? For real, I mean?" The question slips out before you can stop it. Blame it on the lingering alcohol, or maybe just the way the moonlight catches on his lip ring.

Jeon rolls the cigarette between his fingers, and you try not to stare at the way they move.

Really try.

"Sometimes," he murmurs.

And god, his voice shouldn't sound like that—all gravely and burnt at the edges from the nicotine dragging down his throat.

"But it's like this—" He gestures vaguely at the darkness around you, at your whole fucked-up world. "It's a part of me. Even if it's not the best part."

Your eyes drift to his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, lingering maybe a second too long on his lips as they part to release another cloud of smoke. There's something dangerous about the way he looks right now, something that has you holding yourself back from doing something stupid.

Something really stupid.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you reach out and snatch the cigarette right from between his lips. His expression shifts from surprise to something else, something you can't quite grasp. His mouth stays slightly parted, just for a moment, before he catches himself.

You bring the cigarette to your own lips, taking a slow drag. The filter's still warm from his mouth. You hold his gaze as you inhale, watching the way his eyes track the movement.

"Look at you," he finally says, voice rough and low, "preaching about bad habits."

You exhale, letting the smoke curl between you like a secret. "Consider it a public service. Just looking out for you."

You can't help the smirk that tugs at your lips.

He leans in—fuck—close enough that you can smell pine and rain and tobacco.

"By taking on the bad habits yourself?" His tone is teasing, but his eyes... his eyes are something else entirely.

Another drag, slower this time.

You're playing with fire and you know it.

"Someone's got to make sure you don't fall off the wagon." Your voice comes out lower than intended, smoke dancing around your words. "Might as well be me."

Your chest burns, and you wonder if it's really just the nicotine. 

Dangerous territory, babe.

You watch as Jeon's eyes track the cigarette between your fingers. He doesn't ask for it back, and somehow that feels more intimate than if he had.

"You're a hell of a contradiction, you know that?" His voice is soft, barely there, but it hits you like a punch to the gut.

You can't help the wry grin that tugs at your lips.

"Aren't we all, in this game?"

The question hovers between you like the smoke curling up from the cigarette still nestled between your lips.

Loaded.

With all the things you're not supposed to say, not supposed to want.

His laugh, when it comes, is low, obscure. Utterly dangerous. It does things to your chest that you refuse to examine too closely.

"We are," he admits, and fuck, the way he's looking at you makes your skin feel too tight. "But some of us are better at playing the part than others."

You pull the cig out of your mouth, roll it between your fingers, watching the smoke curl up toward the stars.

Anything to avoid drowning in those hurricane eyes of his.

"And which one of us isn't playing their part right now?"

You catch the way his jaw tenses, the slight shift as he leans back. It's subtle, but you think you're starting to learn to read these tiny tells of his. The way he holds himself, like he's physically stopping from moving closer.

"We're both walking a thin line here," he murmurs, and there's something in his voice—exhaustion maybe, or resignation. "You know the rules as well as I do."

"I do." The words taste bitter on your tongue. "Doesn't mean I have to like them."

Doesn't mean you have to like the way he makes you want to break them. Squash them. Fuck them.

F̶u̶c̶k̶ h̶i̶m̶.̶

He watches you like he's trying to memorize every detail, and you hate how it makes you feel exposed.

Like you're simply made of glass and he can see right through to the mess underneath.

"We don't get to pick and choose which rules to follow." His voice drops so low you almost miss it. "Not without consequences."

Consequences. It's a horrible word and you suddenly can't help hating it. Fucking stupid consequences.

You take one last drag from the cigarette, letting the burn ground you. It's almost funny how that tiny ember matches the heat that floods your system whenever he looks at you like that.

With a flick of your wrist, you send it spinning into the darkness, watching it burst into sparks before fading to nothing.

"Then I guess we're good at playing by the rules, aren't we?" Your voice stays steady, even if your pulse is doing gymnastics in your throat.

His eyes follow the dead cigarette's arc before landing back on you, and fuck—there's something in that look that makes your chest ache.

"Yeah," he says, and you catch that hint of... something in his voice. Like regret, maybe. Or defeat. "We're the best."

It's almost funny how these stolen moments have become your new normal—these little pockets of time where you both pretend you're not thinking about breaking every single atom of space between both of you.

But rules are rules, and Jeon... well, Jeon follows them like his life depends on it.

And maybe, it does.

Too bad his dedication to the rules doesn't make him any less fucking attractive.

Notes:

You bitches. You unhinged little chaos goblins. DID YOU miss you trees, tension, and team-building trauma? Well, here's more of that.

Who would've thought? Not Moon. He just wanted to force the criminal girlies into the woods like it was a corporate retreat gone feral.

This chapter was so much fun to write. Like. The sheer range. One second we’re all sunburnt and pissed, and the next we’re watching Jessi roundhouse-kick a flagpole while V monologues like he’s in Phantom of the Opera (Violent Remix).

I really loved exploring the absolute clownery of this “team bonding” mission while sneaking in all these little character moments. Jessi and V’s rivalry? I LOVE THEM. SIBLING VIBES BUT MAKE IT DEADLY. ALSOOOO JM’s cardigan diplomacy? Flawless. Takama being a soft deadly kiwi?? I weep.

And then there’s Jeon.

Brooding. Smoking. Being allergic to feelings like it’s his job. (Which, to be fair, it kind of is.)

That last scene?? Baby girl. Baby DARLING. If you didn’t feel that in your knees, go reread.

Also. Also. Can we take a moment to appreciate the absolute tomfoolery of “Never Have I Ever” in a group full of criminals?? Like—everyone’s drinking. Everyone’s unwell. AD’s collecting blackmail. JM’s watching V with that “I’m not touching you but I’m thinking about it” gaze.

And Y/N?? Dropping that bomb about attraction like the menace she is. Girlie took a sip of that chaos juice and said “bet.” Queen behavior.

Chapter 13: breaking point

Summary:

"Eunchae stealing your sleeping spot was not in your bingo card for the camping trip, nor was it sleeping in Jeon's tent. And... everything that comes with it."

Notes:

I— LOOK. I knew this chapter was gonna be long because damn. I was so looking forward to writing their first ~encounter~ that I absolutely put my whole kikussy into it.

BUT. UHM. 8k WORDS?? WITH MORE THAN HALF BEING SMUT?? (•᷊ิ꒳​​•᷊ิ)

Well. I went overboard. This definitely could've been two chapters, but then again it would make zero sense to divide the scene. ᵃⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ'ᵛᵉ ᵖʳᵒᵇᵃᵇˡʸ ˢᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿ ᵃˢˢᵃˢˢⁱⁿᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ ᵈⁱᵛⁱˢⁱᵒⁿ ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ ᵐᵉ ⁱᶠ ᴵ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵃⁱᵗ ᵗⁱˡ ⁿᵉˣᵗ ʷᵉᵉᵏ ˢᵒ.

If this is your first time reading my smut, welcome to the thunderdome! If you're a returning customer, you know the drill. Either way, consider this my formal apology to my FBI agent who has definitely seen better days.

Enjoy the treat, you thirsty catastrophes (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ And don't worry—there's MANY more to come! This is just the appetizer. The whole menu is extensive and frankly concerning.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

The camp's finally quiet, just leaves rustling and the fire dying down somewhere in the distance.

Everyone's crashed after today's chaos—because apparently, throwing a bunch of criminals together in the woods is exactly as messy as it sounds.

You duck into your tent, already dreaming about passing out, only to find... well, shit.

Yunjin's fast asleep, which isn't surprising. What is surprising is Eunchae sprawled across her like some drunk octopus, taking up what was supposed to be your spot. Her arm's thrown over Yunjin's waist, leg tangled with hers, dead to the world and probably going to wake up with one hell of a hangover.

Great. Just perfect.

You stare at the scene, torn between laughing and groaning. It's kind of adorable, in a "my-drunk-friend-is-a-koala" way, but it also means you're shit out of luck for sleeping arrangements.

Waking Eunchae isn't really an option—she's out cold, breathing deep and steady in that way only truly hammered people can manage. Besides, Yunjin would probably give you that disappointed look if you disturbed them. She's got that whole protective big sister thing going on, even though technically you're all trained killers.

Fucking hell.

With a sigh that's probably a bit more dramatic than necessary, you grab a spare blanket from your bag and drape it over Eunchae's shoulder. They both look so peaceful, which is honestly weird considering what you all do for a living.

You turn and head back out, already dreading the crick in your neck you're going to have tomorrow. The fire's still going, barely, throwing off just enough warmth to make sitting out here slightly less miserable.

You're trying to soak up what's left of the heat when footsteps break the silence. You don't need to look up to know who it is—there's only one person who moves that quietly while still somehow managing to feel like an oncoming storm.

Jeon emerges from the darkness like he owns it, because of course he does. His eyes scan the scene, taking in everything from the empty chairs to your clearly displaced presence, and you just know he's cataloging every detail like the perfectionist asshole he is.

He raises an eyebrow, that infuriating half-smile playing on his lips. "Couldn't sleep?"

You shake your head, trying for casual and probably missing by a mile. "Eunchae's taken over my spot. She's passed out on top of Yunjin like some drunk koala."

"And here you are," he says, sounding frankly too amused, "playing the martyr by the fire."

"It's not about being a martyr," you snap, exhaustion making your voice sharper than intended. "Just didn't have the heart to wake her."

There's a couple beats of silence where he watches you with that intense look of his, like he's trying to see right through you. The cold night air nips at your skin, and you suppress a shiver.

Finally, Jeon sighs, his shoulders dropping just a fraction.

"Look, I've got a tent," he says, sounding like he's already regretting the words. "It's insulated. No sleeping bags, just blankets. You can crash there if you don't fancy freezing your ass off out here."

Your eyes narrow, trying to read between the lines of his offer. Sharing space with Jeon is dangerous—all that heat and tension and the constant dance of 'we shouldn't, but god do we want to.'

Fuck. This is a bad idea.

But it's cold, and you're tired, and the thought of a warm tent is more tempting than it has any right to be.

"You sure about this?" You eye him suspiciously. "Since when do you share anything?"

His lips twitch, and you catch that ghost of a smile he rarely lets slip.

"I don't," he admits, and god, his voice shouldn't sound that good at this hour. "But I'm not enough of an asshole to let you freeze. Besides," he adds, almost like an afterthought, "last time we shared a bed, I actually slept."

"Your tent, huh?" You can't help but push, because that's what you do. "What, you gonna play gentleman and sleep outside?"

He actually smirks at that, the moonlight catching on his lip ring.

"Not a chance." His eyes lock with yours, and fuck, there's that heat again. "We'll share. Got enough blankets."

The words hang between you like the smoke from the previous cigarette, still lingering and heavy with everything you're both pretending not to want.

You stand up, brushing dirt off your pants and trying to ignore how the dying fire isn't the only thing making you feel warm right now.

"Fine," you say, resigned. "But keep your hands to yourself. I'm just here because it's cold."

He laughs, low and rough, and you hate how it makes your stomach flip.

"Same here," he says, already turning toward his tent like he knows you'll follow.

And you do, because of course you do. You trail after him, telling yourself this is just about staying warm and not at all about the way his shoulder blades move under his shirt or how he smells like pine and wood and danger.

Such a fucking horrible idea.

But you're following him anyway.

The moment you step into Jeon's tent, you're hit with warmth. Not the cozy kind—more like the desperate kind that barely takes the edge off the cold trying to burrow into your bones.

The space is small, and fuck, it smells like him. Pine and mint and something darker that makes your head spin a little. It's not fair how his scent alone can make you feel like this, like you're unraveling at the seams.

He jerks his head toward the spot beside him—not an offer, an order. Typical. He's always like this, acting like everything he does should just be accepted without question.

You stand there longer than necessary, watching as he turns onto his side, showing you his back.

Drawing a line.

Because that's Jeon for you—edges and boundaries, even when he's pretending to be nice.

When you finally lie down, you move like you're defusing a bomb. The tent feels too small suddenly, the fabric ceiling pressing down like it's trying to suffocate you both.

Your heart's going crazy, and it's stupid. He's just lying there, being his usual brooding self. But you can feel him, like some kind of electric current running through the air between you.

"What about tomorrow?" Your whisper barely disturbs the darkness. "When everyone sees I wasn't in my tent? They'll put it together."

He stiffens—just slightly, but you catch it. Then he rolls over to face you, and Christ, the way he looks at you should be a crime.

"Then make sure you're gone by dawn," he says, voice hard as steel. "Get out before anyone's awake, and there'll be nothing to realize."

He's close enough that you can smell mint mixing with tobacco on his breath.

Huh. So he probably did chew gum after that cigarette.

"By dawn," you echo, matching his tone even though your pulse is doing gymnastics in your throat.

He stares at you for a moment longer, like he's trying to read something in your face. Whatever he's looking for, he either doesn't find it or doesn't trust himself to acknowledge it.

Then he's turning away again, another wall going up brick by brick.

The silence comes back heavier than before. You pull the blanket tighter, but it doesn't help. The cold seeps in anyway, settling deep in your bones.

Jeon's lying there like he's trying to turn himself to stone, fighting the same thing you're pretending not to feel. But it's there—even with his back to you, even with the frigid air between you.

And it's cold.

Motherfucking cold.

You're shivering so hard your teeth are chattering, and god, these blankets might as well be made of paper for all the good they're doing. Every muscle in your body is locked up tight, fighting against the cold that's trying to burrow straight into your bones.

You force a big inhale, summoning as much body heat as possible, and time does that weird thing where it stretches out forever, like cold molasses, each minute feeling like a small eternity.

The quietness that has settled over in Jeon's tent is only broken by the sound of your teeth doing their best impression of a woodpecker.

Then—warmth.

It happens so fast you almost miss it. One second you're freezing your ass off, the next Jeon's arm is wrapping around you, pulling you against him. The heat of his body hits you like a gush of hot AC hair, and suddenly your face feels like it's on fire for entirely different reasons.

"What the—" You start, but your mouth stutters because holy shit, he's close.

"Shh." His voice rumbles against the back of your neck, and you suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. "I can't sleep with your teeth clacking together like you're trying to send a damn Morse code."

He's like a human furnace pressed against your back, all solid muscle and ridiculous body heat. You can feel every breath he takes, the slight brush of his legs against yours, and fuck, you sense every single point of contact between you.

Nevertheless, you try to swallow past the lump in your throat.

"Sorry, didn't realize I was being that loud."

Your hands hover awkwardly, because where the hell are you supposed to put them now?

"It's fine," he mutters, and you can practically hear him rolling his eyes. "Just keep it down. And try to warm up or whatever."

"I'm trying," you shoot back, but the words lack bite because his warmth is already seeping into you, melting away the cold that's been torturing you for the past hour.

Both in your body and your voice.

He doesn't say anything else, but his arm tightens around you just slightly. Like he's making sure you're actually getting warm. The tension starts bleeding out of your muscles, the shivering finally subsiding as his heat wraps around you like a cocoon.

Then, the tent falls quiet again, except for the intermittent sounds filtering in from outside and your synchronized breathing.

You're still a bit flustered—because of course you are—but grateful for the warmth. Who knew the ice king could actually be... decent?

Dangerous thought territory. Abort.

Now, about getting comfortable... That's a whole other battle.

You shift around, trying to find a position that doesn't make you feel like you're cuddling with a statue made of knives. Your elbow catches his ribs, your knee bumps his, and you're pretty sure you just elbowed him in the spleen.

You hear him sigh, and you already know what's coming.

"For fuck's sake, will you stay still?" Jeon's voice cuts through the darkness, irritated.

"I'm trying to get comfortable," you snap back. "Your gang tattoos aren't exactly memory foam, you know."

"Maybe if you'd stop wiggling like a damn worm on crack, you'd be settled by now." He adjusts his leg with an annoyed huff that you can feel against your neck.

"Maybe if you weren't built like a bag of knives, it wouldn't be so hard," you grumble, pushing back against him just to be petty.

His laugh is low and mocking, sending vibrations through your back. "Bag of knives? That's new."

"Don't laugh at me," you whine, hating how your body responds to that sound. "I'm cold, uncomfortable, and now I'm basically superglued to you."

"Superglued to me?" His hand finds your hip (probably to steady you), grip firm, and fuck—that shouldn't feel as good as it does. "You're the one who's been squirming like you're trying to start a fire."

"How am I supposed to relax when I'm sharing a blanket with a human cactus?"

But you try anyway, forcing your muscles to unwind even as every accidental touch between you feels like it's on fire.

"A human cactus that's keeping your ass from freezing," he mutters, voice rougher than before. "Now pick a position and stick with it before I lose my mind."

Too late for that, you think, trying to ignore how his hand is still on your hip, burning through your clothes like an inferno.

"This is torture," you grumble, squirming again as another rock tries to become one with your hip. "Pretty sure this ground is actually made of spite and broken dreams."

"For fuck's—will you stop moving?" Jeon's voice is strained, like he's counting backwards from ten in his head.

"I wouldn't have to if you weren't built like a weapon rack!" Your whisper comes out sharper than intended, but seriously, how is anyone this uncomfortable to cuddle with?

"Fine. Here—" He shifts suddenly, probably trying to help, but his elbow finds your ribs instead.

You wince. Because that shit hurt. Man's made of strength and muscles, so being the target of his attacks (even if it's an accidental elbowing) is not exactly pleasant.

"Jesus fuck, Jeon!" You swat at his arm, completely forgetting about staying quiet. "Are you trying to give me internal bleeding?"

"Me?" He swats back, definitely pissed now. "You're the one treating this like a goddamn dance floor."

"I wouldn't have to if you'd just—"

"Just what?" He cuts you off, and you can tell his jaw is clenching. "Just magically transform into your perfect little pillow?"

"That'd be a start," you snap, past caring how childish you sound. "Better than this human armory act you've got going."

"Un-fucking-believable." He mutters, but you absolutely hear him. "Try to do something nice for once..."

"Nice? Is that what we're calling attempted murder by elbow now?" You can't keep the bite out of your voice.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm calling it!" His grip tightens on your hip, and fuck—

That really shouldn't feel good. Like, at all.

"Well, your version of 'nice' feels a lot like getting squeezed by a python," you shoot back, trying to ignore his hand placement.

"Python? Thought I was a bag of knives." There's something different in his voice now, like he's fighting back a laugh.

"Clearly you're gifted like that." The words come out softer than intended, your own anger fading into something dangerously close to amusement.

You both fall quiet, your almost-laughter seeping into the night. You're still pressed against him, but somehow the tension has shifted into something... different.

Dangerous.

"Done with your interpretive dance yet?" His voice still has that amused edge to it, the one that makes you want to elbow him again. On purpose this time.

"Maybe." You draw out the word just to be annoying. "If your tent wasn't trying to become one with my spine."

"Good." He sounds relieved, but there's still some tension bleeding into his tone. "Now can we please try to sleep before we have to do this shit all over again?"

You let yourself settle against his chest, and for a moment—just one blessed moment—everything's still. Then your nose starts itching like a bitch, and when you twist to scratch it, your elbow finds his ribs. Again.

"Fuck—"He hisses through his teeth. "Are you serious? Do you have a personal vendetta against my ribcage or something?"

"It was an itch," you snap back, not even trying to sound sorry anymore. "I'm not a fucking robot."

"Could've fooled me with all these assassination attempts." His voice drips with sarcasm. "Just stop wiggling! Every time you move it's like you're starting a riot in here."

"Well, maybe if your arm wasn't crushing me—" You try to adjust his grip, which only makes everything worse.

"My arm wouldn't be dead if you'd stop moving your goddamn hips like you're at a concert," he growls, but he shifts anyway, trying to find a better position.

"You're the one who decided spooning was the solution here," you remind him, because you're physically incapable of shutting up apparently.

"Yeah, to stop you from freezing to death, not to participate in whatever wrestling match you're trying to start!" And now he's frustrated.

"Oh, I'm sorry—" No, you're not. "Did you forget people actually move when they sleep? Or is that not covered in Assassin School?"

"Jesus fucking Christ." He clicks his tongue.

He tries to forcefully pull away all of a sudden, but you're already sitting up, blankets pooling around your waist as irritation floods your system.

"What the actual hell is your prob—"

The words die in your throat.

Oh.

OH.

Because there, in the dim light filtering through the tent, is some pretty compelling evidence of exactly what Jeon's problem is.

Your eyes snap to the very obvious bulge straining against the blanket around his hips, and suddenly his pissy attitude makes a lot more sense.

Holy shit.

Your brain short-circuits for a moment because—fuck. This isn't the first time you've noticed him getting hard around you.

Once could be biology, sure.

But twice?

That's starting to look like a pattern.

The realization hits you like a truck: maybe this tension isn't as one-sided as you thought. Maybe all those loaded looks and charged moments actually mean something.

Your eyes meet his, and the air in the tent gets about ten degrees hotter. There's a challenge in his gaze, like he's daring you to say something.

"Got something to say now?" His voice comes out rough, almost angry, but not entirely.

Your mouth goes dry, but you've never been one to back down. Especially not when you've got the upper hand.

"Yeah, actually." You can't help the smirk that tugs at your lips. "You could've just said you wanted to cuddle."

His eyebrows shoot up, caught between amusement and annoyance. "Cuddle? I was trying to shut you up so I could sleep."

"A pretty damn hard way to shut someone up," you shoot back, and god, the way his jaw clenches at your terrible pun is almost worth the whole uncomfortable night.

Jeon's eyes narrow, and he shifts uncomfortably. The movement only draws your attention back to his... situation, which isn't helping your concentration at all.

"Yeah, well, you're not exactly helping matters with all that ass giggling," he growls, and fuck—why does he sound that good when he's irritated?

You watch as he holds himself completely still, like he's trying to turn into a statue—like every single muscle in his body is tense, restraint is rolling off him in waves.

He looks like he's fighting a war with himself, and maybe he's losing.

"So what, this is my fault now?" You scoff, crossing your arms. "I'm responsible for your dick's opinions?"

"I'm not blaming you for shit," he snaps, voice stretched thin. "Trust me, I'm very aware of my own fucking body."

"And what it wants?" The words slip out before you can stop them, somewhere between a taunt and genuine curiosity.

His nostrils flare—got him—and his jaw clenches so hard you worry for his teeth. He looks away for a second, like he needs to physically remove you from his sight to think straight. When his eyes find yours again, there's something dark and hungry and god maybe you've died a little.

"What it wants doesn't matter," he says, each word careful and measured. "We're here for a reason, and it's not to play house or indulge in—"

"In what, Jeon? Basic human needs?" You cut him off because apparently, you have a death wish. "Because last time I checked, we're still human. Unfortunately."

He lets out a sharp laugh that sounds more like frustration than humor.

"You think I don't know that? But unlike some people, I can control myself."

And yeah, that would be have been convincing if his eyes weren't burning holes into you, if his gaze didn't keep dropping to your lips every few seconds.

"Is that so?" You lean forward slightly, watching him squirm. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're about two seconds away from snapping that famous self-control of yours."

"Fuck you," he growls, but there's something else dancing around in his tone that makes you slightly bolder.

"Maybe you'd like to."

His breath catches.

The look in his eyes makes your throat close. Raw need flashes across his face for a split second before he locks it down, trying his best to pull that cold enforcer mask back on.

"Don't push me." He says and it's rough, like it's supposed to be a warning.

But you notice how his eyes keep darting away from your face, like he can't trust himself to look at you directly.

"I'm not pushing anything." You keep your voice steady despite your racing pulse. "I'm just not running away."

"You're playing with fire," he bites out, but his tongue flicks at his lip ring—that nervous tell of his that makes heat pool in your gut.

"Am I?" You tilt your head, watching him fidget with the silver hoop. "Sure looks like you're the one burning up here."

His hands clench into fists. He's fighting for control, you can see that.

"You know the rules. No attachments. That's how we survive. That's how we keep our heads."

You can't help but scoff.

"Attachments? Who said anything about catching feelings?" You shift slightly, watching his eyes snap back to you. "I'm talking about scratching an itch. One we both clearly have."

He licks his lips again, slower this time, metal ring catching the dim light. For a moment, expression morphs, and you see it—the same thing you're feeling, raw and desperate.

Desire.

Jeon's gaze hardens, but not in the way you'd expect it to. "Don't twist my words. You know exactly what I mean."

"Yeah, I do." You meet his stare head-on. "But sex is just sex, Jeon. We're not breaking any rules if there aren't any feelings involved."

Before he can build another wall between you, you move.

In one fluid motion, you're straddling him, and holy fuck—you're sure the body heat he's producing alone could keep up with an oven. And his cock—god his cock is hard against you and definitely happy to see you there.

"See?" Your voice comes out lower than intended, perhaps a tad wanting. "No attachments. Just two people who need to get off."

His eyes are almost black now, pupils blown wide. His hands hover over your thighs like he's fighting himself, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer.

"You really think it's that simple?" The strain in his voice is delicious.

"I think," you breathe, leaning in until you can feel his exhale against your lips, "that we make our own rules. I want you, Jeon. And judging by what I'm feeling right now—" You shift slightly in his lap, drawing a sharp breath from him, "—you want me too."

His lips are close. Pine and wood and him fill your lungs, making you dizzy. You watch as his control frays at the edges, watch him wrestle with the rules he's built his life around.

"Fuck." The word tears from his throat like it hurts, rough and desperate.

"That's the idea," you murmur, and then you're closing that last inch between you, consequences be damned.

And God.

His lips are soft—way softer than you expected. That's your first coherent thought when Jeon finally, finally kisses you.

He starts slow. Careful. Like he's still fighting with himself even as his mouth moves against yours.

It's driving you insane. Because fuck, you've seen how he usually is—all storm and fury—but right now? He's taking his sweet fucking time.

You can taste the hesitation on his tongue when he licks at the seam of your lips. But it's pretend, you don't even question that, because you can feel his hunger as well. And you part your lips immediately—it's not like you to play coy, not when you've been wanting this for so long.

The first slide of his tongue against yours makes your chest tighten. There's something almost reverent in how he explores your mouth, like he's memorizing every detail. His lip ring clicks against your teeth and shit—that is just fucking hot, okay.

He tastes like cigarettes and mint—a combination that screams Jeon—that makes heat pool low in your belly.

His hands start wandering then, those big, calloused palms that you've caught yourself staring at during briefings. One traces up your spine, and even through your shirt, his touch makes you burn.

The other hand finds your neck, thumb pressed just under your jaw. Possessive. Demanding. Your pulse jumps against his fingers.

The kiss deepens, turns messy. Wet.

His tongue strokes against yours with purpose now, and Christ—the sounds you're both making are absolutely filthy. All slick slides and breathless little noises that make your cheeks flush.

You arch into him instinctively, wanting—needing—more. Because this? This careful exploration? It's not enough.

Not nearly enough.

You can't help the moan that slips out when his tongue slides against yours just right. It's embarrassingly needy, but fuck it—he's earned that reaction with the way he's kissing you.

"Keep it down," he murmurs against your mouth, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Unless you want an audience."

His thumb presses against your lips, calloused skin catching slightly. When you meet his eyes, his gaze darkens. The possibility of getting caught should probably worry you more than it turns you on, but... well. Here you are.

His hand traces down your spine like he's mapping every vertebra, and christ—who knew the guy who barely speaks two words could make you feel so much with just his fingertips? Each touch feels prepared, like he's conducting some kind of thorough investigation of what makes you squirm.

"Relax," he growls, low and rough in a way that does not help you relax at all. The vibration of his voice seems to travel straight between your legs. "I've got you."

That's kind of the problem, you think hazily as his other hand slides down to your hip with maddening slowness. Your breath hitches when his fingers slip under your crewneck, skin-on-skin contact sending electricity up your spine.

He takes his sweet fucking time inching the fabric up, like he's got all night to drive you insane. The contrast of his burning hands against your cooler skin makes you shiver. His thumb brushes just below your navel and fuck—you bite your lip to keep quiet.

You want to tell him to hurry up, to stop being such a tease, but there's something intoxicating about the way he's touching you—like he's savoring every inch. Like he's been thinking about this as much as you have.

"Is this..." His voice trails off, rough and uncertain.

You've never heard him sound like that before—like he's actually struggling for words.

"Is this what?"

You can barely get the words out. Hard to form coherent thoughts when his hand is burning a path up your ribs.

"Is this okay?" The question rumbles from his chest.

His eyes are fixed on where his hand disappears under your shirt, as if he's memorizing every inch.

"Yeah." You manage a small nod, not trusting your voice for more.

Fuck yes it's okay. It's been okay since the moment his mouth claimed yours.

Something in your answer must satisfy him because his hand slides higher, mapping your skin underneath with a precision that makes you shiver.

It's maddening how gentle he's being. You've seen those hands snap bones, seen them steady a rifle for impossible shots. Now they're ghosting over your skin like you're something precious, something that might shatter if he pushes too hard.

"Jeon." His name comes out embarrassingly breathy, halfway between a whine and a plea. "Keep going."

The bastard actually chuckles, the sound oscillating through you where you're pressed together. "Don't have to say it twice."

But he keeps that same torturous pace, each sweep of his thumb deliberately slow. Like he's got all night to take you apart piece by piece. Like he wants to drive you crazy.

You're starting to think he does.

His proximity is a heady thing and you could swear there's a storm raging behind his heartbeat.

You press closer, desperately seeking more contact.

More friction.

More anything.

But Jeon's self-control is nothing short of fucking legendary, it seems.

"Slow," he murmurs, eyes fixed on where his hand disappears beneath your shirt. "We take this slow."

You could fucking cry. His calloused fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, each touch light, teasing, and the contrast between his rough hands and gentle movements is driving you insane.

His other hand joins the first, sliding under your clothes with a confidence that borders on arrogance.

Yeah, he's smug; but you could swear there's something reverent in the way he touches you—and it's only because of that that you don't punch him.

Those dark eyes lock onto yours once more, asking a silent question.

A question he doesn't need to mutter.

You manage a quick nod, and he wastes no time pulling your crewneck and long sleeve over your head in one smooth motion.

But the universe hates you as much as you seem to hate yourself.

Because of course—of fucking course—you're wearing the most basic, practical bra imaginable. Why would you have worn anything sexy today? Not like you planned on Chief Jeon getting you half-naked in his tent.

His eyes rake over you, taking in every detail. When that infamous smirk tugs at his pierced lip, you already know he's about to be insufferable.

"Didn't dress up for me, huh?"

Heat floods your cheeks. You swat at his chest, torn between embarrassment and the urge to wipe that smug look off his face.

"Shut the fuck up, Jeon. Wasn't exactly expecting to get fucked today."

That deep chuckle rumbles through his chest, and fuck—it vibrates against you in a way it should be illegal.

But it's his eyes that get you—dark, hooded, pure filth swirling behind those orbs.

"You're acting like I care." He says as if you've told him a funny joke. "Trust me, I don't."

And his hands? Yeah, his hands haven't stopped their torturous exploration, mapping every inch of exposed skin like he's got a point to prove. Each brush of his callouses sends electricity down your spine. The bastard knows exactly what he's doing.

You want to hate him for that.

You don't.

His fingers trace your bra strap and he leans in close—so close you can feel his breath hot against your ear.

"Can I?"

Like he even needs to ask. Like you haven't been thinking about his hands on your bare skin since that first sparring session.

You manage a shaky nod, pulse thundering in your ears. One quick flick of his fingers and the piece comes undone. The clasp sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room.

The bra falls away and oh—the way he looks at you makes your core throb. His eyes rake over your exposed breasts in pure appreciation, hungry and possessive. You'd feel self-conscious if it wasn't so fucking hot.

When his hands finally—finally—cup your breasts, you can't help the gasp that escapes. His thumbs brush over your nipples and your back arches instinctively, pressing into his touch. His hands are so big they practically engulf you, rough and warm and perfect.

Then it's his breath. It fans hot against your neck and fuck—just the anticipation has you squirming. He hovers there, taking his sweet time, the bastard.

When his lips finally press against your throat, you have to bite your lip to keep quiet.

He presses a kiss. Then another. Then another.

Each one is slow, tongue flicking against your pulse point leisurely. Your head falls back automatically, giving him better access. Like he needs the invitation.

"Ah—"

"Shh." His voice vibrates against your skin, equal parts warning and amusement—and fuck his smirk.

His fingers are a fucking menace on your breasts, rolling your nipples between thumb and forefinger until they're almost painfully hard. And yeah okay, your pussy is literally throbbing at this point.

"You're so damn vocal," he grunts against your throat, punctuating the words with a sharp nip that makes you gasp.

You want to tell him to fuck off, but your brain's a blue screen as of right now. Your fingers find his hair instead, tangling in those dark strands just to have something to hold onto. To ground yourself while he systematically takes you apart with his mouth and hands.

But enough is enough.

So you shove at his chest, creating just enough space to think straight. His eyes widen for a split second before that infuriating shit-eating grin appears.

As if he knows exactly what you're thinking.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, tugging impatiently. Off. Now. The fabric joins your discarded clothes somewhere on the floor (you're too busy staring at his chest to care where).

"Someone's eager." Voice pure sin, the jackass is clearly enjoying himself.

"If I'm half-naked, you better be too," you snap back, but the breathiness in your voice ruins any attempt at sounding annoyed. "Fair's fair."

He doesn't respond verbally, no.

Instead, he yanks you back against him and the feel of his bare skin against yours makes you want to keen. His hands grip your waist fiercely while yours explore the ridges of his abs, the hard planes of his chest. Each muscle twitches under your touch.

When his mouth claims yours again, it's different—hungrier, deeper. His tongue slides against yours in a way that makes your pulse quicken, and you can't help but press closer, fingers curling around his neck to pull him down.

And maybe sounds you're making should be embarrassing—all breathy sighs and desperate little whimpers. But with his hands burning paths across your skin and his tongue doing that, you can't bring yourself to care.

The tent feels like its own little universe, just you and Jeon and whatever the hell is going on between you right now (sex, probably). You grind down against his cock, the rough fabric of his cargo pants hitting you just right.

And he likes that, you can tell—because soon enough his hands grip your waist, guiding your movements with a precision that makes you want to eat him alive. Each roll of your hips presses you against his straining bulge, drawing embarrassingly needy sounds from your throat.

When you break the kiss to breathe, you can't help but stare. His lips are slick and swollen, that silver ring glinting in the dim light. His usually perfect hair is a mess from your fingers.

But he seems to like his battles well fought. So he bucks up against you. And fuck, you're growing impatient now.

"Where the fuck are the condoms?" you pant, desperation making your voice crack.

He actually has the audacity to chuckle, low and mocking.

"Didn't pack any," he shrugs, like he's commenting on the weather instead of ruining your life.

"What the fuck?" You stop moving, staring at him in disbelief. "Do you seriously expect me to ride you bareback?"

"No wanna?" His voice is so soft, almost childlike, like he's talking to a particularly bratty kid.

That is not hot. Why does he make it seem hot?

"What the fuck, Jeon!"

"What?" His lips twitch, and he has the nerve to look amused. "Wasn't planning on fucking either."

You roll your eyes, ignoring how his hands are still tracing maddening patterns on your skin.

"So you're just walking around with a loaded gun and no safety on?"

Another infuriating shrug. His thumbs slip under your waistband, teasing.

"Didn't plan on shooting."

His nonchalance is driving you insane—both with frustration and arousal. Especially when he's touching you like that.

"Literally, fuck you."

"I thought we agreed that would be a bit reckless right now?"

"Oh my god, Jeon." There's no hiding the frustration coloring your words. "We're surrounded by tents, which is bad enough, and now you're telling me we can't even fuck properly?"

His breath fans hot against your neck. "We can get creative."

The promise in those words makes your cunt throb, but you're not letting him win that easily.

"And leave us both desperate? Dream on, pretty boy."

He drags his lips over your collarbone and fuck—your hands clench in his hair just to stay upright, because can he stay in place when you're trying to tell him off?

"Hmm?" The smugness in his voice should be illegal. "But you were so needy a few seconds ago."

When he rolls his hips up, his cock grinding against you through his pants, you have to bite your lip to keep quiet.

Fucking, insufferable h̶o̶t̶ bastard.

"Pretty sure there's other ways to get each other off," he adds, and oh—the way he says it.

You try to respond but his mouth is already trailing up your neck, each kiss hotter than the last. His breath ghosts over your ear and you shiver, fighting the urge to tilt your head but doing so regardless. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex under your touch.

His hand keeps you pinned against his cock, the hard length of him pressing just right through his pants. His other hand teases at your waistband and you almost whimper.

Almost.

You lift your hips—an invitation that makes his eyes glint wickedly. He tugs your leggings down roughly, bunching them at your thighs. The cool air hits your heated skin and fuck—you've never felt more exposed, straddling him like this, movement restricted.

His palm slides up your inner thigh, leaving fire in its wake. When his thumb brushes over your clit through your panties, the shock of pleasure makes you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your moan.

His muscles tense under your teeth and he makes a sound—half growl, half grunt.

"You like that, sunshine?" His voice is low and taunting.

And damn it. That fucking nickname again. You don't know why you fucking like it. Oxygen must not be reaching your brain.

Though it's not like you can trust yourself to speak—not with his thumb doing that, drawing slow circles that make your thighs shake.

You press a hum into his shoulder instead, teeth grazing skin in silent demand for more.

The heat between you is becoming suffocating, giving you a headache. Or maybe that's just him, the way he touches you like he's got all night to take you apart piece by piece. Like making you fall apart is his new favorite hobby.

"Jeon," you gasp against his shoulder, already embarrassingly breathless. "Take your fucking pants off."

For a terrifying second, you think he might deny you just to be a dick.

But then a deep snort rumbles through his chest and fuck—his next words may be your undoing.

"Bossy, aren't we?"

His tone is too smug for your own good.

For his own good.

For the good of humanity.

He manages to unzip his pants one-handed, whilst his other hand grips your waist, lifting you effortlessly—and honestly, the casual display of strength shouldn't be sexy but of course when it comes to him, it just is.

He shimmies his pants down to his thighs, leaving just his tight black briefs between you.

"Better?" He sounds all cocky about it, but you're too busy staring at the obvious bulge straining against the dark fabric to care, really.

You immediately sink back down onto his lap and oh—the thin layers of cloth do nothing to hide how hard he is.

The heat of his cock pressed against you makes you bite back a sound.

"Yeah."

The word may have come out too damn breathy, but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when your hands are already wandering, desperate to touch more of him.

"Mhm," is all he says low and approving.

Your thighs clench instinctively, core throbbing at just his fucking voice.

Fuck him. Y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶i̶s̶h̶.̶

Every roll of your hips makes sparks dance behind your eyelids. His cock is right there, hard and thick against you, and even through the layers of fabric you can feel how perfectly it lines up with your clit. His fingers dig into your hips, guiding your movements with absolute control.

"That's right, sunshine." And yeah, fuck, that's a growl. "Make yourself feel good."

Truth is—you couldn't stop if you wanted to. The danger of getting caught, the way his breath hitches when you grind down just right, the way he's gripping you like you're his lifeline—it's all too much and not enough.

And then, his fingers trace the edge of your panties.

It has you shivering, that light touch.

Because he's still being careful, so deliberate, like he's savoring every second. Like he wants you to savor it too.

You keep rolling your hips, chasing that delicious friction. When he starts bucking up to meet your movements, the added pressure makes you see fucking galaxies. His dark eyes are locked on yours, pupils blown wide with want.

"Can I take these off?"

And fuck, fuck, fuck, he still sounds smug, but there's a hint of neediness treading his tone that's turning you on further. His fingers hook under the elastic, waiting.

"Yes," you breathe, already thinking about getting his briefs off too, wanting to feel all of him.

But before you can even voice your concerns, he's already responding.

"I know." He replies, reading you like a fucking open book.

He smirks, thumbs hooking under his waistband, and peels his briefs down torturously slow, like he enjoys your impatience, making you wait. When his cock springs free, thick and hard against his stomach, your mouth goes dry.

You can't help but stare—the way it curves slightly to the left, the way it twitches under your hungry gaze.

The urge to touch, to taste—it's bordering on agonizing.

"My turn." He murmurs, like he's been patiently waiting for desert.

He helps you shimmy your panties down to join your leggings, his hands steady on your hips as you lift up. The fabric rustles obscenely loud in the quiet tent, like even your clothes are trying to give you away.

And then you're both naked where it counts, no barriers left between you except the rules you're already breaking—although not really because sex without attachment doesn't break any rules.

The distant sounds of the camp feel miles away, like you two have totally forgotten you're in Jeon's tent, in the middle of a camping trip.

Well. You're pretty sure people have fucked in worse situations. So whatever.

His hands grip your hips once again, guiding you down onto him. And when you do, the slide of his bare cock against your slick folds nearly makes you whimper. You can feel every ridge, every vein pressing against your core—and each tiny movement sends sparks of pleasure shooting through you.

"So good," he groans, the sound rumbling through his chest.

His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, like he's fighting to keep control, and you couldn't agree more.

Because the friction is divine, each roll of your hips making your thighs shake. You're already embarrassingly wet, leaving him slick and shining in the dim light.

He's so wet—from you, from him, it doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is the obscene sounds of skin on skin and the filthy curses falling from his lips.

His mouth returns to your collarbone and his lips are impossibly soft and the metal of his piercing incredibly cold and for some forsaken reason it turns you on even further. When he moves lower, dragging that piercing over your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, you nearly come undone.

His hand on your hip keeps you exactly where he wants you, controlling the pace as he grinds his cock against your clit. He's moving hips like he knows how to make your eyes roll back. His other hand finds your free nipple, pinching and tugging until you're trembling under his touch.

"Do you wanna cum like this?" The words vibrate against your breast, making you shiver. "Grinding against my cock?"

You can barely nod. Your brain's a puddle of want and sex, reduced to basic functions like yes and please and more.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, needing to hold onto him as he takes you apart piece by piece. Every 'sunshine' that falls from his lips pushes you closer to the edge. You're quivering, hovering right on the brink, completely at his mercy.

And judging by that smirk against your skin? He knows it.

"Yeah, just like that." His voice is pure gravel, wrecked and hot and just outright sex. "Keep rubbing that pretty pussy against my cock."

You should be embarrassed by how those words affect you, but you're too far gone to care. His filthy mouth just makes you wetter, makes you grind down harder.

"Fuck yeah." The curse hisses through his teeth, and god—the way he sounds when he's losing control is addictive.

He keeps humping, cock rubbing against your clit every time, sending electricity shooting up your spine—and he's just so hard, so thick and fucking perfect under you. You didn't even know grinding could feel this fucking good.

"Shit, s'good," he pants, and you can tell he's barely holding it together.

His nails dig into your hips harder now, like he's nearing his own edge, like he wants to tumble down the precipice of pleasure as much as you—if not more.

Like he's fighting to maintain control over his own body.

You kind of want to make him lose it.

Your fingers are completely tangled up in his hair now, and you can't even tell where your hand begins and his locks end. All that matters is each fucking perfectly synchronized roll of your hips, each firework burning behind your eyelids.

You're so close, so fucking close.

He must feel it in the way your thighs tremble, because suddenly his grip on your hips turns bruising. His mouth releases your nipple with an obscene pop, and then he's burying his face between your breasts, breath hot against your sweat-slick skin.

"C'mon sunshine." He sounds absolutely debauched. "Cum f'me. Do it."

And fuck—that does it.

One more perfect grind of his cock against your clit and the orgasm embraces you like a warm hug. The moan that tears from your throat would definitely give you away if Jeon's hand didn't clamp over your mouth just in time.

Your body jerks against him, every nerve ending on fire. You're vaguely aware that you're probably pulling his hair too hard but you can't help it (he deserves it for being a teasing bitch).

Though, you can't help but feel a bit proud because it must be the sight of you falling apart what pushes him over too.

Because suddenly he's crushing you against him, face pressed between your tits to muffle his groans. His cock pulses between you, and there's hot ropes of cum painting both your stomachs.

His whole body trembles as he cums, nails leaving crescents on your hips—moons that will stay buried in your skin for days to come.

But you don't mind, enjoying the way each throb of his cock sends aftershocks through your oversensitive core. You can feel his heart hammering where you're pressed together, matching your own thundering pulse.

Holy fuck.

You collapse against him, completely boneless, barely aware that the tent now reeks of sex and pine and chai, and your brain's too fuzzy to do anything but breathe it in.

The judgemental owl from before hoots.

Your head finds his shoulder while his face stays buried between your breasts. His breath is hot against your skin as it slowly steadies. One of his hands traces lazy patterns on your back, and it's... nice. Surprisingly gentle for someone who just made you see stars.

"That was intense." His voice vibrates through your chest, rough and satisfied.

"Yeah." It's all you can manage. Your tongue feels too heavy for words, your body weightless and done.

He actually chuckles, the bastard. "You really needed that, huh?"

You want to smack him for being so smug, but your arms won't cooperate. You settle for an annoyed grunt instead, which just makes him laugh harder. His chest rumbles against yours and god—you're too fucked out to deal with his ego right now.

He taps your hip gently—a signal to move.

When you peel apart, you both look down at the mess of cum painting your stomachs. The sight makes heat flood your cheeks, a vivid reminder of what you two just did.

And frankly, how good it was—even if only grinding.

Not that you'll tell him that. His head's big enough already.

Jeon sighs—all annoyed like he wasn't just cumming his brains out—and starts rummaging around for something to clean up with. You just... roll over. Press your face into his blankets and, yeah, they smell like him. Not cologne or soap, just pure Jeon. Pine and wood and man.

Your eyelids are so heavy. The blankets are so warm. Maybe if you just... rest for a minute...

You vaguely register him cleaning himself up, but you're already half-asleep when his voice cuts through your haze.

"Hey, don't you dare think I'm letting you get all my shit dirty."

You manage a grunt and scrunch your nose. Why is a man talking?

"Fucking hell." He sounds exasperated, but his touch is surprisingly gentle when he starts wiping you clean. You just lay there like dead weight because seriously—moving is not happening right now.

The evidence of your activities dealt with, you hear him toss the wipes aside and settle next to you.

The silence that follows is nice.

Comfortable.

You burrow deeper into his blankets, letting his scent wrap around you like a cocoon, and you're this close to blessed unconsciousness when an agitating, grating noise ruins it again.

"Hey." All firm and authoritative like you give a shit right now. "Remember you gotta be up before dawn. We can't have anyone getting the wrong idea."

You heave the longest, most dramatic sigh of your life.

"I know. I will," you mumble into the blankets, already turning away from his voice.

Like, you get it. No sleepovers allowed. But also? Shut up and let you enjoy your post-orgasm coma for five fucking minutes.

He nudges you again, more insistent this time. "I'm serious. No misunderstandings, alright?"

God, why does he have to be so paranoid about it? This is just sex—no strings attached, no rules broken. You're not some lovesick teenager who's going to get the wrong idea from a hookup.

"Then set up a fucking alarm or something, alright?" The words come out sharper than intended, but you're too fucked out to care. "I'll wake up and get out, just stop being so damn annoying."

The silence that follows is almost funny. You can practically feel his surprise at your tone. Then he exhales—that short, irritated huff that means you've actually managed to ruffle the great Chief Jeon's feathers.

"Fine." He sounds... sulky? The mighty assassin, sulking. You'd laugh if you weren't so desperate to sleep.

The blue light from his phone briefly illuminates the tent as he sets the alarm. When he settles back down, you can feel him giving you one last look—probably questioning his life choices.

Whatever. You burrow deeper into his blankets, which smell unfairly good. The tent falls quiet except for your breathing and the distant sounds of the camp.

You're pretty sure he'll actually wake you up. That's just how Jeon is—stupidly reliable even when he's being an ass about it.

So you count on it.

And the last coherent thought you have before sleep claims you is that his blankets are way too comfortable for someone so annoying.

 

 

Chapter 14: the wound that always bleeds

Notes:

A/N: First of all, Kiki Nation on Tumblr is FUCKING UNHINGED. The goal was 200 notes and it took y'all less than 24 hours. I'm flabbergasted. But also it was smut so... understandable. I see you, horny little gremlins. I respect your dedication.

So here's chapter 13! (I had to proofread this while revising tax law so if something doesn't make sense, it's your fault somehow. Don't question my logic.)

AHHHHH I finally got to show off V's more psychotic nature! His little sadistic side coming out to play! He's such a little shit I love him. Writing characters with mental instability is my emotional support activity.

Well well well, things are slowly unveiling, huh? So what the fuck happened?! Who is Sylvia?! WHAT IS GOING ON?!

That's for me to know and you to lose sleep over for now (◕‿◕✿)

You know, sometimes I genuinely forget you don't have access to the absolute chaos that is my brain. Like it's genuinely hard for me to understand this from an outside perspective because I have the whole plot mapped out in excruciating detail, but you're still in the dark and it's like—is it too obvious? Is it too vague? AM I BEING COHERENT?

The eternal struggle of writing mysteries when you already know the answer. It's like trying to play poker while everyone can see your cards except you think they can't but maybe they can a little bit?? This is why I don't sleep.

Anyway, that's it for now! Love you all, you enablers of my questionable coping mechanisms! (ง •̀_•́)ง

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

The alarm rips through your dreams like a knife, and god—you've never hated a sound more in your life.

Your eyelids feel like they're made of lead, your body heavy with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from... well. Last night's activities.

The blankets are so warm, and you smell like pine and sex and masculine. Just five more minutes...

Then reality bitch-slaps you awake. You're in Jeon's tent. At dawn. Which is exactly where you're not supposed to be.

His leg is thrown over yours, arm draped across your waist like he's trying to keep you there. It's almost... cute?

No, not cute. Definitely not cute. Just annoying. And inconvenient.

You nudge him with your elbow, trying to wiggle free without fully waking him. The grunt he makes is surprisingly soft.

"Stay still..." His voice is rough with sleep, half-muffled against your shoulder. "Just five more minutes. Let me doze off again before you go."

You huff but stop moving. It's just five minutes, right? Not like anyone's awake yet anyway. And he's so warm, his breath steady against your skin.

It's... nice. In a way that's probably dangerous.

His breathing evens out quickly, dropping back into sleep. The mighty Chief Jeon, passed out and cuddling. If you weren't so tired, you'd probably laugh.

When you finally ease out from under him, his body twitches slightly—this tiny, unconscious movement that's so unexpectedly human.

It's so weird seeing him like this, soft and sleep-warm skin. Almost makes you forget he's the gang's deadliest assassin.

Or one of them, if you consider V.

Better not tell Jeon you thought that, anyway.

You wiggle back into your clothes as quietly as possible, trying not to wake him—leggings, panties, bra, that stupid crewneck that started all this. No need to give the rest of the camp a morning show.

You crawl out of his tent like the trained seductress you are—silent and graceful. Well, as graceful as anyone can be at ass o'clock in the morning.

The camp is dead quiet except for the occasional snore from distant tents.

Your heart doesn't stop hammering until you're safely away from his tent. The morning air hits your skin, fresh and sharp, washing away the lingering scent of pine and sex.

With each step, you build up that sense of normalcy that someone who didn't fuck a chief last night should wear. No walk of shame here—just a perfectly normal morning stroll. Nothing to see.

The portable table catches your eye as you pass—someone's left out water bottles and snacks like offerings to the gods of late-night hookups. You grab a bottle, the plastic cool against your palm. The water helps, but it doesn't quite wash away the taste of him.

Not that you're thinking about that. Nope. Not at all.

You take another sip of water, trying to convince yourself you're totally fine with how things went down.

(You're not.)

Because seriously—what kind of assassin doesn't carry protection? The absolute audacity of Jeon, walking around looking like that, with those hands and that mouth and those fucking bedroom eyes, and not being prepared?

Criminal. Actually criminal.

Not that you're thinking about his hands. Or his mouth. Or the way he'd worked you up so perfectly, taking you apart piece by piece until you were shaking.

You drain half the water bottle in one go, but it doesn't help. Your body's still humming with leftover want, still craving more than just grinding and kisses.

Because fuck—it was good, but you know it could've been better. Could've had him filling you up, stretching you open, making you see stars...

If only he had brought condoms with him.

"Fucking hell," you mutter, slightly crushing bottle. The plastic crackles satisfyingly in your grip.

You can't even properly be mad at him. Not when he'd made sure you came first, not when he'd been so attentive to every little sound and movement.

But still.

The fact that you'd been this close to getting properly railed by Chief Jeon, only to be cockblocked by his own lack of preparation?

Infuriating.

Your core throbs at the memory of his cock pressed against you, at how big he'd felt even through layers of fabric. God, the things he could've done to you if he'd just—

Fucking stupid sniper. The audacity of leaving you wanting more.

And oh, there will be a next time. You're getting that dick properly, even if you have to staple condoms to his fucking forehead.

Because someone who looks like that and kisses like that and uses his hands like that? Yeah. You're not done with him yet.

"Good morning."

JM's soft voice yanks you out of your definitely-not-horny thoughts. He looks adorably rumpled, all oversized sweater and messy salmon hair. His cheeks are pink from the cold morning air, making him look even softer than usual.

"Morning," you manage, grateful that your voice sounds normal.

He takes a sip from his own water bottle and you mirror him, mostly to have something to do with your hands.

"Sleep well?" You ask because it's polite, and also because talking about sleep is way better than thinking about what you were doing instead of sleeping last night.

His smile is warm and genuine. "Yeah, I did. And you?"

"Yeah." You nod, aiming for casual.

Like you didn't spend half the night grinding against Chief fucking Jeon. Like you're not still feeling the ghost of his hands on your skin.

Just a normal morning chat. Nothing to see here.

You give JM a quick wave and head back to your tent, trying not to look suspicious. Like you didn't just spend the night getting railed—well, almost railed by his coworker.

God, that's weird to think about.

When you peek inside, Yunjin's already stirring, one eye cracked open in the dim light.

"Y/N?" Her voice is thick with sleep.

"Yeah, it's me." You whisper back, watching her untangle herself from Eunchae, who's apparently decided Yunjin makes an excellent teddy bear.

It's kind of adorable, actually.

She sits up slowly, rubbing her eyes. When she looks at you again, her brow furrows.

"You didn't sleep here?"

You open your mouth, ready to spill everything—about Jeon's hands and his mouth and how fucking good
he'd been—but snap it shut. Not exactly tent-appropriate conversation.

"No."

Her eyes go wide, and she leans in close. "Did you sleep outside? In the freezing cold?"

"No, no, I didn't sleep—" You cut yourself off, suddenly very aware of all the sleeping bodies around you.

The tent walls might as well be tissue paper when it comes to privacy. A quick check outside confirms you're clear.

You duck back in, keeping your voice low. "We can't talk about this here."

You can see the exact moment sleep leaves Yunjin's eye, replaced by that familiar spark of gossip-hungry curiosity. Her lips curl into a grin that says she knows something juicy is coming.

"Okay, I'll be ready in 5." She's already reaching for her clothes, suddenly very awake.

You duck out of the tent to give her privacy, leaning against a nearby pine tree. The bark digs into your back through your clothes, but you welcome the discomfort. Keeps you from getting lost in memories of other things that were digging into you last night...

Nope. Not thinking about Jeon's hands. Or his mouth. Or the way he'd—

Fuck.

When Yunjin finally emerges, her pink hair is a mess and she's practically vibrating with curiosity. You tilt your head toward the edge of camp, where the trees grow thicker. Perfect for spilling secrets that definitely shouldn't reach certain ears.

You find a fallen log away from the other tents, tucked between snow-dusted pines. The wood is freezing through your pants, but whatever. Some things are worth a cold ass.

Yunjin plops down next to you, already leaning in close. She smells like campfire smoke and cotton candy.

"So, what's going on? You look like you've been through hell and back."

More like heaven and back, but you're not about to say that out loud.

You take a deep breath, trying to organize your thoughts. The memory of his hands, his mouth, his everything makes your pulse skip.

"Jeon happened."

"Jeon?" Yunjin's eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly disappear into her forehead. "As in, Mr. I'll-Kill-You-With-My-Thumb Jeon? That Jeon? What the hell did he do now?"

There's teasing in her voice but you catch the flash of concern in her eye.

Sweet, but unnecessary.

"He didn't do anything... wrong." God, your face is burning. "We were alone and things got... intense."

"Intense how?" She draws out the words, scoffing. "Did you two fight each other to death—?"

"It's not like that." You cut her off before she can get carried away. "I mean, we did fight at first but then—well—"

You gesture vaguely, like that explains everything.

"We didn't plan it. It just... happened."

"What happened?"

She crosses her arms, looking supremely unconvinced. Then, presses her lips together, biting back a smile.

"So what, you got stuck and stepbro came to your rescue—"

"Yunjin!" You slap a hand over her mouth, mortified.

Your skin's still tingling with phantom touches and she's out here making porn references? You drop your hand with a scowl that's only half-serious.

Looking anywhere but at her knowing grin, you mutter, "it was mutual."

The words come out barely above a whisper, like saying it too loud might summon him. Or worse—his ego.

Yunjin's smirk turns absolutely feral. "Oh my god, I knew there was something brewing between you two since the croissant thing. Come on, spill the dirty details."

You laugh, but your neck's getting hot just thinking about it. Leaning closer, you drop your voice even lower.

"Well, one minute we were fighting, and the next..."

You tell her about his hands, his mouth, the way he'd taken you apart piece by piece. How every touch had felt like lightning under your skin.

"He's like a fucking storm," you try to explain, but words feel inadequate.

How do you describe the tempest that is Jeon?

"And?" She's practically bouncing now, pink hair falling in her face as she leans in.

"And it was... intense. Like our bodies just clicked, you know? The way he touched me, the way he moved..."

"Holy shit." Yunjin lets out a low whistle. "Sounds like Chief Murder-Eyes knows how to fuck. I'm almost jealous."

You can't help but laugh, relief flooding through you at finally being able to talk about it. "I mean, we didn't actually—you know. No condoms. But still, with everything going on... with the gang and the rules..."

"Well, it's just fucking, right?" She cuts in, voice matter-of-fact. "You didn't break any rules."

Her words hit different, reassuring—exactly what you'd said to Jeon last night.

Right. No strings attached. Just two people scratching an itch.

"Yeah." You shrug, aiming for casual. "Just some good ol' fucking."

Yunjin's laugh is warm, understanding. "Well then, there's nothing to worry about. Just be careful. Jeon's not just any guy. From what I've heard, he's got layers, and not all of them are pretty."

You snort, rolling your eyes.

"Pffft, I know." You lean back. "I only have eyes for the pretty. And his dick."

That sets you both off cackling like teenagers sharing secrets behind the bleachers. It feels good to laugh about it, to make light of something that could've been way more complicated.

Yunjin stands, brushing pine needles off her pants. "Well, I gotta head back before they start sending out search parties for us. But we'll talk more about this later, yeah?"

"Yeah, later."

You're grateful she's not making a bigger deal out of this than it is. Just two adults having some mind-blowing- well, almost mind-blowing sex. No feelings, no drama.

She punches your shoulder playfully before heading back to camp, leaving you alone with memories of callouses on your skin and that fucking lip ring against your mouth.

Not that you're thinking about round two.

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

The early morning light bleeds through the tent, and for the first time—his eyes are not open to perceive it.

Jungkook stirs slowly, consciousness creeping in like the dawn. His hand reaches out, seeking the familiar cold touch of his phone screen.

Eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Eight fucking hours without a single nightmare clawing at his mind. No cold sweats, no jolting awake with a scream lodged in his throat.

Just... peace.

His eyes drift to the empty space beside him, still holding a ghost of warmth where you had been. The indent in his pillow, the lingering scent of chai tea mixed with his pine—evidence that last night wasn't just a fevered dream.

Interesting.

The tactician in him can't help but analyze this development.

Eight hours of proper sleep, achieved simply by having another body next to his. The data suggests a correlation worth exploring. It's purely scientific interest, of course —nothing to do with how your quiet breathing had somehow matched his own, creating a rhythm that had lulled him into the deepest sleep he'd had in months.

His lips twitch, almost forming a smile.

Who would have thought that the solution to his insomnia would be so... straightforward?

Just add another warm body to the equation.

Simple.

Efficient.

The gang's best sniper, finally getting proper rest because of a quick hookup.

There's probably irony in there somewhere.

Jungkook stretches, feeling unusually light. His muscles are loose, relaxed in a way that has nothing to do with the previous night's activities.

Well, not entirely due to them.

Eight hours.

He could get used to this.

Jungkook sits up, letting the cool morning air hit his skin. Eight hours of actual sleep has him feeling... different. Not better, exactly. Just less like death warmed over.

He takes his time straightening his tent—a habit drilled into him and not voluntarily.

When he makes it outside, the camp is quiet except for the occasional bird call. His hands find his pockets as he heads toward the mess area, following the siren call of caffeine. The neat row of coffee cans almost makes up for sleeping on the ground.

Almost.

But then he sees V.

And just like that, his rare good mood evaporates.

Evaporates fast.

Jungkook's tongue clicks—automatic. His body already tightens before his mind even catches up. For a second, he considers turning back, caffeine be damned. But no. That'd hand the bastard a win, and Jeon doesn't hand out victories before breakfast.

V's lounging like he owns the clearing. Hair a tousled mess, skin flushed from either a fight or a fuck—Jeon doesn't care which. He just notes the details, stores them. It's habit. Just another target to assess.

The bastard tracks his approach with lazy, half-lidded eyes and that signature smirk—like he already knows he's about to ruin something.

Jungkook grabs a can off the table. Doesn't even look at V yet.

"Had fun last night?" The words come out dry, flat. No bite. Just noise.

V lifts his chin, amused. "Some of us don't need to buy intimacy with imported espresso machines."

Jungkook opens the can with a sharp hiss. Keeps his eyes on the label. "Didn't realize desperation was charming now."

"I call it efficiency." V stretches his arms overhead, exposing fresh marks on his throat. "In and out. Simple. No cleanup. You should try it—might loosen that iron rod you've got jammed up your spine."

Jungkook takes a slow sip of bitter coffee and finally looks at him. "You're bleeding self-worth all over the ground. Try wiping it up before someone slips."

V laughs, delighted. "There he is. I was starting to worry you'd gone full ghost. Thought maybe you finally snapped and joined the meditation club upstairs."

Jungkook doesn't answer. He's already turning away, walking slowly toward the edge of camp—toward the trees. Not far. Just enough distance to mute V's noise.

Of course, V follows. He always does.

"You know what your real problem is?" V's voice floats lazily behind him. "You think control's the same thing as peace."

Jungkook says nothing. Another sip. The coffee's still shit.
V's steps crunch through the grass behind him. Closer now.

"But it's not. You're not calm, Jeon. You're just buried."

Jungkook stops. Just briefly. Looks up at the sky like it might offer patience.

V grins, eyes glittering. "Bet it gets lonely. All that quiet. All that nobility. Ever wonder why no one's lining up to warm your bed these days?"

Jungkook doesn't flinch. Just watches a bird take off from the trees. "Didn't realize we were counting bodies now. Thought you preferred keeping score in blood."

"Oh, I do," V murmurs, stepping beside him, too close. "But you—God, you used to have heat, you know that? Used to burn. Now it's all smoke and mirrors. All that rage shoved behind protocol and detachment."

Jungkook doesn't look at him, but his hand tightens around the can.

V keeps pushing, voice sweet as poison. "You used to laugh. Fuck, remember that? You'd stay up past curfew, cheat on drills, get into knife fights for fun. Now look at you—clockwork killer with a loyalty complex."

"You done?" Jungkook's voice is sharp now. Controlled, but edged.

"Not even close." V steps in front of him, cuts off the path. "See, I get it now. You stopped fucking because you can't do casual anymore. Too dangerous, right? Someone breathes near you and you start imagining futures."

Jungkook's jaw tightens.

V leans forward. "What was it RM said? 'Attachment makes you weak'? Or did you have to learn that one the hard way?"

"Careful," Jungkook says, low.

V just smiles. "I'm not touching your secrets, Jeon. Just pointing out the obvious. You're terrified of getting close again. You think if you fuck anyone, they'll catch feelings. Or worse—you will."

Jungkook doesn't blink. Doesn't speak. But the can in his hand dents slightly under his grip.

V notices. Of course he does.

"I mean, maybe that's why no one touches you anymore." He tilts his head, mock-thoughtful. "Not because you're intimidating. Not because you're better. But because they all see it—the grief in your bones. The guilt. Like it might rub off."

"You talk a lot for someone with nothing to say."

V grins, stepping aside, letting him pass. "And you say nothing hoping it makes you mysterious. But guess what, Jeon? I see right through that bullshit."

Jungkook exhales slowly through his nose. The air is cool, the trees just ahead. He keeps walking. He doesn't rise. Not yet.

But V's still behind him.

And he's not done.

Jungkook moves, calm steps through dew-soaked grass. The can in his hand hisses with pressure, dented from his grip, but he doesn't look back.

"You know what your problem is, Jeon?" V's voice cuts through the morning air, sing-song soft. "You're so far up your own ass you can't see what a joke you've become."

Jungkook doesn't bother with a glance. Just takes another sip of his shitty coffee. Tries to drown out the taste of chai from his tongue.

"The perfect soldier," V continues, pacing a few feet behind, voice louder now. "Marching in lockstep behind Commander like a good little ghost. You think if you bleed enough for RM, he'll forgive you for what you let slip through your fingers?"

Still no answer. Just another sip of that bitter, mass-produced garbage. Jungkook focuses on the taste—the chemical bitterness coating his tongue, sharp and synthetic. Easier to focus on that than the ache V's voice digs up.

"Nothing to say?" V's tone lifts, faux-curious. "Come on, where's that famous discipline now? Or did you leave it behind in your tent last night?"

The can pauses mid-sip. Barely a hitch. Just one second too long.

Jungkook lowers it slowly. "Your obsession with where I sleep is weird. Maybe try journaling."

V grins wide behind him, practically skipping to keep up now. "You're right. I should write this all down—'Jeon, once fierce and unfiltered, now drinks piss-coffee and pretends not to feel anything.' Bestseller."

"You done with the poetry?"

"Almost," V chirps. "Just wanted to make sure you knew everyone sees it. The way you're chasing scraps of forgiveness like a dog with its tail between its legs. You used to lead the escapades. Now you just brood and play pretend."

Jungkook stops walking.

V nearly collides with him, amused.

"Touch a nerve?" he murmurs.

Jungkook's head tilts slightly, eyes still forward. "You should work on new material. The old lines are starting to bore me."

V steps around him, circling like a vulture. "That's the thing about ghosts, Jeon. They're repetitive. They just haunt the same places. Same faces."

Jungkook's eyes shift. Cold. Level.

"You sound jealous."

V barks a laugh. It's short, sharp, too loud for the quiet trees.

"Of what? Your sad, monk-ass existence? Nah. I just miss the guy who could take a punch and throw three back."

"He grew up," Jungkook replies coolly. "Maybe you should try it."

"Nah," V says, too quickly. "That guy didn't grow up. He crawled into a cage and slammed the door shut."

Jungkook takes a step forward, chest brushing V's shoulder as he passes. "Or maybe he realized some things aren't worth fighting for anymore."

"Oh?" V pivots, stalking behind again. "Like loyalty? Brotherhood? Control?"

Jungkook doesn't turn. "Like noise."

V's smirk sharpens. "Funny you mention that. Because the silence after you let her die? That was deafening."

That stops him.

One step shy of the treeline.

Jungkook doesn't move, but something in the air shifts. Not loud. Not visible.

Just cold.

Real cold.

He sets the coffee can down on a mossy rock, slow and steady. Wipes his hand once on his thigh.

"You sure you want to go there?" he says, soft as snowfall.

V's smile flickers. Not with fear—he doesn't do fear—but with pleasure.

This is what he came for.

"I'm just saying," V hums, circling again, low and lazy. "You've been pretending for so long. Pretending she didn't matter. Pretending you're fine. Pretending you're not still clawing your way out of that night like it didn't gut you."

Jungkook says nothing.

But his silence means something now.

"I was there, Jeon," V says, inching closer. "You looked at me like I'd ripped out your heart and eaten it."

"You did," Jungkook murmurs. Still not looking at him.

"And yet," V's voice softens to a whisper, "you still didn't pull the trigger."

"Because you weren't worth it."

V snickers. "That's not what your eyes said."

Jungkook turns his head slowly. "No. That's what restraint looks like. Something you wouldn't recognize if it slit your throat."

V's lips curve, crooked and violent. "But you wanted to. You still want to."

Another long pause. Jungkook's jaw flexes once.

"Not as much as I want to forget you ever mattered."

And that—that hits.

V's grin falters. Just for a split second. The moment is small, but Jungkook catches it. He always catches everything.

Then, it changes again. V watches him like a cat watches a cornered bird. Head tilted. Smiling like he knows what's coming, and he's going to savor every second of it.

"You know what's funny," V says, voice maddeningly casual, "I always wondered if that was the problem."

Jungkook doesn't bite. Doesn't blink.

V goes on. "Not the rule-breaking. Not the secrecy. But who you broke the rule for."

Jungkook's gaze sharpens. Just a sliver. Just enough.

V catches it, of course. "Maybe if it had been someone else. Someone... less delicate. Maybe then, I'd have understood."

Jungkook's jaw shifts—tightens, releases.

"You picked soft," V continues. "You always hated soft. But that's what you chose. That's who you let in."

"Don't," Jungkook says quietly.

But V's already grinning, teeth and cruelty.

"God, what was her name again? It's been so long." He taps his chin mockingly. "Right there. Tip of my tongue."

Jungkook turns away. Starts walking.

He needs to get away from that sicko before he does something stupid.

"Don't go yet," V calls behind him, voice lilting like this is a game. "Help me out, will you? Dark hair? Big eyes? Always looked like she was about to break?"

Each step Jungkook takes feels heavier now. Like the gravity around him's been recalibrated.

"Jeon," V sings. "C'mon. Starts with an 'S,' right? S... Ssssss—shit, it's gonna bug me all day if you don't help."

Jungkook stops walking. Doesn't turn.

"V."

One word. Dead calm. A warning that sounds like the moment before a trigger snaps.

But V doesn't stop. He never does.

"Wait—don't tell me—Sarah? No. Sophie?" He's grinning now, wide and unhinged. "No no no, it was something sweeter than that, wasn't it? Something fragile."

Jungkook's whole body goes still. His shoulders square. Not aggressive. Not defensive.

Bracing.

"I won't tell you again."

"Oh, don't be like that." V's voice drops to a near-whisper. "We're just reminiscing."

"You say it," Jungkook murmurs, quiet enough that the wind almost eats it. "And this conversation takes a very different turn."

"Isn't that the fun part?" He replies.

Jungkook turns back to walk away. But before he can do just that, V opens his mouth again.

"No, wait, wait, wait! I remember it now."

V tilts his head, feigning thought, acting like he just got enlightened by the powers above.

Then—

"Sylvia."

The name detonates behind Jungkook's eyes.

He moves before he even registers it—before thought can catch up to instinct. One hand fisting V's collar, the other slamming him into the nearest tree with bone-rattling force.

His voice is low. Controlled. Deadly.

"I told you," he breathes, "to shut the fuck up."

V chokes out a laugh, even as Jeon's forearm presses against his throat. His smile is bloody, triumphant.

This is exactly what he wanted.

"There he is," V wheezes. "Knew you still remembered."

Jungkook tightens his grip.

"You don't get to tarnish her name with your mouth."

"Oh come on," V gasps, grin never faltering. "You're the one who made her matter."

Another inch and V's feet almost leave the ground. Jungkook's pulse is thunder in his ears. Vision tunneled, voice low.

"You don't touch her memory."

V's eyes shine with something unholy. "Why not? You left it out in the open."

Jungkook doesn't say anything. He just breathes—through his nose, slow, controlled—because if he doesn't, he'll crush the bastard's windpipe right here and now.

"You never even cried for her," V says, voice straining now. "Not once. I watched you. All that grief, and nothing came out but silence."

"Shut up."

"She begged for you, Jeon." V's voice slips into a mocking lilt. "Right before I pulled the trigger."

His hands go up, mimicking the movement of guns. Two fingers, cocked and pointed.

"Bang. Bang." V grins. "Guess some lessons need to be learned twice."

Jungkook's fist curls tight, shakes from the effort of not slamming it into V's face.

"She looked at you," V whispers, "and said thank you."

That's it.

Jungkook lets go of his throat—and punches him hard enough to split skin across V's jaw.

Bone cracks under knuckles. Blood spatters across bark. V staggers, but he's laughing—fucking laughing—as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Fucking finally" he slurs through red teeth. "Welcome back, Kooks."

Jungkook doesn't hesitate.

The second punch lands even harder than the first—knuckles slamming into cheekbone with enough force to whip V's head sideways.

Blood sprays from his mouth this time, a thick crimson arc that spatters across tree bark, across Jeon's hand, across the ground between them.

Still, V laughs.

It's breathless, giddy, delighted.

"Fuck, I missed this," he rasps, tongue darting out to taste the blood slicking his bottom lip. "So you're still human, huh?"

He licks it slow, like he's savoring it.

Like it's dessert.

Jungkook steps back just enough not to kill him.

"You don't get to call me that," he says, voice low and splintered. "Not anymore."

V blinks once, mock-innocent. Then that crooked smile curls back up, jagged and satisfied.

"Oh, right." He taps two fingers against his temple. "Because I'm not Taehyung to you anymore, huh? I'm V." His voice twists around the name like it's something sacred. "Your words, not mine. Or was it mine first? I forget."

Jungkook doesn't answer.

He can't.

Not when his pulse is pounding in his ears, his vision swimming at the edges with a red haze he hasn't let himself feel in months.

V steps closer, shoulders relaxed, body loose with that particular high only someone like him can ride. His lip's still bleeding, and he doesn't wipe it off this time—just lets it drip, red on his teeth, staining the corner of his mouth.

"God, you hit harder than I remember," he says, eyes gleaming. "Must be all that repressed emotion. You're like a soda can in the sun—shaking, sealed tight. One little crack and boom."

Jungkook doesn't say anything back. He's not looking at him anymore. He's looking through him. Past the trees. Somewhere far and unreachable.

But V keeps talking. Of course he does. Because once he has momentum, he's unstoppable.

"I always knew it was still in there," V's finger digs in his chest. "That spark. That fire. You've been playing dead so long I almost believed you were gone. Almost."

Jungkook's hands are fists again.

"You've been sleepwalking, Jeon," V continues, grinning like he's high on the taste of violence. "Dead-eyed. Robotic. Miserable. Just waiting for someone to fucking jolt you back awake."

He leans in close again. Too close.

"I'm just giving you a favor."

"You don't do favors."

V cackles, loud and wild. "Sure I do. You just don't like the way they taste."

Another pause. Jungkook's breathing is steady now, but it's forced. Every inhale pulled through clenched teeth.

"You think this brings me peace?"

"No," V says, licking blood off his thumb now. "I think it brings you clarity."

There's something predatory in the way he steps back, finally, giving Jungkook space—but not out of mercy, no.

It's rather just to admire the way he's held together by muscle memory and sheer willpower.

"You pretend you buried it," V says softly, quirking an eyebrow. "But it's still there. Under the skin. Under the guilt. Under all that self-hatred."

"You're wasting your breath," Jungkook replies.

But V just keeps smiling, lips slick, eyes blown wide with delight.

"You can't kill the part of you that liked it. The rage. The power. The need. You just locked it away in a box and lost the key."

V's voice drops now, low and rich and terrifyingly gentle.

"And I'm the only one who still knows where it's buried."

That's when Takama steps in.

No warning. No sound. Just a hand locking around Jeon's bicep before the next blow can fly.

"Enough," Takama says, firm and calm.

Not a command.

A lifeline.

Jungkook doesn't resist. Not yet. But his chest heaves, and the knuckles on his right hand are starting to swell.
V leans lazily against the tree now, licking the blood of his lower lip that won't stop gushing out.

"Aw, don't stop now," he drawls, voice hoarse from the chokehold and the punches. "We were finally getting somewhere."

Takama doesn't even look at him.

His grip stays tight. Not painful. Just steady. Anchoring.

"Let it go," his second in command says under his breath.

Jungkook's eyes stay locked on V's face. Not with hatred.
With control.

The kind that takes every ounce of strength to maintain.

"You should've stayed buried," he murmurs.

But V just laughs. Loud, unhinged, manic.

"And miss this reunion?" He wipes blood from his jaw with the back of his hand. "Never."

He steps back, licking the burgundy remnants from his fingers as he turns to walk away.

His voice floats over his shoulder like a final cut.

"Same time tomorrow?"

Jungkook doesn't answer.

He just watches him disappear into the trees, that thorned scent of roses lingering behind like a stain you can't scrub off.

Some poisons don't kill you right away.

They stay in your blood.

Rot you from the inside out.

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

Blood tastes like copper and victory.

It slicks across his tongue, drips warm from the split in his lip. He doesn't wipe it off. Why would he? It's a mark of success—Jeon's control fractured, broken open just enough for the truth to spill out.

The scream he didn't let out. The grief he still pretends doesn't exist.

Taehyung practically skips through the camp, boots crunching over frost-stiff grass. His knuckles sting from where Jeon deflected that second hit, but the ache feels earned. Like something sacred.

He exhales, slow and sweet, watching the vapor curl into the cold morning air.

That was better than sex.

No, scratch that.

That was sex.

Pushing Jeon to that edge—watching the cold, calculated sniper fucking explode in real time? That's the closest Taehyung ever gets to euphoria.

The high is still rushing through him as his tent comes into view. The buzz behind his teeth. The heat in his skull. He's not even pretending to slow down.

He lifts the flap with a flourish, practically singing, "Honey, I'm home," as he sweeps inside.

Jimin's already there. Cross-legged on the floor like some kind of aesthetic devotional painting. His salmon hair falls messily across his forehead, catching light like spun sugar. He doesn't startle—he never does—but his head tilts just slightly in that way Taehyung always notices.

"You're late," Jimin says, not looking up from whatever he's scribbling into that little black journal. "Let me guess. You pissed off Jeon again."

"Mmhmm," Taehyung hums, swaying into the room. "It was glorious."

He doesn't wait for an invitation. He never does. Two steps and he's folding himself into Jimin's lap like a lithe, bloody jungle cat.

Jimin grunts at the impact, but he doesn't move. Doesn't push him off.

He never does that either.

"You're bleeding," Jimin says quietly, brushing hair back from Taehyung's temple before his eyes drift down. "Lip's split."

"Little love tap," Taehyung breathes against the curve of Jimin's neck.

He nuzzles there a moment, deep inhale. Jimin smells like warmth. Like brown sugar and caramel and fabric softener.

Soft things. Domestic things.

He doesn't know why it makes his teeth itch, want to take a bite.

Jimin finally meets his gaze—and there it is.

That flash of worry in his eyes. That's the part Taehyung likes. Not the sympathy. The fact that it costs Jimin something every time he pretends this isn't poison.

"What did you say to him this time?"

Taehyung grins slow, letting his tongue drag over the blood at the corner of his mouth. "Just reminded him of something he didn't want to remember."

"Don't play stupid. This is getting out of hand." Jimin's hand brushes lightly against his jaw, tilting his face to examine the cut.

The pads of his fingers are warm. Careful. It makes something behind Taehyung's ribs twitch.

"Jeon's going to snap one of these days," Jimin adds, voice low.

"He already did," Taehyung whispers.

And he can't help it—he giggles. It bubbles out of him like champagne and gunfire, bright and wrong. He presses closer to Jimin, legs tangling, arms looping around his waist. The tension bleeds out of him slowly, replaced by that delicious hum of control reclaimed. He can still feel Jeon's rage in the fibers of his hoodie. It clings like perfume.

Jimin doesn't move. But his breathing changes. Shallow now.

"You're high on it again," Jimin murmurs.

Taehyung pretends to consider it. "Maybe."

"It's not healthy."

He shrugs, lashes fluttering as he leans in. "Neither are we."

Jimin sighs through his nose. Doesn't argue.

For a moment, they sit like that. Quiet.

Taehyung lets himself rest his head on Jimin's shoulder, lets the silence expand between them. This kind of stillness is rare. He doesn't know how to hold it without squeezing too tight.

Jimin's voice finally cuts through. "Let J-Hope look at it. That lip's going to get infected."

"For you?" Taehyung draws his thumb along the line of Jimin's jaw, soft and mocking. "Anything, love."

The way Jimin flinches is small. Almost imperceptible. But Taehyung feels it.

That's the thing about Jimin. He's not like the others. He doesn't play back. Doesn't bite or snarl or shoot. He just absorbs it all, like a sponge in a slow leak.

And Taehyung knows it's cruel—knows he's twisting something tender into something sharp—but he does it anyway.

Because this is what's left. This is what he has.

"You don't have to keep doing this," Jimin says, eyes on the floor now. "With him."

"Sure I do," Taehyung murmurs, already curling into his lap again, like a cat that doesn't want to answer. "The show must go on."

Jimin shakes his head once, slow. "You're always like this."

"Good things don't change."

There's no bite in it. No anger.

Just truth.

And then, before Jimin can speak again, Taehyung presses a finger to his lips. It's light. Thoughtless. Charged.

"No more lectures," he says. "Tell me something sweeter."

"Like what?"

Taehyung smiles, eyes gleaming. He leans in, close enough for Jimin to taste the blood on his breath.

"Tell me a secret."

Jimin's lips are warm beneath his finger. Too warm.

Taehyung holds it there a beat longer than necessary, just to feel the resistance—such a pretty little line of defiance, always broken down the same way.

Gently.

Repeatedly.

"Tell me a secret," he whispers again.

Jimin doesn't answer.

He doesn't have to.

Because his eyes do. The way they drop. The way his breath skips. The way his hands twitch against the floor like they're unsure whether to push away or pull Taehyung closer.

It's always like this. Hesitation that tastes like anticipation.

Taehyung leans in. Presses his mouth to Jimin's cheek, just shy of his lips, and breathes him in—caramel warmth, a little bit of sweat, and something almost shy beneath it.

He imagines for a second biting down. Hard. Leaving a mark. Branding softness with something it doesn't deserve.

Instead, he draws back and tugs Jimin forward.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Right into his lap.

Jimin doesn't resist. He never does. Just settles into the space Taehyung makes for him like he's made of silk and apology.

God, it's addicting.

"So obedient," Taehyung murmurs, mouth ghosting along the curve of Jimin's jaw. "You always melt so easily, Jiminie."

He feels Jimin's pulse jump under his hands.

Feels it in the way his thighs tighten just slightly, in the way his spine curves—not in retreat, no.

In submission.

Taehyung smiles. The kind that never touches his eyes.

This is the part that matters.

Not the tenderness. Not the connection. This.

The aftershock. The reward.

The thing that lets him bleed out the rest of Jeon's name from his teeth.

His hands roam lazily—up the curve of Jimin's back, slipping under the hem of his shirt just to feel the skin heat beneath his palms. He doesn't rush. He doesn't need to.

Jimin's already folding.

Taehyung tilts his head and brushes their lips together—barely. Just enough to taste breath.

Then he whispers, soft and cruel against Jimin's mouth, "Let me ruin you for a bit."

Jimin exhales shakily. Doesn't nod. Doesn't speak. Just presses closer.

Perfect.

And Taehyung?

Taehyung finally feels calm.

Not better.

But calm.

The high burns slower this way.

Controlled.

Directed.

And by the time Jimin's head tips back and Taehyung's fingers slide lower, he's already thinking of the next morning—when he'll do it all over again.

Because Jeon's fists can bruise skin.

But Jimin's silence?

It lets him feel powerful.

And that's the only thing he ever really wants.

Chapter 15: camping trip mysteries

Summary:

"You'd have never said you'd be involved in a Council of 9 meeting at any point in your life; yet here you are, suddenly thrusted into a mission with the Chief you've just hooked up with, because your life couldn't possibly get more complicated."

Notes:

A/N: I really milked this camping trip for all it's worth, huh? Three whole chapters of outdoor shenanigans! I regret NOTHING. Anyway, here's the conclusion of our little nature excursion! Hope you enjoyed this slightly more chill setting (apart from, y'know, chapter 12's 👉🏻👌🏻 situation) because don't worry—there's PLENTY of time for everything to go spectacularly to shit later <3

MY KIWI HEAD 🥝🤧 I genuinely love him so much and I'm as surprised as you are! Who would have thought?? I seriously had ZERO intentions for Takama when I started this—no plan, no backstory, nothing. He just showed up in my brain one day demanding rights.

Maybe I love him so much because he's the only one with more than two functioning brain cells? Like, the man is just... chill. Nice. Using his fucking brain. Being all wise and grounding while everyone else is having emotional crises left and right. THE VOICE OF REASON IN THIS CIRCUS.

Takama x Reader endgame??? Jkjk this is a Jeon Jungkook fanfic ☝️ ...which doesn't mean shit won't happen before/after 👀

ANYWAY I'll leave you to make your own assumptions about our kiwi boy. All I'm saying is that sometimes characters write themselves into your heart and there's nothing you can do about it. Is it just me as an author having unhealthy attachments to my own creations? PROBABLY! You tell me!

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go cry about my fictional characters for the fifth time this week. It's only Tuesday. Send help.

xoxo 💋

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

The morning hike with Chaewon was exactly what you needed—fresh air, quiet trails... No drama.

But of course, you can't have nice things in Kkangpae.

Not when you return to find V lounging on a log like some tragic hero while J-Hope patches up his split lip.

"What the hell happened here?"

You eye the scene, already getting a headache. The thorny scent of roses fills your lungs as V gives you what immediately recognize as a smug smile.

"Just a little disagreement." V's smile is all teeth despite his busted lip. "Jeon can get rather feisty when he wants to."

J-Hope just rolls his eyes, clearly done with V's bullshit. He hands you a sanitary napkin without looking up, too busy sorting through his medical supplies—which basically means please help me deal with this drama queen.

You crouch next to V, ignoring how his eyes track your movement like he's a cat and you're the bird he wants to catch. The napkin comes away bloody when you dab at his lip, and his body tenses slightly under your touch—barely noticeable if you weren't trained to pick up on these things.

"Careful now." His voice drops low, playful. "I might bite."

You don't miss a beat.

"You bite, you get no help." The words come out flat, unimpressed. "I'm not one of your fangirls, V."

His games might work on others, but you've seen enough of his thorny side to know better.

Those roses have teeth.

A low chuckle breaks the tension. J-Hope's back with his medical supplies, but V's still watching you—though now with something that might be respect.

Or whatever passes for respect in that thorny mind of his.

"You really had it coming this time." J-Hope clicks his tongue, cranky doctor mode fully activated as he settles back down. "Jeon isn't someone you poke for fun without expecting consequences."

"Me?" V's eyebrow shoots up, all wounded innocence. "I was just having a friendly chat. Who knew our brooding Chief still had some fight left in him?"

The act doesn't fool anyone—especially not J-Hope, who (you bet your ass) has been patching up the aftermath of V's friendly chats' for years.

"Friendly chat?" J-Hope scoffs, dabbing at V's lip with more force than strictly necessary. "You two always turn everything into a dick-measuring contest. One of these days someone's gonna end up with worse than a busted lip."

V leans toward you like he's sharing a secret, mischief written all over his features. "He's just worried he'll run out of medical supplies if we keep this up."

You expect J-Hope to snap back—he usually does when people get like this.

But he just sighs, shoulders heavy with a worry that feels too genuine for the Kkangpae's ruthless doctor.

"Or maybe I'm worried you'll end up with a split skull, dumbass."

It's weird, the way it dribbles from his lips—like actual concern.

Which is weird in a place like this, where caring too much can get you killed. But then again, J-Hope's always been different. Maybe that's why he's one of the few people V actually listens to.

Sometimes?

V's eyes meet yours, like he's either hunting for something or escaping whatever was swirling in the doctor's pupils. Though, as everything with V, it vanishes instantly behind that shark-like grin.

"Ah, Hobi, always looking out for me. What would I do without you?"

"Probably be lying in a ditch somewhere." J-Hope says it casually, but his snark feels less blunt now. 

He gives V's shoulder a quick pat—kinda saying 'you're patched up, now get out of my face.' V nods his thanks, but his attention is already sliding back to you. His gaze lingers a bit too long, assessing.

"You've got a steady hand," he drawls, and you know he's not just talking about your first aid skills.

Thorns prickle your skin.

"And you've got a death wish." You hand the bloody napkin back to J-Hope, keeping your voice flat.

Unimpressed.

V's laugh shatters in the quiet. "Oh, you're interesting. I like you."

"Was that supposed to be a compliment?" You arch an eyebrow at him. "Coming from someone who just got his ass handed to him by Jeon, I'm not sure how much that's worth."

His smile widens; ever so slightly. Like what you said made him feel something—bad or good, you really don't care, but it's like his vines are slowly creeping into your lungs.

You just sigh, shrug it off. It's not your problem.

You've got enough on your plate without getting caught up in whatever dick-measuring contest is going on between V and Jeon.

Your attention abruptly shifts to Takama, sitting cross-legged in the grass like some zen master on his coffee break. Despite looking perfectly relaxed with his can of coffee, you know better—the man's probably cataloguing every movement in a three-mile radius.

He's just that kind of observant. It's just how he is, what he does, that much is clear from your training sessions with him.

Persistent without being belligerent; consistent without being insistent.

It's weird seeing him in casual clothes. The navy sweater and white collar combo is a far cry from his usual tactical gear, making him look almost... normal. Like he could be anyone's slightly intimidating older brother instead of Jeon's deadly second-in-command. Even his loose jeans seem deliberately chosen for comfort rather than combat.

He doesn't move a muscle as you approach, eyes fixed on the horizon like his mind has found refuge among the spongy dunes skittering away in the sky.

Or maybe he's just really into his morning coffee.

You plop down beside him, the damp grass immediately soaking through your pants because of course it does.

"Peaceful morning, isn't it?"

You break the silence, knowing Takama won't. Man's got the conversation skills of a particularly stoic rock when he wants to.

There's something calming about his presence though.

Like he's the drizzle after the hurricane.

Plus, he probably won't try to murder anyone over breakfast. Unlike some people you could name.

"Peace is rare around here." The corner of Takama's mouth quirks up slightly. "Savor it while it lasts."

You settle into the comfortable silence, watching the horizon paint itself in morning colors. Next to Takama, even coffee breaks feel philosophical.

"You and V," he starts, offering you the can. "You get along?"

You grab it and take a sip, considering your answer. The coffee's gone lukewarm.

"Hmm."

Yeah that's your answer, because you don't really know what to reply. It's definitely not a yes, but you don't... hate him either?

"He's a wildcard, but I can handle him," is what you end up settling for.

What follows is Takama's laugh—quiet, understated like everything else about him.

"V is... unpredictable. But he's loyal to the gang, in his own way." He pauses, choosing words carefully. "Just watch your back. Testing people is how he entertains himself."

You pass the can back, watching him take another sip. The liquid works through a swallow down his throat, and his Adam's apple bobs slightly. His head tilts towards you when he notices you've gone silent.

"And Jeon? How do you find working with him?"

The question makes your skin prickle, and you know it's not because of how sudden it is—but because of something else, as well.

Images from last night force their way through your mind like a wiggling worm unwilling to let go—callouses on skin, that silver lip ring, the way he'd touched you like you might break.

You take your time answering, very aware that this is Jeon's right-hand man asking—and that your neck probably still has marks his mouth left behind.

But you're not about to tell Takama that.

"He's... intense." You focus on shredding a blade of grass, needing something to do with your hands. "But we kind of... get each other, I guess."

Takama finally looks at you, and fuck—there's way too much understanding in those gray eyes.

Because with V you have a noncommittal answer.

But you just said you get along with Jeon. Kinda.

He doesn't comment on it, and it makes sense—being Jeon's second means he probably sees more than most.

About how hard exactly it is to be in Jeon's circle. Not part of it, not even near—just hovering.

It's not easy, you know that much.

"Jeon respects strength," he says quietly, like he's sharing a secret. "Stand your ground, and you'll earn his respect."

A pause. Then he adds, hushedly:

"Maybe more."

Your pupils flicker between his, trying to parse whatever the hell he means—but nothing in there gives you a hint.

He simply smiles, getting up and helping you up too.

You both turn back to watch the camp wake up, the morning routine starting to buzz around you.

Someone's cursing about cold showers. Someone else is complaining about AD.

You take another sip of lukewarm coffee, letting the bitterness ground you. It's easier than thinking about what maybe more might mean, or why your stomach churns at the thought.

Besides, you've got enough on your plate just dealing with regular Jeon.

You don't need to add cryptic messages to that mess.

The peaceful morning doesn't last long—because this is Kkangpae you're talking about.

Moon's voice cuts through your post-gossip haze, drawing everyone to the center of the camp like a very formal shepherd. Some people look about as thrilled as you feel about being up this early.

"All right, everyone!" He's got that tone—the one that says 'this is mandatory fun and you're going to like it.' "For today's lunch, we're doing something different. Group bibimbap, but with a twist: you'll work in pairs."

A ripple of murmurs spreads through the crowd. You catch Takama's eye—he just raises an eyebrow like 'here we go again'.

"These pairings," Moon continues, all business in his long coat despite the casual setting, "are chosen to mix different divisions and personalities. It's about teamwork and learning from each other."

You barely hold back a snort. Trust Moon to turn lunch prep into a team-building exercise.

Your attention snaps back when he calls out, "Y/N, you're paired with JM. I expect great things from you two."

Well, that could've been worse. At least JM's not likely to stab you over vegetable chopping techniques.

When you reach him, he's already smiling that gentle smile that makes him look more like a kindergarten teacher than a gang's financial mastermind.

"Looks like we're a team." His voice matches his whole vibe—calm as a lake on a windless day. "Any ideas on what we should tackle?"

You're about to answer when a groan cuts through your chat with JM.

You turn to see AD looking like someone just deleted his gaming setup, while J-Hope's already got that 'done with this shit' smile plastered on his face.

"Bro, why the fuck am I always paired with your annoying ass?" AD slumps against a tree, all dramatic like the gremlin he is.

J-Hope just rolls his eyes. "Because Moon loves to torture me, that's why. Come on, let's just get this over with."

Your eyes inevitably roam around the clearing, taking in the other pairings.

Jeon and Chaewon—they acknowledge each other with matching professional nods, something like 'we respect each other but let's keep this strictly business' hovering over them.

Takama and Jessi make an oddly perfect pair, his zen energy somehow containing her wildfire spirit as they huddle together, already plotting.

V's got Yunjin trapped in what looks like his usual chaotic storytelling, though she seems to be holding her own—and then there's Eunchae and Sakura, who look like they're planning to turn lunch prep into some kind of competition.

Meanwhile, Kazuha's hanging onto Moon's every word like he's sharing the secrets of the universe instead of just bibimbap instructions.

"So." JM's gentle voice pulls you back. "Should we handle the veggies? I think we could make a great team in chopping and prepping them."

"Sounds good to me." You find yourself matching his easy smile. "Let's show them how it's done."

At least someone in this chaos circus knows how to be normal.

You follow JM to gather supplies, falling into an easy rhythm. His gentle energy is oddly reassuring, and makes even veggie prep feel zen.

Plus, he actually knows what he's doing, which is more than you can say for half the pairs around you.

Because AD's already whining about something while J-Hope ignores him completely.

Yeah; that's Kkangpae for you.

But then you catch sight of V with Yunjin and your stomach turns, why, you don't know. Poor Yunjin's holding her knife like she's never seen one before, eyes darting around nervously.

And its knives, so yeah, V swoops right in.

"Let me show you," he purrs, and fuck him for actually sounding smooth.

You see his hand sliding over hers, like he isn't the same person who had blood on his lip an hour ago.

"There's a rhythm to it, like a dance." You watch him press closer, caging Yunjin with his body while he guides the knife. "Feel the movement. It's about confidence, purpose."

"Like this?" Yunjin's voice is small, breathless.

"Exactly like that." He eases into it. "Every slice tells a story of precision and care. And you, Yunjin, have a knack for it."

You grip your own knife tighter, fighting the urge to stab those thorny vines right out of the air. He's charming, you'll give him that.

But you fear the sweet floral scent roses simply masks decaying waste underneath.

And he needs to stay the fuck away from Yunjin.

You can't help noticing how she melts under his attention, all shy smiles and batting eyelashes. Like a moth drawn to a particularly deadly flame.

"There, you're a pro now." V steps back with a wink.

"Thanks, V." Yunjin beams up at him. "I think I've got it from here."

A slight movement catches your eye—JM's knife has stopped mid-chop.

His gaze darts between V and Yunjin like he's watching a car crash in slow motion, and it's real subtle, but you catch the way his jaw tightens.

"JM," you keep your voice casual, "you seem a bit distracted. Everything okay?"

He snaps back to his vegetables, gentle smile sliding back. "Oh, it's nothing. Just... observing the dynamics. It's interesting to see how different personalities interact, don't you think?"

You nod, watching V circle Yunjin. "True. Especially with V. Makes you wonder what goes on behind that smile."

"Exactly." His smile is halfhearted at best. "Sometimes, the most cheerful faces hide the deepest stories."

The way he says it makes you wonder just how many of V's stories JM knows.

And how many of them keep him up at night.

You and JM fall into a comfortable rhythm again, just hearing AD complaining about something, Eunchae's bright laughter, the clatter of pots and pans.

Then—crash.

Your head snaps up, muscles tensing automatically. Old habits die hard in Kkangpae.

It's Chaewon.

She's standing frozen, an overturned pot at her feet, staring at one of Jessi's guys like she's seen a ghost. His hand hangs awkwardly in the air where it had brushed against hers. You can see her breathing speed up—tell-tale sign of panic she's never shown before.

JM's knife stills mid-chop. Before you can blink, he's already moving toward her.

Jessi's there too, quickly motioning for the guy to back off—and he does, looking confused and apologetic, but you notice how Chaewon's shoulders drop slightly once he's out of reach.

JM murmurs something to her, too low for you to hear (though you bet that gentle voice of his could probably talk down a rabid bear). Chaewon gives a tiny nod, but her knuckles are still white where she's gripping her sleeve.

When Jessi touches her shoulder, you catch that silent conversation between the three of them.

The kind that comes from knowing someone's demons intimately.

"Alright, everyone, back to work." Jessi shouts. "Nothing to see here. Let's keep the focus on the task at hand."

Everyone turns back to their tasks, but you don't miss how JM stays close to Chaewon, or how Jessi's eyes keep scanning the crowd like she's daring anyone to make this worse.

JM hovers near her for another minute before coming back to your chopping station, and when he does, he picks up his knife and starts slicing carrots like nothing's happened at all.

"Guess we all have our off days, huh?" You keep your voice light, casual. No pressure.

JM's knife stills for a moment. He doesn't look up.

"Everyone has ghosts they're running from." The words come out soft. "Some just hide them better than others."

You let the silence settle. There's an unspoken rule in the gang—you don't go digging in other people's graveyards unless they hand you the shovel first.

"I'm gonna wash up," you mutter, already heading for the makeshift sink, feeling like he needs some silence before being back to normal.

Behind you, JM's knife resumes its path against the cutting board.

You're shaking water off your hands when footsteps approach from behind. Months in Kkangpae have taught you to be alert even for something as mundane as washing up after veggie prep.

"So you do know how to clean up."

The low drawl sends heat crawling up your spine. You know that voice—and the smirk that goes with it—without having to turn around.

"Turns out, I'm full of surprises." You flick excess water in Jeon's direction, catching his dangerous half-smile when you glance over your shoulder.

His chuckle hits you right in the gut, deep and rich and —fuck—suddenly all you can think about is last night.

His hands, his mouth, the way he'd made you shatter.

"Surprising indeed." There's that smug tone again. "Especially since I recall someone being too fucked out to help with cleanup duty."

"Well," you drop your voice low, just for him, "if you hadn't made such a goddamn mess, there'd have been less to clean up."

Your body remembers how close you'd been—how you'd ground against each other like teenagers, desperate and needy.

How his cock had felt pressed against you, so close but not close enough because someone didn't bring protection.

The frustration from last night still burns under your skin, reminder of what could have been.

If he'd just been prepared...

Jeon steps closer, and—fuck—even after last night, his presence still makes your skin prickle.

"A mess, you say? The way I remember it, you were just as responsible for the chaos."

"Chaos?" You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to back down even as heat crawls up your neck. "Don't flatter yourself, Jeon. It was... mild disarray at best."

His grin widens, and you hate how your eyes keep tracking that stupid lip piercing.

"Mild disarray? You were panting like you'd run through every back alley in Seoul."

You scoff, trying not to remember how he'd made you shake, how his hands had felt mapping every inch of you.

"Breathless, maybe. But let's not blow it out of proportion."

"Hah." His eyes narrow. "You've got a sharp tongue. But we both know—"

A shout from across the camp makes you both freeze.
Your eyes meet his for a split second before you step apart, smooth as shadows. Professional. Like you weren't just thinking about climbing him like a tree.

Again.

You turn away, finally letting out that breath you'd been holding.

The banter gets you hot under the collar but fuck if you don't want more. Not that you'll admit that.

Even if part of you is already plotting round two.

This time with actual protection. Because seriously.

"Anyway," his voice cuts through your thoughts, "we should get back to work. Long day ahead."

"Right." You nod, and then go right back to prepping veggies.

Yeah. This is going to be a very long day indeed.

The smell of bibimbap hits different after spending all morning chopping vegetables next to JM's weirdly zen energy.

And yup—everyone's gathering around the portable tables, looking stupidly proud of their contributions like they didn't just spend half the morning complaining about Moon's team-building exercise.

You grab a spot next to Yunjin, who's already halfway through telling you about her latest drama obsession; eyes practically sparkling as she waves her chopsticks around.

"No but listen—the main lead thinks his brother died in that fire, right?" She leans in close, pink hair falling in her face. "But then in episode sixteen we find out he's actually been alive this whole time! Living in China!"

You nearly choke on your rice. "That's the most unrealistic plot twist I've ever—"

"Mind if I join?" Takama's calm voice slices through Yunjin's enthusiastic plot summary; slight smile that makes him look more like a monk than Jeon's deadly second-in-command.

"Pull up a chair." You scoot over to make room. "Yunjin's educating me on the finer points of melodrama."

"Ah." His eyes crinkle as he settles in. "The ones where everyone's secretly related and nobody stays dead?"

"Exactly!" Yunjin beams. "Like this one where the brooding CEO's got a secret relationship—"

"Should've fought harder for the meat distribution," you murmur, poking at your mostly vegetable bibimbap.

Before you can finish sighing about your protein deficiency, Takama's chopsticks appear in your line of sight, depositing a generous portion of beef onto your plate.

"Here. I prefer vegetables anyway."

"Liar." But you're already mixing the meat into your rice, trying not to look too pleased. "Thanks."

Yunjin pouts at that, surely expecting some meat too (even when her plate shows basically 0 vegetables anyway). You kick her under the table, and she almost bounces with a chuckle.

"So, V's actually a really good teacher," she says dreamily, pushing her rice around. "Did you know he used to work in a restaurant?"

You cough.

V 's "restaurant" experience probably involved more knife-work than cooking.

"Is that so?" Takama asks, slightly puzzled.

"Mhm!" She sighs, all starry-eyed. "And he's so patient. The way he showed me how to hold the knife—"

"Speaking of knives," Takama cuts in smoothly, "your technique has improved, Y/N. Been practicing?"

You're grateful for the subject change. Watching Yunjin moon over V is like watching a butterfly land on a Venus flytrap.

"Yeah, well. Can't let the Seduction Division down, right?"

His smile is small but genuine. "Right."

Movement then catches your eye—Chaewon's heading your way, black bob bouncing with each step. She smiles when she spots you, but you don't miss how she falters slightly when she notices Takama. Her eyes dart between him and the empty space beside you, calculating.

For a second, you think she might turn around.

But then she simply strides over like she owns the place, sliding into the spot next to you.

You don't miss how she angles her body away from Takama, though.

"What's got everyone looking so serious?" She bumps your shoulder playfully. "Don't tell me Yunjin's got you all hooked on her dramas too."

"Not all of us can be as cultured as Yunjin." You grin as Yunjin pretends to be offended. "We were just discussing the finer points of V's... cooking techniques."

That makes Yunjin blush, but Chaewon's eyes sharpen. You catch that protective glint—the same one she gets whenever any of the male members get too close to her division.

"Oh?" Her voice is light, but there's steel underneath. "And how did you find our resident psychopath's teaching methods?"

"Come on, he was really patient!" Yunjin pipes up. "And his hands were so—"

"Speaking of hands," Chaewon interjects quickly, "I heard there was quite the incident at morning coffee. Something about Jeon's right hook meeting V's face?"

Trust Chaewon to steer the conversation away from V's charms while gathering intel in the same breath. Sometimes you forget she's your Chief for a reason.

Heels on grass make your eyes stutter behind Chaewon's silhouette.

It's Jessi; obviously—who claims the spot next to Takama, all long red hair and confident energy.

She's probably the only person who can make eating bibimbap look like a power move.

"Well, well." She waves her chopsticks at your little group. "What's this about dramas? Please tell me someone's finally calling out how unrealistic those chaebol storylines are."

"We were discussing layers," you explain, watching her pile kimchi onto her rice with the same precision she probably uses to plan weapons shipments. "You know, how people aren't always what they seem."

"Like how our fearless Chief here—" she angles her head towards Chaewon, "—pretends to be all business, but I caught her crying over cat videos last week?"

"That was one time." Chaewon tries to glare but can't quite hide her smile. "And you promised not to tell."

"Please." Jessi snorts. "Everyone knows you're a softie under all that badassery. Remember when you threatened to shoot that guy who made Eunchae cry?"

"He deserved it." Chaewon's voice goes flat, protective instincts flashing. "Nobody messes with my girls."

"And that's exactly what we mean," Yunjin pipes up, somehow making even this observation sound sweet. "Everyone's got different sides. Like how Jessi acts tough but always saves the last strawberry milk for AD."

"Oi—" Jessi points her chopsticks at Yunjin threateningly, but there's no malice in it. "Just for that, you're testing all the new rifles when we get back to the castle. Someone needs to make sure they don't jam."

Something about the easiness of the conversation makes something unfurl in your chest.

It's weird seeing these deadly women just... being friends. Sharing lunch and inside jokes like they aren't some of the most dangerous people in Seoul.

But then again, maybe that's exactly what Yunjin meant about layers.

"Sooo," Jessi prompts, "who wants to share their deep dark secrets? Come on, don't be shy."

"Real subtle, Joo." Chaewon rolls her eyes, but you catch that tiny smile she always gets around Jessi. "What's next, trust falls?"

"I'd let you fall." Jessi winks, making Chaewon snort into her rice.

Takama, who's been quiet this whole time, surprises everyone by speaking up. "Sometimes the secrets we keep aren't about trust. Sometimes they're about protection."

"Like how we all pretend AD doesn't secretly feed the stray cats behind the castle?" Yunjin singsongs then.

That breaks the tension, sending ripples of laughter around the group.

Even Takama cracks a smile.

"Or how Jessi acts tough but cried during that dog commercial last week?" Chaewon dodges the grape Jessi throws at her head.

"That dog was reunited with its family," Jessi hisses, but she's fighting back a grin. "Forgive me for having a heart."

"Yeah, buried somewhere under those nine inch heels."

You smile at that, and you note how the sun is high over head now, warming skin through the trees.

You should probably get back to work—those intel reports won't file themselves. But for now, you let yourself enjoy this moment of peace.

Even gang members need lunch breaks sometimes.

Dodgeball is usually fun. Keyword: usually—because when it's among deadly people... competitiveness is too light of a word.

You're in the middle of debating some strategy with Yunjin when Jeon's presence immediately freezes the whole camp. One second you're planning how to take down AD's team (he might be a tech genius but his aim is shit), and the next—

"Meeting. Council of 9, now."

Jeon's voice is calm, as usual. But it's precise, blunt in a way that makes your hackles rise. His face gives nothing away—typical—but something in his posture screams urgent.

The Council members share quick looks before following him into the trees. Moon's already at his side, glasses catching the sunlight. Chaewon squeezes your shoulder as she passes, and Jessi winks at Yunjin, but neither stops to explain.

Just like that, your cozy little camping trip turns into a war room—playful energy from moments ago gone, leaving behind the familiar sensation that comes with being in a criminal organization.

"Damn." Yunjin drops onto the bench beside you, pink hair falling in her face. "Even on a camping trip, we can't escape the threats."

Your little lunch group now feels weirdly empty without Jessi's loud energy and Chaewon's dry comments. You catch yourself staring at the path where they disappeared, like maybe if you look hard enough you'll develop x-ray vision.

So much for that epic dodgeball tournament you'd planned. Although honestly? Getting hit with rubber balls suddenly seems like the least of your problems.

"It's just how things work around here." Takama shrugs, wiping sweat from his shaved head.

Of course the dodgeball game's been put on hold, everyone too distracted by the Council's sudden disappearance to focus.

"Hey, Takemichi!" Eunchae bounces over, still flushed from running around. "Any idea what's going on? You're like, Jeon's right hand and all."

Takama's eye twitches at the nickname, but he doesn't comment on it. "No clue. But Jeon doesn't call meetings without good reason. Especially not during planned activities."

Your eyes drift to where the Council members vanished into the trees. It's odd seeing Jeon actually interact with people—the man's about as social as a brick wall. Even J-Hope, who he supposedly tolerates, barely gets more than grunts out of him most days. That whole don't-fuck-with-me hurricane aura of his keeps everyone at a safe distance.

And yet.

You'd fucked him.

Well, kinda.

Heat crawls up your neck as you mentally reminisce about last night.

Pride mingles with something else as you remember that untouchable Chief's face when he came all over your belly.

Focus, dumbass. Now isn't the time to replay your greatest hits. If Jeon's gathering the Council in the middle of fucking dodgeball, something's definitely wrong.

"Do you think it's..." Yunjin chews her lip, lowering her voice. "MDF?"

The mention of Myung-dong Faction makes everyone's faces go pale.

"Hard to say." Takama's voice drops to barely above a whisper. "But we did just wreck their trafficking ring. Hanjun's gone now. They're not known for letting that kind of thing slide."

You share a look with Yunjin and Eunchae. You remember Hanjun from your last mission—the way he'd crumpled when Kkangpae was done with him.

The way his whole operation had fallen apart like a house of cards.

Sakura's usually bright face is serious as she crouches next to you. "If it's MDF, we're fucked."

"They've been too quiet." Kazuha runs a hand through her wine-colored hair, eyes scanning the treeline like she expects assassins to materialize. "That's not their style. Not after what we did to their golden boy."

And she's right, isn't she? MDF isn't known for their forgive-and-forget attitude. Their silence these past weeks has been... unsettling. Like holding your breath underwater, knowing you'll have to surface eventually.

"Whatever it is, we need to be ready." Eunchae sighs. "Can't let our guard down. Not even here."

"We need to be united now more than ever." Takama's voice rumbles low as he scans the treeline."Division only makes us vulnerable, they might aim for that."

And he's right; because Kkangpae's strength isn't just in its firepower—it's in moments like this, when everyone's got each other's backs.

"Whatever the Council needs," you say, meaning it. "We've got their six."

The group falls quiet, the forgotten dodgeball lying between you like some sad metaphor for your interrupted normalcy. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls. You almost miss it under the sound of your heart pounding.

A rustle in the bushes makes you lean back.

Though it's just J-Hope, looking way too serious for someone who was laughing at AD's failed dodgeball throws ten minutes ago.

"They need you." His eyes find yours, steady and unreadable. "Jeon asked for you specifically."

You share a quick look with Takama, and he's wearing the same exact puzzled expression as you.

"Me? Why would he—"

J-Hope just shakes his head. Great. Because being summoned by the dude you almost fucked last night during a secret Council meeting isn't complicated enough.

But you don't really have much choice, so you trail behind J-Hope like a kid being called to the principal's office, mind racing faster than your heart.

What the actual fuck could Jeon want? And why during the middle of dodgeball, of all things?

The Council's little forest hideaway comes into view, and suddenly you've got nine pairs of eyes drilling into you.

Great. Just great. Nothing like being stared at by the most dangerous people in Seoul while you're in workout clothes and probably still red-faced from almost getting beaned by AD's wild throws.

Jeon stands like a statue among them, and he speaks immediately upon seeing you.

"We have a situation that needs your input."

No greeting, no explanation, just straight to the point. Pure Jeon. You'd roll your eyes if you weren't so aware of every Council member watching you.

"Remember your first mission?" Chaewon continues. "The women we rescued? You were the only one who actually saw them in that room."

Of course you remember—hard not to, even if you wish you wouldn't.

That cramped, dark room with its rusty bars and stale air. Women huddled in corners like broken birds, some too afraid to even look up when you'd entered.

Your first real taste of what the Seduction Division actually does.

Not the glamorous spy shit you'd imagined, but the ugly, necessary work of saving people from monsters.

"Remember what any of the women looked like?" Chaewon presses.

You try to remember, but the thing that comes first is the smell of fear and desperation—thick enough to choke on.

Then it's their faces. Burned into your brain. And then... hers.

"There was one girl," you start carefully, watching the Council's reactions. "Couldn't have been more than eighteen. Skinny thing, but her eyes..."

You pause, searching for the right words.

"Even in that shithole, she was... I don't know. Like she was just waiting for a chance to burn the whole place down."

You catch the tiny shift in Jessi's jaw, the way her fingers tighten around her weapon.

The air feels like a forest fire waiting to happen.

"Dark reddish-brown hair," you continue, the details getting clearer as you speak. "Matted to hell, but you could tell it was beautiful once. And the way she held herself..."

"That's enough." Jeon interrupts you. "Your recollection could prove useful. We believe that girl is connected to one of our own. This isn't some random MDF hit."

Your stomach drops. Because shit—that... That changes everything.

MDF might be brutal, but they're not stupid.

Kidnapping someone connected to Kkangpae? That's not just an attack—it's a message.

A very personal message.

You watch the Council's faces, trying to read between the lines.

If MDF knows enough to target someone specific, how much else do they know? How deep have they dug into everyone's past?

The thought makes your skin crawl.

"Now we know this is personal." Chaewon's voice is ice-cold, all business. "The question is, how do we respond?"

"We hit back." Jessi's voice cracks like a whip, raw and broken. "Show those fuckers what happens when you mess with Kkangpae."

J-Hope reaches for her shoulder, ever the voice of reason. "I know you want blood, Jessi. But an all-out war will only get innocent people killed."

Jessi jerks away from his touch, but you see how her hands shake. 

"I should've been there," she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. "I should never have left them alone."

The pain in her voice makes your chest tight; you've never seen Jessi like this—like she's barely holding herself together.

"Why don't we just storm their headquarters and slaughter them all?" V (who's been conspicuously quiet until now) raises his voice.

The guy is just leaning back against a tree, playing with a butterfly knife like he thinks he's the Joker or something.

"Picture it." His smile grows wider, more unhinged. "Their precious hideout painted red, bodies everywhere. We could string up their leaders—or what's left of them—as a warning."

JM gives him one look—one that somehow manages to pierce through V's psychotic haze. Like he's the only person besides RM who can actually rein him in when he gets like this.

V slumps back with an exaggerated pout, thorny aura receding slightly. The switch from bloodthirsty to playful is so fast it gives you whiplash.

"As entertaining as that sounds," JM's voice is steady, like a calm lake washing away V's chaos, "we need precision here. Not a bloodbath."

"You never let me have fun." V whines like a kid denied candy instead of mass murder. "But fine, we'll be civilized."

JM turns back to the Council. "Please continue. V's just... working through some things. He understands the need for balance."

Jeon's face gives nothing away, but you notice how his jaw tightens. Having to share space with V is bad enough—having to listen to his murder fantasies is clearly testing what little patience he has left.

"As I was saying..." Jeon continues.

JM gives V another one of those looks and V slumps against the tree.

The thorny scent of roses fades to something more bearable, though you can tell he's just waiting for another chance to suggest mass murder.

"I might have a better idea." AD clears his throat. "A bloodbath would be satisfying, sure, but we need intel first. Something clean and quiet that gives us some advantage."

You watch him run a hand through his messy blonde hair, thinking three steps ahead while looking like he just rolled out of bed.

"We know where their hideout is. Send in a small team, two people max. Get their data, their plans, their weak spots." He pauses, letting that sink in. "Information is better than bullets right now."

The Council members exchange looks. Even V stops fidgeting with his knife. You catch Jeon's shoulders relaxing slightly—he knows a good plan when he hears one.

"Stealth does play to our strengths," Jeon admits, and his eyes flick to you for a split second. "Who did you have in mind?"

AD jerks his chin toward you.

"She's perfect for this. Hanjun's well acquainted with Flower now, but Y/N? She was only there for the takedown. He never had time to report back about her or the other girls. But between all of them," he adds, "she's the only one who got to see all the girls."

Suddenly you've got nine of Seoul's most dangerous criminals staring at you. But you meet Jeon's gaze head-on, refusing to flinch.

Finally—a chance to prove yourself.

And maybe get some answers about what's really going on with MDF.

"She's just an ensign." JM mumbles. "She's gonna need backup."

The Chiefs exchange looks, probably running through a mental list of who they could trust not to fuck this up. Your heart's still pounding from being called in, from learning about this mission that could change everything.

"Jeon will lead this operation." RM's voice leaves no room for argument. Like he's announcing the weather, except the weather is your hookup being assigned as your partner.

Amazing, really love that for you.

"You're picking him for stealth?" V's voice goes high with indignation, like someone just insulted his knife collection. "I'm literally the Chief of Stealth Assassinations. What the actual fuck?"

Thorns prickle the air, sharp with offense. You definitely catch Jeon's tiny smirk—he's enjoying V's tantrum way too much.

"Jeon has the discipline this requires." RM's tone could freeze hell itself. "We can't afford your... creative interpretations of orders right now."

V opens his mouth—probably to suggest murdering everyone involved, knowing him—but JM slaps a hand over it. The look V gives him could kill a lesser man, but JM just raises an eyebrow.

"This mission's success is crucial." RM continues like V isn't plotting JM's death with his eyes. "We need strategy, not chaos."

You watch Jeon's face carefully. His expression gives nothing away, but you just know he's thinking the same thing you are:

How the fuck are you two supposed to focus on a stealth mission when you can barely keep your hands off each other?

"Come on," V's voice drags after getting rid of JM's hand, "we all remember how well these two work together. Like gasoline and a lit match. Either they'll kill each other or fuck like rabbits. Not ideal for a stealth op, eh?"

JM smacks his shoulder, but V just grins wider. Your face burns as Jeon goes rigid beside you, like a gathering strength.

If looks could kill, V would be six feet under from the glare Jeon's sending him.

You stare very intently at a patch of grass, fighting the urge to squirm, because V has no idea how close to home that "fucking like rabbits" comment hits.

Or maybe he does—you can never tell what that psycho actually knows.

"Enough." JM sighs. "RM's guidance is sound. Jeon, you're our best strategic mind. Tactical is probably our best approach right now."

Jeon's jaw works for a moment before he gives a sharp nod. "Understood. I'll lead the operation."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding.

Stuck on a stealth mission with the guy you've secretly hooked up with, while his psychotic sworn enemy watches and makes sex jokes.

Just another day in Kkangpae.

"For now," RM's redirects the conversation swiftly, "let's focus on the task at hand. This camping trip was meant to build unity and trust. We can't lose sight of that."

Unity and trust.

Right.

Because nothing says team bonding like sending you and the guy you're dying to have sex with to infiltrate enemy territory while pretending you've never seen each other naked.

"There will be time later to prepare for the mission." He adds. "But while we're here, I expect everyone's full commitment to this team-building exercise."

Jeon surprises you by actually looking... chastened? as he gives RM a short nod. "You're right. My priorities were misplaced. I apologize for the disruption."

And that's... New. You've never heard Jeon apologize for anything.

But then again, RM's probably the only person in Seoul who could make him bow down. The amount of respect Jeon has for him is almost an entity of its own.

"No need to apologize." RM's stern expression softens slightly. "Let's refocus together on strengthening our bonds as a crew."

More team bonding. Because that's exactly what you need right now... bonding,̶ ̶o̶r̶ b̶o̶n̶i̶n̶g̶?̶

You give Jeon one last look before V's voice cuts through, all manic energy as usual.

"Last one back has to clean everyone's dishes!"

And then he just... takes off running like the psychopath he is, thorns receding with him. Because of course he'd turn this into a competition.

"Oh, fuck no!" Jessi kicks off her heels, already sprinting after him in bare feet. "I am not cleaning after his ass."

Chaewon and JM share this look—probably something like 'we're both too dignified for this shit' passing between them before they're running too, probably realizing nobody wants to risk V winning anything.

"How childish." J-Hope rolls his eyes, but AD's already got that gleam he gets when someone issues a challenge.

"Childish?" AD's grin is pure evil. "I bet I could eat enough for ten people. Give you something real nice to clean."

"You little shit—" J-Hope takes off after him. "Get back here!"

You glance back at Jeon and RM, both still walking like they're above such peasant activities.

But fuck it—you're already sweaty from dodgeball, might as well commit to the chaos.

"Think I'll take AD's strategy." You flash Jeon your sweetest smile. "Eat everything in sight, let someone else deal with cleanup."

You're running before he can reply, laughter bubbling up.

And then, merely a few second later, you hear his steady footsteps turn into something faster.

Looks like even the mighty Chief can't resist a challenge.

The campsite comes into view through the trees, and you pick up your pace.

You jog into the clearing, lungs burning, only to find V and RM already there.

What the actual   fuck?

"How did RM beat us?" The words come out between gasps.

The man runs a criminal empire in designer suits, for fuck's sake. He shouldn't be able to outrun anyone.

V just grins that Cheshire cat smile of his and then, Jessi, Chaewon and JM stumble in next, all tangled together and cackling like teenagers.

"JM's face when I almost tripped him—" Jessi wheezes, red hair wild from running.

Everyone else filters in gradually, catching their breath and comparing notes on who cheated (definitely V).

But oddly enough, there's no sign (or sound) of J-Hope or AD.

Then—

"You absolute fucking cockwomble, let go before I rearrange your face!"

"Not happening, you lil' bitch. I'm not cleaning your blood off the floor again!"

You turn to find J-Hope and AD crashing through the underbrush like drunk bears, locked in what has to be the world's most undignified wrestling match. AD's blonde hair is full of leaves, and J-Hope's pristine turtleneck is covered in dirt.

Seoul's most dangerous gang, ladies and gentlemen.

Truly terrifying.

"You wanna fucking go, asshole?" AD thrashes like a feral cat, trying to land a hit on J-Hope. "I'll rip out your spine and use it as a fucking ethernet cable!"

But J-Hope's got him locked down, using his height advantage like the bastard he is. AD might be scrappy, but the doctor's got experience wrestling patients into submission.

"You need to get out of this unscathed first, you dumbass—"

"Then I'll download your consciousness into a punching bag," AD snarls, still fighting. "Have you getting hit for eternity, you piece of shit!"

Their little death match stumbles closer to camp. J-Hope's got AD in a headlock now, ignoring the increasingly creative threats being spewed at his face.

"I'll be patching you up after this, you psychotic gremlin." J-Hope finally slams AD into the dirt, probably enjoying this way too much. "Maybe I'll sew a live rat in your stomach. Let it chew its way out through your organs."

They keep wrestling, but it's getting pathetic—like watching two drunk uncles fight at a family barbecue. Both of them are red-faced and panting, shirts half-ripped from trying to hold each other back.

You can't help noticing they look wrecked—covered in sweat and leaves.

Actually...

"They must've been holding each other back the whole way here." You snort.

No wonder they're last. These idiots literally spent the entire race trying to murder each other.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" V's voice rings out like a demented game show host. "Our esteemed winners, graceful as ever!"

J-Hope and AD freeze mid-choke hold, finally noticing their audience.

The look of pure horror on their faces is priceless.

"Dish duty it is, boys!" Jessi's grin is absolutely feral.

AD shoves J-Hope off like an angry cat, but they're both too winded from their pathetic wrestling match to do more than hurl insults at each other.

"This is all your fucking fault!" AD jabs a finger at J-Hope's chest, looking about as threatening as a wet Pomeranian. "If you hadn't grabbed me—"

"My fault?" J-Hope's voice gets higher. "Big words from someone shaped like a fun-sized candy bar!"

"Say that again, you overgrown fucking giraffe!" AD tries to lunge but stumbles, still panting. "I fucking dare you!"

RM steps in before they can start round two of the world's most embarrassing fight.

"That's enough, you two. We all enjoyed the show, but it's time to work."

They both shut up immediately—even AD knows better than to test RM's patience. But the glares they shoot each other could probably melt steel.

"Can't believe I'm stuck with your ass for cleanup duty," AD grumbles, brushing leaves out of his blonde hair.

"Trust me, I'd rather perform surgery blindfolded. But maybe next time you'll think twice before dragging me down with you."

"As if I need help being slow from someone who runs like a drunk giraffe."

Their bickering fades as they head back to camp, still shoving each other like kindergarteners fighting over the last juice box.

Well. At least you'll enjoy a show during dinner time tonight.

One would think dinner time would be dulled down now, after the Council meeting earlier.

But nope—gang members are scattered around the fires like this is some post apocalypse scavenging situation.

You can't help watching V with Yunjin. He's leaning in close and probably whispering some bullshit about knives being romantic or whatever gets him going.

And Yunjin—sweet, perceptive Yunjin who usually sees right through everyone's bullshit—is eating it up. She's doing that thing where she plays with her hair, pink strands twisting around her finger while she giggles at whatever murder joke V's telling.

You snort into your food, because you just don't get what's it with these two.

The weirdest part? Even knowing what V's capable of (the rumors about his "artistic approach" to killing make your skin crawl), you kind of get why people fall for his act.

He's got that whole dangerous charm thing down to an art.

"Hey stranger!" Eunchae drops onto the bench beside you, nearly knocking over your drink. Sakura slides in more gracefully across from you, because someone in your division has to have coordination.

"What was the super secret meeting about? You went in looking normal and came out all..." Eunchae waves her chopsticks vaguely. "You know. Intense."

"Classified." You shrug, trying not to think about what that meeting means for you and a certain hurricane-aura'd Chief. "Above your pay grade."

"Ugh, you're no fun." She slumps dramatically against your shoulder. "I wish I could join the Council just to know all the juicy stuff."

"We're here if you need to talk," Sakura adds quietly, and fuck—sometimes you forget how perceptive your division can be.

"Thanks." You bump Eunchae's shoulder, warmth blooming in your chest. These idiots might be professional honey traps, but they're your idiots. "I mean it."

You go back to your food, half-listening to Eunchae's story about some mark who thought cryptocurrency was foreplay. But your eyes keep drifting to V and Yunjin.

What's your friendly neighborhood psychopath plotting this time?

However, the first drops of rain quickly hit your food like tiny bullets. Within seconds, the drizzle turns into a full-blown downpour because of course it does.

Nothing like a surprise shower to end your deeply suspicious dinner observations.

"Oh, come on." Eunchae snatches up her plate, already running for cover, chestnut hair plastered to her face by the time she makes it three steps.

Your eyes snap to where V still has Yunjin trapped in conversation. They're both getting soaked but Yunjin's still hanging on his every word, pink hair turning darker in the rain.

"Yunjin!" You pitch your voice to carry over the rain. "Unless you want to catch pneumonia, might want to wrap it up!"

She blinks like she's coming out of a trance, finally noticing she's halfway to drowned. The spell breaks—thank fuck—and she hurries over to you, gathering her stuff with slightly shaky hands.

"Thanks for the save." Her voice is quiet, almost sheepish. "Got a bit... distracted."

"Yeah, no shit." You grab her arm, steering her toward your tent. "Let's get inside before we both melt."

You dodge through the chaos of gang members running for shelter, curses mixing with laughter. Someone—probably AD—slips in a mud puddle and lets out a string of creative profanity that would make a sailor blush.

The relative safety of your tent feels like crossing a finish line. The rain hammers against the canvas, but at least you're dry.

Well. Drier.

The rain doesn't let up for hours, turning the campsite into something out of a moody indie film. But inside your tent? It's like a sleepover bubble—wrapped up in cozy blankets and the glow from Yunjin's phone where some poor actor is having his third dramatic breakdown of the episode.

Yunjin's using your stomach as a pillow, pink hair splayed across your hoodie while she decimates the bag of chips between you. Every few minutes her hand dives in without looking, too focused on whatever absurd plot twist is happening now.

"This one's actually decent," she murmurs, smiling at the screen where someone's probably discovering their evil twin or something.

"If you say so." You can't help grinning as the male lead clutches his chest like he's having a heart attack over a text message. "These writers must be on something wild. Like, who comes up with this shit?"

Her giggle vibrates against your stomach.

"That's why they're fun! You never know what's coming next." She tilts her head back to look at you. "Kind of like living here, right? Never a dull moment in Kkangpae."

"God, don't jinx it." But you're laughing too because she's not wrong. Your life has definitely taken some drama-worthy turns lately. "Though I hope we're at least more realistic than that."

You both fall into easy conversation, trading comments about the show and today's chaos. When the male lead starts laying it on thick with the female lead, you see your chance. Time to figure out what the hell V was playing at earlier with all that knife teaching.

"So." You poke Yunjin's side with your toe, aiming for casual. "What's with you and V today? The whole knife lesson thing seemed... weird."

Yunjin doesn't look away from her drama. Of course she doesn't.

"I mean, have you seen him?" She sighs dreamily. "He's like a walking thirst trap. Those hands..."

"Oh my god." You stare down at her pink head in disbelief. "You'd actually fuck him? Like, actually actually?"

She finally tears her eyes from the screen, twisting to grin up at you with zero shame. "Why not? Life's too short not to ride at least one psychopath, right?"

The silence stretches.

"What?" She raises an eyebrow at your horror. "You wouldn't?"

"Jesus fuck no." You mime gagging. "You know he probably has some weird murder kink. Like, he'd probably want to chase you through a haunted house with a knife while dramatic music plays."

"Haunt play?" Her eyes go wide  before she breaks into giggles. "That's... weirdly specific. But don't knock it till you try it, right?"

"Yun." You roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck. "He'd probably set up a whole haunted house just to get his rocks off."

"Okay but..." Yunjin props herself up on her elbows. "Haunted house but make it sexy? That's kind of genius."

"You're actually insane." You shove her shoulder, both of you dissolving into laughter. "I swear to god, if I ever hear spooky music from his tent—"

"You'll what, call the ghost police?"

Her laughter shakes your whole body, bright and infectious, and the small space of the tent makes this ridiculous conversation feel somehow safer, more intimate.

Just two girls discussing their terrible taste in men while hiding from a storm.

Even if one of those men happens to be Seoul's most notorious psychopath.

Yunjin flops back down, using your stomach as a pillow again. The drama's still playing on her phone, but you're too busy thinking about V's games to focus on whatever chaebol drama is unfolding now.

"For now," she sighs dreamily, "I'll stick to living through these ridiculous romances. Much safer than the real thing, right?"

You hum in agreement, watching raindrops race down the tent's surface.

"Sounds smart. But if you do decide to test out V's haunted house kink..." You poke her side. "I want every single detail. For science."

"Deal." Her giggle vibrates against your stomach. "But only if you keep saving me from his 'passionate teaching moments'. My knife skills are fine, thanks."

"Always."

The word comes out softer than intended, but you mean it. In Kkangpae, real friendship is rare as fuck. People either want to kill you, fuck you, or use you—sometimes all three.

But Yunjin? She's different.

And all the while; the rain keeps drumming steadily against the canvas, turning the world outside into a blur of gray and green.

In here, none of that exists.

Not V's thorny games, not Jeon's hurricane, not the Council's secret meetings.

Just you and your best friend, safe and warm while the storm rages on.

For now, anyway. Tomorrow's another story.

 

Chapter 16: arrengements

Summary:

"You were supposed to go back to individual training sessions with Takama. But torday, it is Jeon standing there instead. And you really feel like easing off some tension."

Notes:

A/N: AHHHHH MY PRECIOUS BABY CHIMCHIM (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞

What are you getting yourself INTO, you financial genius disaster? Every time I write Jimin scenes I'm just sitting here like "no baby no don't do it" while simultaneously typing out exactly what he's doing. I'm his god yet I have no control. The duality of being an author.

ANYWAY, what are we thinking about Y/N and Jeon's little "arrangement"? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

The way this man goes from cheeky little shit to MAN OF STEEL in 0.2 seconds is honestly doing things to me. Like the DUALITY?? One minute he's all sarcasm and eyerolls and the next he's all commanding presence and intense stares. Please show me all your facets while I—

ANYWAY! 🥰

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, you magnificent disaster magnets! I see you all in the comments thirsting over fictional gang members and I just want you to know I'm judging you... from my very similar position of also thirsting over fictional gang members. It's a hard life, but someone's gotta live it.

Stay hydrated! You'll need it after this chapter!

Training room it is today. Takama is probably waiting for you.

You step inside immediately and—fuck. The air's different. Not the usual sweaty, stale gym smell, but something...else. It's like walking into a storm front, all electric and tingly on your skin.

Weird.

You stop, blinking. Your brain's trying to process what your body already knows: something's off.

Shaking it off, you scan the room for Takama. He's usually here by now, ready to nag you about your form or whatever. But nope. Instead, your eyes land on—

Oh.

Jeon.

Shit.

Your whole body goes rigid. This is not what you signed up for today. Takama's stern but predictable. Jeon? He's a walking thunderbolt.

He hasn't clocked you yet. He's too busy with his hand-wrapping ritual, black tape winding around those knuckles like he's prepping for war. I̶t̶,̶s̶ ̶w̶e̶i̶r̶d̶l̶y̶ ̶m̶e̶s̶m̶e̶r̶i̶z̶i̶n̶g̶.̶You've tried it yourself, but you always end up looking like you got in a fight with a roll of duct tape and lost.

The door clicks shut behind you. Loud. Way too fucking loud.

Jeon's head snaps up, eyes locking onto yours. Fuck. It's like being caught in a headlight beam, but instead of deer-in-headlights frozen, you're fight-or-flight wired. His gaze is pure Kkangpae—hard, sharp, seeing right through your bullshit.

"Thought you could sneak up on me?"

You try for casual, miss by a mile. "Takama's usually not this quiet."

Jeon's mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like you just told a joke only he got.

Great start. This is gonna be fun.

"Takama had to handle some business. Guess you're stuck with me. It'll be good in preparation to our upcoming mission."

IIt's not a question, it's a fucking statement. And you know better than to argue with that tone.

Right. The mission.

Shit.

It all comes flooding back now. That goddamn mission assigned to you and Jeon back on the camping trip. The one where you both have to infiltrate MDF—Kkangpae's number one rival. Talk about high stakes.

You know how crucial this is. You know you need to concentrate now—more than ever.

But fuck.

Your eyes betray you, sweeping over Jeon's training attire.

It's insulting, is what it is.

That simple tank top might as well be painted on, doing jack shit to hide the sculpted landscape of his muscles. And those grey sweatpants? They're hanging so low on his hips it should be illegal.

(If you tried hard enough—which you're not, obviously—you're pretty sure you could see that happy trail you remember from that night in the tent.)

The fabric clings to him like it's got a personal vendetta against your sanity, obeying gravity with a lazy kind of insolence. And that silver neck chain? It's playing peekaboo from under his top, daring your eyes to follow its path. A metallic tease against skin you shouldn't be thinking about.

You shake your head, trying to clear the fog of distraction.

Focus. Mission. Training.

Not Jeon's body.

You make your way to the corner where bandages and tape are strewn across a metal shelf. The mess speaks volumes—countless sessions of wrapping, unwrapping, preparing for fights both won and lost.

Grabbing a roll of black tape, you try to mimic what you've seen Jeon do a hundred times before. But your fingers feel clumsy, uncooperative. The tape sticks to itself, to your skin, everywhere but where it's supposed to go. You end up with more gaps than protection, the wrap loose in all the wrong places.

And Jeon? He's watching you. You can feel his eyes on you, sharp and intense. His face is unreadable, a perfect mask. But you'd bet your last dollar he's judging every fumbled attempt, every misplaced piece of tape.

Then he scoffs, the sound cutting through the air like a whip crack. Before you can react, he's moving towards you—footsteps echoing in the quiet room, each one making your heart beat a little faster.

And then he's there, right in your space.

The heat rolling off his body makes you acutely aware of how cool the air is around you.

He leans in close—too close—to inspect your sad attempt at hand-wrapping.

"Let me," he growls.

You don't even try to argue. What's the point? Jeon's already unraveling your sad attempt at hand-wrapping like it's the world's shittiest birthday present.

His fingers brush against your skin and for a second it's like someone just plugged you into a live wire.

He starts rewrapping your hands, and you're caught in this weird... limbo.

Because his touch is firm, almost stern, but there's this... gentleness to it that makes no sense coming from him.

It's a mindfuck, really.

This is Jeon. Cold, distant, get-the-fuck-away-from-me Jeon.

But here he is, handling your hands like they're made of glass.

Your heart's going a mile a minute, and you're praying to whatever gang deity is out there that he can't hear it. His hands are everywhere, wrapping the tape around your wrists with a precision that's almost artistic. It's like he's crafting this black armor just for you, and every pass of the tape feels more intimate than the last.

And why the fuck does he have to smell this good? It's unfair, really.

Every now and then, his eyes flick up to meet yours, and it's... like looking into the sun peeking between the clouds.

Like something is hovering—something molten and wild that reminds you of tents and nighttime.

"Tight enough?"

You manage a nod, amazed that your brain can still form coherent thoughts.

"Perfect," you say, definitely not thinking of the innuendo.

The corner of his mouth twitches, and for a heart-stopping second, you think he's read your mind. You don't like that knowing look in his eyes.

"There," he says, giving the tape one last tug. It pulls you closer, just a fraction, but it might as well be a mile. "You're ready."

Ready for what? you want to ask. Ready for training? Ready for the mission? Ready for whatever the hell this tension between you is building towards?

But you don't say any of that. You can't. Because this is Jeon, and you're you, and there are a million reasons why this—whatever this is—can't happen.

Even if it already happened once. Even if he's there, looking like a five course meal.

So you just stand there, hands wrapped perfectly, heart racing, caught in the gravity of Jeon's presence and wondering how the fuck you're supposed to focus on training now.

"Let's get started."

It hits you like a sledgehammer to the chest—everywhere at once—this massive storm system rolling in, all dark clouds and electricity. The kind that makes your skin prickle and your hair stand on end. The training room suddenly feels too small to contain it.

Contain him.

You move to the center of the mats, too aware of every step and where your feet are landing. He's still watching you—you can feel those eyes tracking your movements like a sniper's scope.

You try to copy his stance, but it's like your body's forgotten how joints work.

Everything feels awkward.

"How are you with your blocks?"

"I can handle it," you say, going for confident but landing somewhere around defensive.

He laughs. It's not a nice sound. More like broken glass wrapped in velvet.

"We'll see about that."

Because fuck. Training with Takama was... different. Predictable. Safe, even. You knew what to expect—his patient corrections, his methodical approach.

But this?

This is like jumping into the deep end of a pool filled with sharks.

And Jeon?

He's the great white circling you.

Everything feels suffocating, like there's not enough oxygen in the room for both of you. It's hard to breathe, his presence pressing in from all sides like you're caught in a fucking typhoon. You can practically taste the ozone.

Jeon circles you lazily and honestly? It's terrifying how someone so big can move so quietly. His control is infuriating—while you're here trying not to vibrate out of your skin, he looks like he could be ordering coffee.

"You're tense."

No shit, Sherlock.

The observation hits a nerve. Maybe because it's true, maybe because you hate how easily he can read you. You try to relax your shoulders, aiming for that casual 'oh-this-is-totally-fine' vibe.

Then his hand hovers over your lower back.

You flinch. You can't help it. He's not even touching you, but you can feel the heat radiating from his palm, just a breath away from contact. He's telling you to fix your posture without a single word, and your body responds before your brain can tell it not to.

Your abdomen tightens in defiance, like some part of you is still telling him to fuck off. But you straighten up anyway, because what else can you do? Not like Mr. Perfectionist here will take anything other than perfection.

Jeon steps back, and you try to remember how breathing works. Focus. This is training, not whatever the fuck that hand-wrapping thing was. You need to get your head in the game before he notices how rattled you are.

You watch him demonstrate a block.

It's unfair, really, how he makes it look so effortless—like he's been doing this since birth. (Maybe he has—he definitely looks like he fights nurses, if his attitude with J-Hope is any indication).

His forearm cuts through the air in this fluid motion that's somehow both defensive and threatening at the same time.

"Now you," he says, and oh there it is. That hint of smugness in his voice that makes you want to either punch him or—

Absolutely not. You are not going there.

He knows though. You can tell by the way his mouth quirks up slightly at the corner. He knows exactly what he's doing, the bastard. Knows he's got you at a disadvantage with his years of experience. But there's something else there too, in the way he's watching you. Like he's getting some sort of kick out of whatever this is.

You mirror his movement, slicing your arm through the air; and it feels good—solid. Like maybe you're not completely hopeless at this.

He gives you this tiny nod, and for a split second, there's something that looks almost like approval in his eyes.

But it's gone before you can really process it, replaced by that laser-focused look he apparently gets when he's in full instructor mode (like right now).

"Again," he orders, and you comply.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, the movement feels more natural, less like you're just flailing your arm around and more like you might actually be able to stop someone from punching you in the face.

And all the while, he watches like a fucking hawk. Cataloging every single one of your mistakes, every moment of hesitation.

It's intense, being under that kind of scrutiny. Makes your skin prickle.

Then he moves—just this slight shift of weight—and suddenly he's closer.

His foot nudges yours, and you get the message without him having to say a word.

Your stance is off.

You adjust quickly, shifting your feet until you feel more grounded.

"Like this," he says, and it's low and gravely.

His voice shouldn't affect you. It's just two words.

It does.

You force yourself to focus on the technical stuff. The way his feet are positioned, how his knees are slightly bent like he's ready to move at any second. And then you copy his stance, feeling the stretch in your calves as you adjust.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. Count it out in your head.

One, two, three, four.

Anything to keep your mind off the way he's circling you again.

Because that's what he's doing now—moving around you like some fucking lion sizing up a calf.

His presence is like gravity, pulling at something deep in your chest.

It's distracting as hell.

But you're determined not to let it show.

You've got something to prove here, after all. Even if you're not quite sure what that is anymore.

"Not like that", he says and...

His hand's moving again, and your brain halts all its processes when his fingertips brush your shoulder.

It's supposed to be professional. Just another training correction.

But your body didn't get that memo, because every nerve ending lights up like it's a fucking carnival.

His hand starts this slow slide down your arm, and you're pretty sure this isn't standard training procedure. Your arm quickly gets covered in goosebumps, betraying exactly how not professional this feels.

When his fingers wrap around your elbow, you almost forget how to breathe. His grip is firm—s̶e̶x̶y̶ steady—and you can feel the calluses on his fingertips from years of handling weapons.

"Your alignment," he says, and shit... His voice has dropped into that same low register he pulled back in the tent. "It's crucial. When you block, you need to be solid, unyielding. Like this."

You feel the strength in his grip all the way up your arm.
The way he's holding your elbow, it feels like he's trying to rewire your muscle memory through touch alone. It's invasive in the best-worst way possible, like he's leaving his fingerprints on your bones.

You should be focusing on the block he's teaching you. That's what a good student would do.

But instead, all you can think about is how his palm is practically burning against your skin, how strong his fingers feel, and how every "correction" feels more like a caress.

When he finally lets go and steps back, it's like someone just yanked away your favorite blanket. The air feels too cold where his hand was, and you have to fight the urge to chase that warmth.

"Now, let's see you put it into action," he says.

Get it together, you tell yourself.

This is training. Just training. Nothing else.

(You don't even believe your own lies anymore.)

You try to focus on breathing. In, out. Simple stuff. But it's not working, because every time Jeon adjusts your stance, every careful correction he makes, it's like striking matches against your skin.

At this point, your brain can't string two thoughts together.

Not with Jeon there, touch somehow both grounding and displacing.

Then he's back in your space.

And his hands are suddenly on your hips.

The touch is professional—or it's trying to be—but his fingers spread wide, pressing into you through your training gear like he's trying to leave prints. Like he's trying to remind you of that other time those hands have been there.

He stares at where his hands rest for way too long to be just about fixing your stance.

The air gets thick. Sticky.

You can feel every slight adjustment of his fingers, how his palms mold against your hips like they're meant to be there.

When he looks up, it knocks the breath right out of you. His eyes are dark, searching your face for... something. You're both breathing the same air now, and fuck, you remember this kind of proximity. Remember what it leads to.

Then his tongue flicks out, wetting his lip ring, and your brain just—stops. It's absent-minded, probably, but Christ. The metal catches the light, and suddenly you're back in that tent, remembering exactly what that piercing feels like against your—

Focus, bitch.

His hands haven't moved from your hips. Haven't even twitched. Like he's forgotten they're there, or maybe like he can't bring himself to move them.

He's not apologizing for it either, though.

Not that you want him to.

"What about now?" Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathless.

"Yeah," he says, and oh. His voice has gone all rough around the edges. "This is good. Real good."

The way he says it—like he's not just talking about your stance—makes heat pool low in your stomach. You know that tone. You've heard it before, whispered against your skin in the dark.

Professional, you remind yourself. This is supposed to be professional.

(It's really, really not.)

His thumbs start moving against your hips—tiny, barely-there circles that are definitely not about fixing your stance anymore. The touch is light through the fabric, but it might as well be branded into your skin.

Then he clears his throat, the sound sharp and sudden. Just like that, he's stepping back, putting distance between you.

Your skin feels weirdly empty where his hands were.

You watch him slip back into Chief mode. It's fascinating, really, how he does it. Like watching someone put on armor piece by piece. His face goes blank, eyes cooling until they're giving nothing away. Pure business. This is the Jeon that everyone else sees—the Chief of Tactical Assassinations, not the guy who just had his hands on your hips like he owned them.

Training kicks back in.

The tension does not dissipate.

He spars, but this time it's like... Like he's built this invisible wall between being your instructor and being... whatever else he is to you. And he's trying real hard not to cross it.

You match his energy, throwing yourself into it. You're here to be instructed, after all.

Then he pulls this move—his feet moving so fast they blur. You think he's going left, but nope. It's a trap, and you fall for it like an idiot. You stumble, losing your balance, and—

Oh.

Oh.

His arm catches you around the waist, hard and sure.

The contact hits different this time—no pretense of training, just pure instinct.

This isn't your instructor catching a student.

This is just Jeon catching you.

His grip is steel, anchoring you against him. You can feel everything—the hard planes of his chest, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing, the way his bicep flexes against your back. His thigh is pressed against yours, and you try very hard not to think about that.

You can feel his heart hammering where you're pressed together, matching yours beat for frantic beat. His hand spans your waist like he owns it.

You turn your head, just a little, just enough to see—
Jesus.

His eyes are dark, wild. Like he's fighting a war with himself and losing badly. Pupils are blown wide, fixed on you.

You've seen that look before, in a tent, in the dark.

When he swallows, you can't help but track the movement. His throat works, pulse visible under the skin.

It's weirdly vulnerable, seeing that flutter of pulse on someone who's usually all hard edges and control.

The silence in the room feels heavy. All you can hear is breathing—yours, his, both of you trying to pretend this is still just training.

His grip on your waist tightens, just a fraction, and your body betrays you. You lean back into him, seeking that solid warmth. Because apparently, your survival instincts have left the chat.

His other hand hovers near your stomach, not quite touching. It's weirdly protective, like he wants to shield you from something.

From what?

From himself, maybe.

The hand trembles slightly. Jeon is trembling.

That hits different, knowing someone so controlled is fighting for composure. It has you almost whining, the distance between his palm and your body.

Focus. Breathe.

But how are you supposed to focus when he's right there?

Because hell, this is Jeon—Chief of Tactical Assassinations, walking danger sign, and somehow the person you want most.

Your eyes drift to his lips because you're a m̶a̶s̶o̶c̶h̶i̶s̶t̶ glutton for punishment. They're right there, and that lip ring is practically taunting you. You remember exactly how that metal feels, how it tastes. Your throat works as you swallow, mouth parting on its own, like your body's sending out an open invitation.

At that, his eyes immediately drop to your lips. Just a flicker, almost nonexistent, but you saw it. The look in his eyes—fuck.

You've seen hungry before, but this?

This is starving.

You tilt your head up, slow, careful, like you're approaching a wild animal. Your heart's trying to break out of your chest, and breathing? That's for people who aren't about to kiss their superior officer.

You lean in, slow. So fucking slow. Like if you move too fast, he'll spook and bolt.

His breath catches. The sound is soft, intimate, does stupid things to your core. You brush your lips against his, just barely, just enough to test, tease.

For a moment, he's completely still. Like he's processing, like he can't believe this is happening.

Then—holy fuckity hell.

He kisses you like he's dying for it, like he's been holding back forever and can't anymore. His lips are insistent, demanding, coaxing yours apart. There's something desperate in the way he angles his head, deepening the kiss, claiming your mouth like he owns it.

Your hands move without permission—one in his hair, one gripping his shoulder. The contrasts under your fingers ground you: soft strands, hard muscle. He tastes like mint and something darker, something that makes you want to crawl inside him and stay there.

It isn't some sweet, gentle thing.

It's a continuation of your sparring match, just with different rules.

He softens for a moment, less demanding, more inviting, and you lean into it, chasing his taste.

Finally, finally, his hovering hand makes contact. It spreads across your stomach, possessive, anchoring you against him like he thinks you might try to escape.

As if you could.

As if you'd want to.

Your fingers find his jaw, smooth skin under your touch.

When he pulls back, it's like it physically pains him. He gasps, the sound cutting through the heavy air. His eyes are wild, unfocused, like he's just come up for air after nearly drowning. There's a storm brewing in those dark depths, and you're caught right in the middle of it.

"I thought that was a spur of the moment kinda thing?"

His voice drops low, and you know exactly what he's talking about. That night in his tent during the camping trip, when things got real heated real quick.

You raise an eyebrow, channeling every ounce of b̶a̶d̶ confident bitch energy you can muster.

"I don't see why it has to be. I find you hot, you find me hot."

"Making assumptions now, are we?"

The playful edge in his voice does things to you. He's toying with you, and the worst part? You're kind of into it.

"Actions speak louder than words, Jeon." You lean into your sass because fuck it, why not? "And considering I had you cumming all over me a couple of days ago, I'd say you don't find me aesthetically unpleasant."

His lip curls into that fucking smirk—you know the one. It's rare and deadly and makes your stomach do this weird flippy thing.

"Oh?"

It's just one syllable, but Jesus Christ. The way he says it—all low and gravelly—makes your lungs seize.

"Going there, huh?" He tilts his head, and you can practically see the cockiness radiating off him. "Then I guess we can say the same about you."

You can't help the scoff that escapes.

It's either laugh or combust, honestly.

"I already said I find you hot. Craving compliments that much?"

"Just wanna hear it again." His smile widens, and fuck, it's not fair how good he looks when he's being an asshole. "Strokes my ego."

You swallow hard, trying to get your shit together. Because this? This is a whole new side of Jeon you're seeing. One minute he's Mr. Ice King, all cold and untouchable, and the next he's... this.

This s̶e̶x̶y̶ infuriating bastard who knows exactly what he's doing to you.

And the worst part? He's really good at it.

(Your underwear situation is becoming a serious problem, but you'll die before admitting that to him.)

"I think you're hot," you whisper, because fuck it—might as well lay all your cards on the table.

"I know."

The sheer audacity—

He says it with this cocky certainty that should be annoying but somehow isn't. Like he's stating that water is wet or the sky is blue.

You press on, because apparently your brain-to-mouth filter decided to take the day off. "So it doesn't have to be a one-time thing."

"Really."

It's not even a question. He's amused, the bastard. His chuckle hits different—low and rich and doing things to your insides that you'd rather not analyze right now.

"Just..." You try for casual, miss by a mile. "Think of it as a way of improving synergy between gang members."

The moment it leaves your mouth, you want to cringe.

Synergy? Really? But you see the way his lips twitch, and yeah, okay, maybe it wasn't your worst line.

"Hmm? I'll make sure to send Moon the briefing for approval."

"Make sure to give me credit then."

"Will do."

"So indulgent," you tease, because apparently you have a death wish.

He raises an eyebrow, and oh. Something shifts in his expression—something dark and promising that makes your stomach flip. He does this thing with his tongue, running it along the inside of his cheek like he's considering all the ways he could r̶u̶i̶n̶ wreck you.

"You know how indulgent I can be, sunshine."

Fuck.

That nickname. The way he says it—soft but loaded with intent.

It's not fair how he can take two simple words and turn them into something that feels like a caress and a threat wrapped in one.

Your heart's going absolutely feral in your chest. You're pretty sure he can feel it, which is just... great. Really great.

You swallow hard, trying to remember how words work.

"Don't you think..." You pause, trying to find the right words without sounding too desperate. "...that as gang members, we need to... release some tension from time to time? For the sake of the gang."

His mouth twitches. You want to punch him.

"For the sake of the gang," he echoes.

"Mhm." You feel a little rush of pride at having his complete attention. It's not easy to get Jeon to focus on anything that isn't mission-related. "And, you know... Fucking just seems like the healthier option."

The silence that follows should be awkward. It should be, but it's not. It's charged.

You wait for him to shut you down, maybe throw some sarcastic comment your way.

Instead, his fingers dig deeper into your skin, and fuck, that shouldn't feel as good as it does.

"Mhm. You're persuasive." His voice drops into this low purr that makes your insides twist. "Are those your seduction skills in show?"

"Maybe." You tilt your head, feeling bold. "Is it working?"

"I don't know..." There's something dark and promising in his eyes. "Considering I have you all over me right now, who's seducing who?"

Your eyes drop for just a second because—oh. That's... definitely something pressing against your thigh. Something very familiar from that night in the tent.

"I guess it depends on whether you want to include your boner in that analysis," you say, meeting his gaze.

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and against your palm.

"Fair. But only if we include those 'fuck me' eyes you're giving me."

The crude language coming from him is... something else. Instead of making you blush and back down, it makes you want to push harder.

"What can I say, Jeon? Lust is a human emotion."

"It is." His tongue swipes over his lip ring, and Christ. "And you have a lot of it."

"Funny you say that when you're also looking at me like you're undressing me with your eyes."

"I never said I didn't."

The way he says it, all casual with that hint of a smirk—it's doing things to you. Things you probably shouldn't be feeling in the training room, but here you are anyway.

Professional training session your ass.

Your hand moves before your brain can catch up, fingers skimming over his chest. You look up through your lashes, meeting his gaze.

"Good then. I guess it's settled."

"What is?"

"You. Me. Fucking."

Real smooth. Way to be subtle about it.

"And how do you wanna go about it, exactly?"

The way he says it—like he's trying not to laugh—makes your face heat up.

You pause. Wait. Shit.

You hadn't actually thought this far ahead. The logistics of it seemed... well, obvious until now. People just fuck, right? That's how it works? But now that he's asking, you're drawing a complete blank.

"How... What?"

Real articulate. Nailed it. You're doing amazing sweetie.

He actually laughs at that, the sound rumbling through his chest and straight into yours because you're still pressed together like some kind of human sandwich.

Then he's moving, helping you get your feet back under you so you're face-to-face.

His hands stay on you though, like he can't quite bring himself to let go.

"I mean, I'm game for it being a way to blow off steam." His thumb starts that little circle thing on your hip again, and fuck, that's distracting. "And as you said, we're not breaking any rules if there's no strings attached..."

You blink. Slowly. Because is this actually happening? Is Jeon—Mr. Ice King himself—actually considering your half-baked proposition?

"However, we should probably set some ground rules. Any limitations? Is there anything off the table?"

"Well, we can see when... time comes."

"And when do times come, sunshine?"

That fucking nickname again. The playful edge in his voice isn't helping your brain function any better.

"We can just tell each other, no?" You say it without thinking, which seems to be your brand today.

"What, do you really want to say you want to fuck in front of everyone—"

"God, Jeon, no—" You cut him off because Jesus Christ. The thought alone makes you want to crawl into a hole and die. "But we can say something like... we need to ease off some tension."

"So 'ease off some tension'? Is that our code?"

Amusement twinkles in his eyes, and you kind of want to punch him.

Maybe.

Not really.

"Yeah. Yes." Eloquent.

"Okay then."

"Okay."

And just like that, you've somehow negotiated the most professional friends-with-benefits arrangement in the history of gang life. With your Chief. In the training room.

What could possibly go wrong?

"What about halting?" His eyes lock with yours. "Need a safe word?"

You glance around the training room, brain scrambling for ideas. Your gaze drops to your hands, still fisted in his tank top. Oh.

"Black tape," you say. It feels right, given the context. Then, because your mouth apparently has a mind of its own: "And maybe... white tape? Like, for when things are good to go?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Black tape stops everything, white tape means keep going?"

"Yeah." You nod, feeling weirdly professional about this whole thing. Like you're negotiating a business deal instead of arranging hook-ups with your Chief. "Black for stop, white for go."

"Alright." His voice drops lower, settling somewhere in your chest. "Once either of us says 'black tape', everything stops. Immediately."

"Okay."

"Okay."

The word's barely settled in the air between you when something possesses you to just—

"I wanna ease off some tension."

Real smooth. Way to be patient, dumbass. (Have you seen him though? Like...)

But the way Jeon's eyes darken? Maybe being smooth is overrated.

His eyes snap to yours—look pure animal—irises swallowed whole.

Jeon's fingers stop their little dance on your hip, like he's taking a moment to process what you just said.

Everything goes quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of every little sound—birds chirping outside, people talking somewhere down the hall, completely clueless about what's happening in here.

"Yeah?"

It comes out as this low rumble that you can practically feel in your bones.

Then he's moving closer, crowding into your space until there's barely room to breathe.

Not that you're doing much breathing anyway, because the way he's looking at you right has knocked the air out of your lungs long ago.

You manage a nod because words? What are words? Your brain's pretty much short-circuited at this point.

His smirk turns wicked—the kind that promises trouble—and then his fingers are sliding under your clothes, and oh.

Oh, okay.

You can feel him pressed against your inner thigh, hot and hard and very, very interested in where this is going. He notices you notice, (of course he does) and he sways his hips slightly like he's testing the waters.

A sound escapes you—something between a whimper and a gasp—as you arch back, exposing your throat. Like your body's offering itself up to him before your brain can catch up.

(And what the fuck are you, a cat in heat?)

You're both still technically fully clothed in a training room where anyone could walk in, but honestly, it feels more obscene than being naked.

Maybe it's the forbidden aspect, or maybe it's just him, but it's like everything is on fire.

(Somewhere in the back of your mind, a little voice is reminding you that this is probably not what RM had in mind when he approved combat training. You tell that voice to shut the fuck up.)

He doesn't just dive in—no, because Jeon's the type to take his sweet fucking time. His mouth traces your jaw with these slow, deliberate kisses that make you want to tug at his hair. Each one edges closer to your neck, and hell, the anticipation is killing you.

When his teeth find that spot where your neck meets your shoulder, you nearly lose it. He bites down—not hard enough to mark, but the sensation shoots straight through you, and this embarrassing sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.

"No... marks," you manage to get out, even though your brain's pretty much offline at this point.

He laughs against your skin, and the vibration does things to you. You can feel his smile—that smug, knowing one that makes you want to strangle him with his own hair or something.

"Okay."

You both know why there can't be marks—can't have evidence of whatever this is showing up in training tomorrow.

His breath fans hot over the spot he just bit, and you're pretty sure you're going to die if he doesn't do something soon.

Then his hands start moving, and okay, maybe dying wouldn't be so bad. He maps your body like he's trying to memorize every curve, every dip. His thumbs sweep over your clothes, and even through the fabric, his touch burns.

When he gets to your ass though? Different story.

He grabs two handfuls like he's been waiting to do this all day, and the sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up pornographic. You should probably be embarrassed, but you're way past caring at this point.

He squeezes like ike he's finally getting his hands on something he's been thinking about for way too long.

"God..." He says—voice wrecked, all rough and deep. "You've got one hell of an ass."

You laugh against his mouth.

"All this training must show results."

"Fuck if it shows."

That compliment—delivered in his sex-roughened voice—does weird things to your stomach. You press back into his hands because you're only human, and the way he responds tells you all you need to know—fingers dig in harder, and yeah, okay, this is definitely happening.

You claw at him in retaliation like some kind of feral animal, nails dragging down his back through his tank.

You can't think straight—can't think at all, really.

Your brain's on fire, fuzzy with want. If this is what losing your mind feels like, you're kind of okay with it. Actually, more than okay. You're drowning in him, in the heat of his hands, in the way he's marking you up without leaving marks, and—

Clink.

The sound of the door handle cuts through your lust-haze like a bucket of ice water. Pure instinct takes over, and you shove Jeon away from you with enough force to send him sprawling onto the training room floor. The sound of his body hitting concrete is probably the least sexy thing you've ever heard.

When you look at him, his eyes are wide with shock that quickly turns into this mix of annoyance and—wait, is he amused? There's this little twitch at the corner of his mouth that says he kind of wants to laugh, even though you just threw him on his ass. But there's also a storm brewing in his eyes because Jeon? He doesn't do pretend losses.

Especially not to you, in what's supposed to be a basic training session.

Then Takama walks in, all decked out in Kkangpae black, and raises an eyebrow at the scene in front of him.

You must look like a mess—hair probably everywhere, breathing like you just ran a marathon, standing over Jeon who's sprawled on the floor.

"Thought you two would be done by now," he says, confusion lacing his tone.

"Training got a bit... intense," you manage to say, trying to sound casual while your heart's still doing its best to break your ribs.

Your voice, however, comes out steadier than you expected, considering you were about two seconds away from letting Jeon rail you against the training room wall.

The irony of using "intense" to describe what was definitely not training isn't lost on you. But hey, at least you're not lying.

Technically.

Takama lets out this low chuckle, and you can feel his eyes darting between you and Jeon, who's still sprawled on the training room floor like some Renaissance painting gone wrong.

"Gotta say, I'm surprised to see Jeon flat on his back. Never thought I'd see the day."

There's this note of respect in his voice. Because yeah, you just put the Chief of Tactical Assassinations on his ass. Even if it was totally not what it looked like.

Jeon's still looking at you as he gets up, fluidly and graceful despite having just been thrown to the ground.

He brushes off his clothes, but his eyes?

They haven't left yours for a second.

It's like he's trying to tell you something without words, and you're getting the message loud and clear.

"She's a quick learner."

You both know exactly what kind of "learning" he's talking about, and it has nothing to do with combat training.

Takama, bless his oblivious soul, just strolls to the center of the mats like he's not walking into the world's most sexually charged training session.

The sound of him cracking his knuckles cuts through the air then.

"So, ready for another round?"

He has no idea about the conversation happening without words. No clue about the way Jeon's still looking at you like he's thinking about all the different ways he could pin you down—and none of them involve training.

"Always," Jeon says.

His voice is pure sin, wrapped up in that one word like a promise. Like a threat. Like everything you want but shouldn't.

"Bring it on," you manage to say, and you're pretty proud that your voice comes out steady.

Because this? This is definitely not just about training anymore.

Not even close.

You drag yourself into the cafeteria with Yunjin, who's been talking your ear off since you left training. She's going on about something—probably important, if you'd actually been listening—but your brain's too busy playing "Where's Waldo" with the dinner crowd.

Not that you're looking for anyone s̶p̶e̶c̶i̶f̶i̶c̶ important.

(That's a lie. You totally are.)

Your eyes keep scanning the room like some kind of desperate radar system, and you want to smack yourself.

Since when did you turn into one of those people who can't walk into a room without checking if he's there?

Jeon's not the center of the universe.

He's not even the center of this cafeteria.

But try telling that to your traitor eyes that won't stop searching.

You follow Yunjin to the buffet line, nodding along to her chatter about work stuff and gang politics. The food looks good tonight—all steam and color and promise of actual flavor. You're reaching for the rice when—

Oh.

There he is.

Jeon's standing a few people ahead, his back to you like he doesn't even know you exist. Which is bullshit, by the way. You know he knows you're here. But he's pulling this whole 'I'm too cool to acknowledge your existence' act, and honestly? It's working for him.

You can't help staring at his plate because of course it looks like that. All protein and greens, like a sad jail meal. No carbs in sight because god forbid the Chief of Tactical Assassinations eat a fucking potato. It's like looking at a fitness influencer's meal prep, except this one could probably kill you with his chopsticks.

He drives you insane. How does he do this? How does he go from being that smug bastard in the training room—all heated looks and smart mouth—to... this? This walking ice sculpture who portions his vegetables like they might try to escape?

You're still watching him stack his protein like he's playing food Tetris when Yunjin's elbow catches your ribs.

"Hey, you okay? You've been zoning out a lot today."

Great. Now you're so obvious even Yunjin's noticed.

But how are you supposed to explain that you can't stop staring at the way Jeon handles his chopsticks because it reminds you of how those same hands felt on your—

Nope. Not going there. Not in the cafeteria, not while you're holding rice tongs, and definitely not with Yunjin right there giving you that knowing look.

You flash Yunjin what you hope is a convincing smile. "Just tired. Been a long day of pretending I actually know what I'm doing."

You both grab your plates and—okay, maybe you glance in Jeon's direction one more time. Just a quick look. For science.

The way his jaw moves when he chews shouldn't be this interesting, but here you are anyway, feeling heat pool in your stomach because apparently now everything that he does is just hot.

Get it together.

You scan the cafeteria for a free spot and spot Kazuha sitting alone. She's got this serene energy about her that makes you feel instantly calmer. It's kind of ridiculous how put-together she always looks, even after a full day of work.

"Hey, Zuzu!" Yunjin chirps, already bouncing over. "Got room for two more?"

Kazuha looks up from her food, and her smile is soft, genuine. Like she's actually happy to see you both.

"Of course. How was training?"

You plop down next to her, already digging into your food because you're starving. "Bold of you to assume I survived. Pretty sure my muscles are plotting revenge."

"That bad?" Kazuha asks, and you can hear the amusement in her voice.

"Let's just say I'm considering a career change. Maybe I'll become a nun."

Yunjin snorts into her rice. "You? A nun?"

"Hey, I could be holy!" You protest, but you're grinning. "I mean, how hard can it be?"

"About as hard as that time Eunchae tried to seduce that businessman and ended up talking about his cats for two hours," Kazuha reminds you, dry as desert.

"Okay, but in her defense, his cats are adorable—"

"And second of all," Yunjin cuts in, "she got the intel anyway because he thought she was 'refreshingly genuine' or whatever."

Kazuha shakes her head, but she's smiling. "Only she could fail upwards so spectacularly."

The conversation flows easy after that, just three girls sharing dinner and stories from their day. It's almost normal, if you ignore the fact that you're all trained in professional seduction and manipulation.

"Zuzu, you seen the new race bikes downtown?" Yunjin's practically bouncing in her seat. "They've got some wild colors this year. Bright as the neon signs lining the alleys."

"They're really something," you add, grateful for the distraction from your Jeon-related thoughts. "Makes you wanna take one for a spin, just you and the empty streets at midnight."

Kazuha's smiling that soft smile of hers, the one that makes her look like she knows all your secrets. "I saw them. Wish we could know the stories behind them."

"Speaking of stories," Yunjin says, and there's this gleam in her eye that makes you nervous. "Kazuha, aren't you usually having dinner with Saku and Eunchae around now?"

It's an innocent question. Totally innocent. Except nothing's ever really innocent in this place, is it?

Kazuha lets out this little laugh that somehow sounds like wind chimes.

"They're training. Apparently, the training room was..." She pauses, and you swear your heart stops. "...in heavy use earlier."

You start coughing like an idiot because of course you do. Real smooth. Your neck feels hot, and you just know you're turning red because your body is a fucking traitor.

Because yeah, the training room was definitely in use earlier. By you and Jeon. Doing... training things. Totally professional training things that absolutely didn't involve his hands all over you or his mouth on your—

"Oh, is that so?" You try for casual, miss by about a mile. "Training room's been busy lately. Gotta stay sharp and all that."

Yunjin's looking at you like she can see right through your bullshit. Her eyebrow does this little thing—this 'I know what you did' arch that makes you want to crawl under the table. The way she's staring at you, it's like she's reading a book where every page is stamped with "I ALMOST FUCKED JEON IN THE TRAINING ROOM."

Kazuha, bless her soul, just nods serenely. The conversation moves on, but Yunjin's still giving you these looks. You can practically hear her thoughts: 'We're so talking about this later'.

You end up having this whole silent conversation with Yunjin through eyebrows and meaningful glances. She takes a sip of her drink, ice cubes clinking against glass like they're laughing at you, and the little smirk on her face says everything.

Busted.

(You're really going to need to work on your poker face if you're going to keep this thing with Jeon going. Or maybe invest in a paper bag to hide your face. That could work too.)

You're in the middle of telling Yunjin about this absolutely ridiculous mission report you have to finish when—

CRASH.

"You bastard, you think you can talk to me like that?!"

The whole cafeteria goes quiet. Like, pin-drop quiet.

You whip around to see Dongho—V's right-hand man and certified hothead—with his fists bunched in Woojin's shirt. They're both red-faced and looking murderous.

Great. Just what you needed with your dinner: a testosterone-fueled throwdown.

"What the fuck," Yunjin whispers, already tensing up. Kazuha's gone still beside you, like a deer sensing danger.

The thing about fights in Kkangpae? They're never just fights. There's always some deeper shit going on, especially when it's between different divisions.

And this?

This is V's second versus some guy from tactical assassinations. The rivalry between those divisions runs deeper than the Han River.

Speaking of V—you spot him across the room, looking way too entertained for someone whose deputy is about to start a brawl. He's got that look on his face, the one that makes your skin crawl. Like he's watching his favorite show.

"Now, now, let's not get too rowdy, gentlemen!" V calls out, voice dripping with absolutely false concern. When that doesn't work, he cups his hands around his mouth: "Simmer down, boys!"

But they're not listening. Of course they're not, they're men.

You watch as Woojin throws a wild punch that Dongho barely dodges. People are scrambling now—some to get away, others to jump in. It's chaos.

Then Takama's there, all six feet of concentrated 'don't fuck with me' energy. He plants himself between them like a human wall.

"Enough! Stand down, both of you!"

The command in his voice could probably stop traffic.

But Dongho—because he's either brave or stupid or both—just sneers.

"You're the same rank as me. Don't you ever try to pull authority on me."

Oh shit.

You feel the tension in the room spike. This isn't just about whatever started the fight anymore. This is about division politics, about the endless pissing contest between V and Jeon's teams.

And their seconds are about to throw down right here in the cafeteria.

You hear V's dramatic sigh that would put soap opera actors to shame.

"Why must things always descend into violence?" he asks JM, who just shakes his head like he's seen this show a hundred times before.

You watch as V's face changes. It's subtle, but terrifying—like watching a cute puppy turn into a wolf. His playful smile twists into something darker, and then there's suddenly a knife in his hand.

(You're not even sure where it came from; he just does that sometimes, produces weapons like a deadly magician.)

"I tried asking nicely," he says to JM, casual as if he's discussing the weather.

Then—oooookay.

The knife flies through the air, spinning so fast it's just a silver blur. It hits the wall with this loud THUNK that makes everyone jump, landing exactly between Dongho and Woojin's faces. Like, exactly.

You know V well enough to know that wasn't luck—if he'd wanted to hit them, they'd be picking pieces of their noses off the floor right now.

The whole cafeteria goes dead silent. Every head turns to V, who's sitting there looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

But his eyes? They're gleaming with something that makes your stomach turn.

"There, that got your attention." His voice is soft, almost sweet. Then, louder: "Now sit down and play nice, children."

Dongho and Woojin break apart like they've been electrocuted. You watch Takama and Dongho share one last murder-glare before going their separate ways.

"Holy shit," Yunjin breathes next to you, eyes wide as saucers. She lets out this low whistle that perfectly sums up what everyone's thinking. "Only V could pull that off so effortlessly."

She leans in closer, practically vibrating with excitement.

"That was kind of hot, don't you think?"

You turn to her, eyebrows shooting up. "Didn't know you had a thing for psychopaths with good aim," you tease.

Yunjin's cheeks go pink, and she does that thing where she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's flustered. It's kind of adorable.

"What? Confidence is sexy," she defends, sneaking another look at V. "And you have to admit, that was pretty impressive."

You follow her gaze across the room. V's already moved on, chatting with JM like he didn't just turn a cafeteria brawl into an impromptu knife-throwing demonstration.

But that's V for you—deadly and dramatic in equal measure.

Yunjin's practically glowing as V catches her eye and winks. The smile she gives him is shy, which is funny coming from someone who literally seduces people for a living. But that's just Yunjin—confident as hell on missions but turns into a blushing mess when she actually likes someone.

Speaking of liking someone...

You notice JM's acting weird. He's sitting next to V, pretending to be super interested in his food, but his chopsticks are gripping that poor piece of kimchi like it personally offended him; movements sharp and jerky—very un-JM-like.

He keeps doing this thing where he looks up at V and Yunjin, then quickly back down at his food like he's playing the world's most obvious game of 'I'm not looking, you're looking.' The tension in his shoulders is giving him away though. JM's usually all soft sweaters and gentle vibes, but right now? He looks like someone replaced his bones with steel rods.

After what feels like an eternity of aggressive chopstick action, JM turns to V and says something too quiet for you to hear. His tone's forcefully light—the kind of casual that takes effort. V glances at him with that signature smirk of his, says something back, and suddenly JM's whole face changes. His eyes get all crinkly at the corners, like he's trying not to smile.

Then JM leans in closer (way closer than necessary, if you're being honest), and whatever he whispers makes V laugh. Not his usual theatrical laugh either—this one's soft, private. V nudges JM's shoulder, and just like that, the tension bleeds out of the moment.

You can't help but watch them, pondering. Maybe V's little knife-throwing show bothered JM more than he's letting on. Or maybe...

Oh.

Well, that's interesting.

JM catches you staring and gives you this little smile that definitely means 'nothing to see here, move along.'

You return it because what else can you do? Start announcing your theories about whatever's going on between him and V in the middle of the cafeteria?

The conversation around you picks back up, and you let yourself get pulled into Yunjin's excited whispers about V's 'totally unnecessary but kind of hot' intervention. But part of your brain is still turning over what you just saw.

Because either you're reading way too much into this, or there's something brewing on JM's behalf that makes the gang's 'no relationships' rule look more like a suggestion than a law.

You file that little observation away for later. Right now, you've got food to eat and a best friend to tease about her obvious crush on the gang's resident knife-throwing psychopath.

Chapter 17: shooting range and dinner

Summary:

“When his insomnia slips out, you decide being a useful fuck buddy is part of the arrengement. Even if sleeping is not exactly what you want to do tonight."

Notes:

A/N: Y'ALL I'M SCREAMING. Look at my boy Jeon being all emotionally constipated and sleepless and GRUMPY! I cannot with him sometimes (⁠╯⁠°⁠□⁠°⁠)⁠╯⁠︵⁠ ⁠┻⁠━⁠┻

So I'm really exposing my kinks here, but the whole "let's sleep together but actually sleep" trope is just *chef's kiss* perfect. Insomnia-ridden boy who can only sleep well with you nearby? GIVE IT TO ME INTRAVENOUSLY, THANK YOU.

And J-Hope being all "I'm your friend whether you like it or not, you stubborn asshole" is everything I needed today. Their friendship is so beautifully dysfunctional I want to frame it and hang it on my wall.

Meanwhile, you guys in the comments are like "show us Jeon's POV!" and I'm over here like "fine, take his whole entire trauma-riddled brain, are you happy now?!" The answer is yes, you're all trauma vultures just like me. No shame in our game.

I had so much fun writing the shooting range scene though! That whole "let me adjust your stance" trope where they're basically just looking for an excuse to touch you? ICONIC. I will never get tired of it. Sue me.

And don't even get me started on that dinner scene. Jeon actually eating with another human being and not hating it? CHARACTER GROWTH, PEOPLE!

Sorry for leaving you hanging with the spicy bits but... actually no, I'm not sorry at all. The slow boil to explosion is the best part and I'm savoring every moment of your collective suffering (◕‿◕✿)

See you next chapter, you magnificent disaster enablers!

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

"Again, Jeon?"

J-Hope's voice hits him as soon as he walks in, but Jungkook can't bring himself to care. His body feels heavy, mind foggy with exhaustion.

The medical ward has become too familiar lately—the sharp smell of antiseptic, the soft hum of medical equipment, the way the afternoon light filters through the blinds.

He grunts in response, already making his way to his usual spot. The stretcher's not comfortable, not really, but it's better than lying awake in his own bed.

"You can't come here every afternoon, you know. I have shit to do and your snoring is not precisely helpful."

Jungkook almost rolls his eyes. He doesn't snore—never has—but arguing takes energy he doesn't have.

"Then put some background music."

"You—"

He doesn't wait for J-Hope to finish, just rolls onto the stretcher, facing the wall. The vinyl covering is cool against his arm, and somehow it's grounding... perhaps in a way he doesn't want to examine too closely.

"Are you for real right now? This is the third day in a row you're taking a nap in my office."

"You said yourself I should nap from time to time." His voice comes out muffled, face half-pressed into the thin pillow.

"Yes, but not in my goddamn office!"

The silence that follows is heavy.

He can picture J-Hope without looking—probably pinching the bridge of his nose, that look of exasperated concern he gets whenever Jeon's being particularly difficult. He hears the medic's chair creak as he leans back.

"Look, Jungkook." The use of his real name makes something in his chest tighten. J-Hope only uses it when he's about to say something Jungkook won't like. "I don't wanna be the one saying this to you, but you need to get your shit together."

"Well I am trying to fall asleep right now." The deflection is weak and they both know it.

"That is not what I mean you dimwit." There's that familiar mix of frustration and worry in J-Hope's voice. "Believe me, I'm glad you're finally trying to get some proper rest. But this—in my office? Just why."

Jungkook quiet, hoping J-Hope will drop it. He doesn't want to think about why he keeps coming here, why his own room feels too empty, too quiet. Why he can't sleep unless he can hear someone else breathing nearby.

(He definitely doesn't want to think about how he slept better in that tent, with y—)

"Jungkook."

Not his real name again.

Something in him snaps.

"Fine. I don't fucking know, okay?" The words come out sharp, defensive. He glares at the wall like it's personally offended him. "I just seem to sleep better in company."

"In company?" He can hear J-Hope's brain working, trying to piece together this new information. "Okay, what—? Elaborate right now."

"No."

The word is final, heavy with all the things he refuses to say.

Like the nightmares that wake him up gasping. Or how silence fucking makes his skin crawl. Or how being alone with his thoughts is becoming unbearable.

About how he hasn't had a decent night's sleep since—

"Whose company, Jungkook? This isn't about little bed-hopping habits, is it?"

It's offensive, the question, really.

But all he does is stare at the wall, trying to ignore how his mind immediately conjures up images of you. Of how he actually slept through the night in that tent.

No nightmares, no cold sweats. Just... sleep.

Four fucking years of insomnia, and the solution was this s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ simple?

"No, it's not." His fingers curl into a fist against the stretcher, leather creaking under fingers—and the sound grates on his nerves, already frayed from lack of sleep. "I ain't talking about it. Drop it, Hoseok."

Using J-Hope's real name now is a low blow, but Jungkook is too tired to care. He just wants to test his theory—see if sleeping near someone, anyone, will keep the nightmares at bay. He doesn't need J-Hope playing therapist, doesn't need him picking apart why this might be working.

Because that would mean thinking about you, about that night, about how for the first time in years he actually felt—

No.

"I'm your friend, Jungkook. And as a member of the Council of Nine, I have to know if anything... or anyone is becoming a weakness."

Jeon almost laughs.

A weakness? No. This isn't about feelings. This is about finally getting some fucking sleep without having to relive—

He cuts that thought off too. Focuses on the antiseptic smell of the medical ward, the equipment, anything but the memories threatening to surface.

J-Hope's concern is misplaced. This isn't about compromising the gang or breaking rules. It's about finding a solution to a problem that's been haunting him for four years.

So if sleeping near someone help? Fucking fine. He'll take what he can get.

Even if it pisses him off that it took this long to figure it out.

"There is no fucking weakness, you got that?" His eyes feel like lead weights in his skull. "I just need some goddamn sleep. I've gotta be sharp for the mission. That's all you need to know."

He can feel J-Hope's eyes on him, searching for cracks where light would shine through.

There's none.

It's been a long time since there's none.

But the medic knows too much, has seen too much. Was there that night when everything went to shit, when V—

"And after the mission? What then? You keep coming back here for your afternoon siestas or are you gonna be sleeping with that company?"

The implication slices through without sugarcoating. There's another word hovering in the air between them, pressing down on the air like a goddamn vacuum.

Traitor.

It sits there like poison, like the taste of copper in his mouth from that night.

Jeon pushes himself up, muscles tense, anger corroding his veins. His head is pounding from lack of sleep, making everything sharper, harder to control.

"I'll deal with it when it comes. Besides, who the fuck will notice? You gonna bitch about it to the rest of the crew?"

"Watch it, Kook." The use of his nickname is a warning, one that would mean more if he wasn't so fucking tired. "I'm trying to help you, not rat you out. But if you become a liability..."

"I ain't no fucking liability."

He's on his feet now, wrath burning through the exhaustion. His fists clench until he can feel his nails biting into his palms.

The suggestion that he'd risk the gang again, that he'd let himself be compromised like that... He does not appreciate it.

It makes something dark and ugly twist in his chest.

"You think I don't know the stakes? You think I'd let myself become another Sylvia episode?"

"Surely you're more intelligent than that."

The words hit exactly where J-Hope means them to. Because yeah, everyone thought he was intelligent back then too. Look how that turned out.

Jungkook holds J-Hope's gaze, something ugly settling in his chest.

For a moment, he considers telling him about you, about this arrangement that's purely physical—no strings, no complications, just a solution to his sleepless nights.

But the words catch in his throat. Because J-Hope isn't just asking for himself, is he? He's asking for AD too. AD, who still carries Sylvia's ghost like an open wound, who took her death even harder than he did.

Who trusted her, protected her, only to watch her choose Jungkook—and then watch her die for that choice.

The guilt sits like lead in his stomach. He can't do that to AD again. Can't make him watch from the sidelines as another woman gets tangled up with Jungkook, always wondering if history's about to repeat itself.

The weight of Sylvia's death is still a chain around his neck, dragging him down every time he closes his eyes.

So he swallows the truth, lets it burn on its way down. This thing with you—he'll handle it himself. Keep it contained. Control it before it becomes something he can't take back.

His face settles into careful blankness as he meets J-Hope's searching look.

"I fucking am. I don't need your nagging."

It's not even a lie. This isn't like Sylvia. He won't let it be. You're different—safer. You know exactly what this is.

"You sure you don't?" J-Hope's voice rises. "Because from what I recall, you've been a messy piece of shit ever since she's gone."

Something dark and ugly coils in Jeon's chest. "Watch how you sling that shit at me, J-Hope."

"Keeping an eye on it, always. Seems we all gotta tiptoe with our words 'round you, huh? Drop one mention of her, and you're all about throwing punches, no thoughts, just rage. Done you a lick of good, has it?"

"Shut your mouth!"

The words rip out of him before he can stop them, raw and ragged.

Because J-Hope's right, and that's what makes it hurt so much.

Four years, and he still can't hear her name without feeling like he's drowning in it all over again.

"Pull yourself together, Jeon!" J-Hope's voice cracks with frustration. "You've been haunted by those fucking nightmares since she died, and now what? Using someone else's body to quiet them down? Jumping from one disaster straight into another and expecting me to just watch?"

Jungkook's eyes feel like they're burning. "No one's asking for your fucking two cents. Always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

He wants J-Hope to hit him, to hate him, to stop looking at him with that mix of concern and disappointment.

So his next words are not something he's proud of. But something he feels he needs to do.

"Why don't you go find a bottle to crawl into?"

It's a low blow, and he knows it. Watches J-Hope's hand shake, sees the muscle jump in his jaw.

"Don't you fucking go there, Jeon." The warning in his voice is clear. "I see what you're doing—spiraling because you're losing control. But I'm not playing that game. I'm not V."

"Right, you're not." Jeon's laugh is hollow, bitter. "At least that bastard's honest about not giving a fuck about anyone but himself."

"Jesus fuck, Jeon. You're not the only one carrying shit, you know that?" J-Hope's laugh is all broken glass. "Is that what you want? Me to knock your teeth in? You think that'll fix whatever's going on in that fucked-up head of yours?"

"Whatever. I don't give a shit."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you'll actually believe it. Pushing everyone away—that's about the only thing you're good at anymore."

"Don't need anyone. Do just fine on my own."

"Really?" J-Hope's voice is sarcasm. "That why you're trying to sleep in my fucking office?"

"Fucking hell, man. Just drop it and let me rest. I'm not digging into your shit, am I? Let me handle mine." His voice comes out raw, desperate, and he hates it.

"You might not see it, but some of us actually give a shit about you, you stubborn asshole." J-Hope's voice softens, and that's worse somehow. "I might share that council seat with you, but I'm also your friend—whether you like it or not. I'm worried, okay? This isn't how you deal with your demons."

Jeon closes his eyes, exhaustion settling into his bones. "Maybe it's exactly how I deal with them."

Maybe he deserves them.

He doesn't say that.

"It's a shit way of dealing with anything, Jungkook." The softness bleeds out of J-Hope's voice, and something in Jeon's chest loosens.

Anger he can handle.

Concern?

That's harder to dodge.

"Fuck, I'm not watching you spiral down that rabbit hole again. You can hate me all you want, but I won't stand here and watch you self-destruct. Not a second time."

"I get it. Like I said—not your cross to bear."

Jungkook can feel J-Hope's eyes on him, cutting through his bullshit like always.

"Fine, Kook. Hoard your secrets. But the moment it fucks with the mission, you're answering to me—and the Council."

Jeon knows that tone. It's not just a threat—it's a lifeline J-Hope's throwing him, begging him to get his shit together before everything falls apart.

The anger sits like acid in his chest, but he swallows it down.

This isn't about him and J-Hope anymore. This is about the mission. About the gang. About not letting his f̶e̶e̶l̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ weakness compromise everything like last time.

"Got it," he mutters, dropping back onto the stretcher and turning to face the wall. The stone is cold against his face, grounding in its indifference.

Behind him, J-Hope's chair scrapes against the floor as he turns back to his work. The sound is harsh, angry.

But it's okay if he's angry. Better that than worried. Better that than watching Jeon like he's a bomb about to go off.

"Fucking Sylvia," J-Hope mutters.

Then, silence drops.

For all his crankiness, J-Hope won't kick him out. Can't, maybe, because under all that anger is the same guy who dragged Jeon's drunk ass home after Sylvia, who patched him up when he picked fights he knew he'd lose.

J-Hope's right to be worried—secrets in Kkangpae have a way of turning lethal. One wrong move, one slip, and everything goes up in flames.

Again.

(But this thing with you isn't like Sylvia. It isn't. He just needs to figure out how to sleep through the night without—)

Jeon closes his eyes, lets the antiseptic smell of the medical ward fill his lungs.

Maybe if he lies here long enough, sleep will finally come.

Maybe this time, he won't dream.

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝟻. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛.

The message glares at you from your phone screen, all business and no explanation. Typical Jeon.

𝙹𝚎𝚘𝚗?

．．．

𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘯

Great. He's seen it and can't be bothered to reply. Fantastic.

You stare at your phone, trying to will a response into existence. Nothing. Just that stupid "seen" mocking you. It's like talking to a brick wall, except the wall probably has better communication skills.

Jeon and his one-word texts. The man's got a gift for saying absolutely nothing while still managing to ruin your plans. You had a whole evening of doing absolutely nothing planned, and now? Now you're apparently going to the shooting range. Yay!

You toss your phone onto the bed; angry, petty. It bounces once, screen still lit up with Jeon's oh-so-eloquent message. His profile pic is just a blank space. Of course it is. God forbid he show an actual human emotion. Or, you know, a face.

With a sigh that could probably be heard three floors down, you drag yourself to the bathroom. For once, it's empty. Small mercies, right?

You tie your hair back into a ponytail, all business. Can't have stray hairs getting in the way when you're handling firearms. That's a safety hazard or whatever. Plus, you know Jeon would probably lecture you about it.

Mr. Safety-First-Unless-It's-About-Emotions.

The mirror shows you a face that's equal parts annoyed and resigned.

This is your life now—dropping everything because Jeon decided to grace you with a whole six words. Six! He's feeling chatty today.

You stare at your reflection, wondering for the millionth time how you ended up here. Not just in a gang, but at Jeon's beck and call. The man's like a black hole—impossible to ignore, drawing you in whether you like it or not.

(You like it. You hate that you like it.)

Time to go play with guns, apparently. Because nothing says "fun night out" like potential bullet wounds and Jeon's silent judgment.

This better be good, you think. But with Jeon? It's always a toss-up between mind-blowing and mind-numbing.

Guess you'll find out which one it is tonight.

You finish tying your hair back and grab your phone, typing out a quick message to Yunjin. Your fingers hover over the keys for a second because ugh. You were actually looking forward to dinner with her.

𝙲𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛. 𝙶𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝚁𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔?

The card reader beeps when you swipe your ID, sound echoing through the empty hallway like some ominous warning bell.

The elevator ride feels like you're being delivered to your doom, each floor passing with total indifference to your impending crisis.

Ding.

Third floor. You step out into a corridor that feels way too quiet. Your sneakers barely make any noise against the floor, which just makes your heartbeat sound louder in your ears.

You reach the shooting range and—because you're not a complete idiot—you don't just barge in. Instead, you peek through the reinforced glass window like some s̶t̶a̶l̶k̶e̶r̶ cautious person.

And fuck.

There he is, in his own little world of violence.

He's wearing his usual dark t-shirt, fabric's stretched across his shoulders in a way that's honestly unfair for every other man. His combat pants are doing that thing where they show off every muscle without being obvious about it, and his boots are planted like he owns the ground he's standing on.

He hasn't spotted you yet. He's too focused on the gun in his hands, handling it with the kind of familiarity that reminds you he does this for a living. The protective gear—ear muffs and glasses—should make him look dorky, but nope. In your brain that simply catalogs as hot.

Each shot he fires is like... well, it's like watching someone who knows what they're doing. Which, you suppose, makes sense.

The recoil doesn't even phase him—his body just absorbs it like it's nothing. Spent casings hit the floor with little metallic pings, and you find yourself weirdly fascinated by the way his fingers adjust on the grip between shots.

(You're definitely not thinking about what else those fingers can do. Absolutely not. That would be unprofessional.)

You watch him reload—movements quick and methodical—like he could do this in his sleep. Probably has, honestly. This is Jeon's comfort zone, after all.

You step inside, and it hits you again how different the air feels in here. Smelling like gunpowder and that underlying tension that always shows up when you're around him.

Jeon doesn't turn around, too focused on whatever target he's destroying. You can't help the little smirk that tugs at your lips because finally—a chance to catch Mr. Perfect off guard. He's so zeroed in on his shooting that he might actually not notice you for once.

(You should know better by now, but hope springs eternal or whatever.)

Your sneakers don't make a sound on the rubber floor as you creep closer. You're already planning it—maybe a sudden clap, or yelling his name. Something to make him jump, even just a little. The thought sends this weird thrill through you, like you're about to get away with something.

You take a deep breath, ready to execute your master plan, when—

"Don't even think about it."

Motherfucker.

He doesn't even turn around. Doesn't move a muscle. Just keeps standing there like some statue of Perfect Shooting Form, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

It's not fair how he does that—makes you feel like you're being predictable without even looking at you.

"You got radar in your head, or what?" you ask, trying to play it off like you weren't just caught being an absolute child.

Your voice comes out light, playful, which feels kind of wrong in a room designed for practicing how to kill people efficiently. But that's kind of your whole thing with Jeon, isn't it? Finding these little moments of tomfoolery in between all the violence and duty.

Sometimes you wonder if he lets you get away with it because he needs those moments too.

Jeon turns around, and as usual, there's this look in his eyes. Could be the fluorescent lights, could be him being a smug bastard.

He sets down his gun with this final-sounding click that somehow makes the room feel too quiet.

"Let's just say I've got a good sense of when someone's lurking in my blind spot."

The corner of his mouth twitches, and you're starting to think he practices that almost-smirk in the mirror.

You watch as he moves to the gun rack, all fluid movements. He picks out this pristine semi-automatic that gleams under the shitty range lights like it's showing off.

"Come on." His voice drops the playful edge. "If we're going to have your back in the field, you need to be able to hold your own. No hesitation this time."

This time .

The words bring back memories of your first shooting lesson with him—how your hands shook, how the gun felt too heavy with the weight of what it could do. You weren't ready then.

But now, with this mission hanging over your heads like a guillotine, you don't have the luxury of not being ready.

You step forward, closing the gap between you. When he hands you the gun, his fingers brush against yours, and even that tiny contact sends electricity up your arm. The metal's cold against your palm, but you grip it like you mean it. Like you're not thinking about how those same hands felt on your skin just days ago.

"Good." He nods, and something warm unfurls in your chest at his approval. "First, your stance—it's all about balance. Feet shoulder-width apart, one foot slightly ahead of the other."

You follow his instructions, hyper-aware of his eyes on you. It feels like being under a microscope, but like, a really hot microscope that you maybe want to kiss again.

You plant your feet, trying to look like you know what you're doing.

"Now, grip. Not too tight—imagine holding someone's hand. Firm, but you're not trying to crush it."

He moves closer, and suddenly the air feels thicker. His comparison makes your brain short-circuit because now all you can think about is holding hands, which leads to thinking about holding other things, which—yeah, nope.

Can't think about that. Not while you're holding a deadly weapon.

His hands come up to adjust your grip, and it should be clinical. Professional.

But there's this undercurrent of something between you, like static electricity looking for a place to ground itself. Like every little touch is loaded with meaning.

You find your rhythm with the breathing, in and out, as Jeon steps back to give you space. He's watching you with that unreadable expression of his, but his eyes are intense, like he's trying to will you into not fucking this up.

"Align the sights." His voice drops low, and fuck, it shouldn't affect you when he's teaching you how to shoot people. "Focus on the front sight—everything else is just background noise. Breathe in, breathe out, and on the exhale—that's when you squeeze the trigger."

You narrow your eyes, zeroing in on the target downrange.

It's not just a paper outline anymore—it's a test.

Another thing you need to prove you can handle in this life you've chosen.

You let out a slow breath, and with it goes some of that nervous energy that's been making your hands shake.

Right now it's just you, the gun, and this need to show Jeon—and yourself—that you're not out of your depth here. That you belong in this world of his, even if it's just at the edges.

The shot cracks through the air like a whip, and the recoil hits your palms. It's jarring but real, solid proof that you're actually doing this. That you're becoming whatever it is you need to be to survive in Kkangpae.

Jeon gives you this little nod, like yeah, okay, maybe you're not completely hopeless. But then—oh. Then his mouth does this thing, curling up at the corners into what might be the most dangerous smile you've ever seen.

"Good job."

Two. Words.

Just two fucking words, but the way he says them—all low and pleased—makes heat pool in your stomach.

It's not fair how he can do that, turn a simple phrase into something that feels like innuendo, voice wrapping around you like smoke, seeping into places it has no business being.

You're starting to think weapons training with Jeon might be hazardous to your mental health. And not for the obvious reasons.

Because the fucker is not just hot—though fuck, he absolutely is—he's something else entirely.

The way he handles a weapon, the easy confidence, how he makes everything look so effortless? It's doing things to you. Things that have nothing to do with training and everything to do with how his hands looked wrapped around that gun.

"Let's try again. This time, focus on consistency. You want to be able to replicate that shot every time."

He moves behind you, and suddenly breathing becomes severely underrated.

You try to focus on the target, but your brain's too busy cataloging every tiny detail—how his breath stirs the baby hairs at your nape, the way his chest is just shy of brushing against your back.

You take a deep breath to steady yourself, but that's a mistake because now all you can smell is him.

Pine and wood and leather.

Jeon.

The gun feels heavy in your hands as you line up another shot, and your attention is split between the target downrange and the way Jeon's presence seems to fill up all the space around you.

The shot immediately cracks through the air, perfect center mass.

You should feel proud—and you do—but mostly you're trying not to think about how close he is, how easy it would be to lean back just a little...

Because you know he's all business, laser-focused on getting you ready for the mission. Completely professional. But there are these tiny tells—the way his fingers linger when he adjusts your stance, how his eyes sometimes drift from the target to your face, staying just a second too long.

It's driving you insane.

Like there's this invisible line neither of you is willing to cross first, even though you both know exactly where this tension is heading.

You've been there before, after all. That night in his tent wasn't that long ago.

You lower the gun, trying to ignore how your hands are shaking—partly from adrenaline, mostly from something else.

The  way Jeon's looking at you right now.

"Just like that. Keep it up."

You manage a nod because words? Not happening. Your throat's too dry, and honestly, you're afraid of what might come out if you open your mouth.

Another shot rings out, and you can't help wondering if Jeon feels it too. This crackling tension that makes your skin feel too tight. Or maybe you're just losing it, getting all hot and bothered over a man who's literally just teaching you how to shoot people.

"Reload. Keep your focus sharp."

He hands you a fresh magazine, and your fingers brush against his again—and honestly?

This isn't fair.

You're supposed to be learning important gang shit here, not mentally cataloging how good his hands feel.

Your brain keeps replaying every tiny touch, every moment his body was pressed against yours while "correcting your stance."

Which, by the way? Totally unnecessary.

You're pretty sure proper shooting form doesn't require his chest being that close to your back.

Focus, you tell yourself. You're here to learn how to handle a weapon, not daydream about handling... other things.

You need to prove you belong here, that you're more than just another recruit who can't keep it in their pants around the hot Chief.

(Even if said Chief is making it really hard to think straight right now.)

You grip the gun tighter, channeling all that frustrated energy into your next shot. The bang echoes through the range, and you pretend it drowns out the voice in your head that keeps suggesting alternative uses for this private training session.

The magazine clicks into place with maybe more force than necessary, but whatever. You're determined to get through this without embarrassing yourself. More shots follow, each one a desperate attempt to focus on anything except how good Jeon looks when he's in instructor mode.

(It's not working, but at least you're hitting the target.)

You're about to take another shot when something catches your eye.

Jeon looks... off.

There are shadows under his eyes that makeup can't hide, and his movements are slower than usual.

Most people wouldn't notice, but you've been trained to spot weaknesses.

"You look like shit."

The words slip out before your brain can filter them.

Because you're such a professional, apparently. But now that you've started digging this hole, might as well keep going.

"When's the last time you actually slept?"

Dark eyes snap to yours, and you swear something raw flutters behind his eyelashes. Doesn't last long-as never anything really does with him. The walls come slamming back up.

"I'm fine."

His tone screams drop it; the voice in your head screams
'don't.'

Good thing you've always been good at hearing yourself first.

Besides, this isn't exclusively about him anymore.

You set the gun down, turning to face him fully. "Look, I get it—we all have our shit. But if you're walking around half-dead, that's not just your problem. That's how people end up getting killed."

He gives you a death stare, and you're pretty sure he's about to pull rank and shut this conversation down. But then he exhales, and something in his posture just... gives.

"Insomnia's an old friend." An admission that comes out rough, like he had to force the words past his defenses. "Been dealing with it for years. It doesn't affect my work."

"Bullshit." You shouldn't push, but your mouth's apparently on autopilot today. "You slept fine in the tent—"

His eyes narrow, and okay, maybe that was too far. But you're not wrong. You remember how peaceful he looked that morning, no trace of the tension that's radiating off him now.

"That was different."

His voice drops low, warning you away from this topic.

But there's something else there too—like maybe he's trying to convince himself more than you.

He doesn't deny it though.

So you nod, letting the subject drop. But you tuck that little piece of information away like a secret—Jeon sleeps better when he's not alone. When he's with you, specifically. You're not sure what to do with that knowledge yet, but it feels important somehow.

Silence falls. You turn back to the range because it's easier than trying to decode whatever's happening here.

The gun in your hands is simple, straightforward. Point, shoot, repeat. No complicated feelings or midnight revelations to deal with.

You cycle through the weapons Jeon's laid out, each one different but serving the same purpose. Pistols feel natural now, like they belong in your grip. Shotguns still kick like a mule, but you're getting better at handling them. Each shot echoes through the room, filling the space where words should be.

It becomes almost meditative after a while. Load, aim, breathe, squeeze. The routine helps quiet your mind, pushes away thoughts of Jeon and sleep and whatever's going on in that cold brain of his.

You're here to learn how to stay alive, not psychoanalyze your Chief's sleeping habits.

When you switch to the rifle, you can't help sneaking a look at him. He's lurking in the shadows like some kind of sexy gargoyle, watching your every move. Even exhausted, he's still intimidating as hell.

But there's something different about him now—like seeing him tired makes him more... real. Less Chief of Tactical Assassinations, more just Jeon.

The rifle's recoil brings you back to reality. You line up another shot, remembering everything he's taught you.

Breathe in, hold, squeeze, exhale. The bullets hit close together, forming a tight group that would definitely ruin someone's day. Jeon gives you this tiny nod that shouldn't make your stomach flip, but it does anyway.

The sun's starting to set, painting the room in long shadows. Empty casings litter the floor around your feet like tiny brass confessions. Neither of you has said much, but somehow it's not uncomfortable.

You've learned two things today: how to shoot better, and that Jeon trusts you enough to show you some of his cracks, even if he doesn't mean to.

You're not sure which lesson is more dangerous.

(Probably the second one.)

You start packing up, going through the familiar motions of cleaning and storing the weapons.

"It's getting late," you say, mostly to break the silence.

When you turn around, Jeon's standing there with his arms crossed, staring at nothing. Or maybe at something only he can see. He doesn't react to your voice, like he's been aware of every move you've made since you started cleaning up.

The lighting in here is shit, but it's not bad enough to hide how exhausted he looks. The shadows under his eyes are getting deeper, more obvious. You think about what J-Hope would say if he saw Jeon like this—probably something cranky and concerned wrapped in medical jargon.

"If it helps," you start carefully, like you're approaching a wild animal, "we can sleep together again. No bullshit—just sleep. Seems like you could use it."

For a second, his face goes completely blank. It's that perfect mask he wears when he's processing something he doesn't want to deal with.

Then—there.

His shoulders drop just a fraction, like someone's loosened a wire.

"I don't need charity."

The words come out defensive, but they're missing that sharp edge he usually uses to keep people at a distance. You recognize deflection when you hear it—you work in the Seduction Division, after all.

"It's not charity." You click the last weapon case shut, buying time to choose your next words carefully. "Consider it... part of our arrangement. We're no good to each other tense or half-awake."

The silence stretches out so long you start to wonder if you've fucked up. Maybe you pushed too far, got too personal. But then he nods, just barely, like he's trying to convince himself he's not giving in to anything.

"I'll think about it."

His voice is gruff, but there's something else there—a hint of relief, maybe. Like you've given him permission to want something he thinks he shouldn't. You pretend not to notice how his eyes linger on you as you finish packing up, like he's already made up his mind but isn't ready to admit it yet.

You glance at the clock, and shit—it's really fucking late. The castle gets quiet around this time, most people already finished with dinner or working night shifts.

Speaking of dinner... you were supposed to meet Yunjin, but someone had to drag you to impromptu target practice.

A thought hits you, and you can't help the little smile that tugs at your lips. It's probably stupid, definitely pushing your luck, but...

"By the way," you say, closing the weapons case with a satisfying click. "Since it's already so late... How about grabbing some dinner together at the cafeteria?"

Jeon looks at you like you've just suggested robbing a bank in your underwear.

There's this tiny flicker of surprise in his eyes that would be funny if it wasn't kind of sad. Like the concept of eating with someone is completely foreign to him.

"Dinner? I eat alone."

His voice is flat, but it's as though he's actually considering it, even if he'd rather die than admit it.

"I know, but it's late." You shrug, going for casual even though your heart's doing this weird skippy thing. "Few people will be there, and I had plans that got... rearranged."

You give him a pointed look because hey, this is technically his fault.

"Don't feel like eating by myself."

He stares at you for what feels like forever, face doing that blank thing he does when he's processing something unexpected. Then his mouth quirks up at the corner.

"I don't usually do dinner dates."

You actually laugh at that. "You wish.Think of it as a tactical debriefing over food. Can't strategize on an empty stomach, can we?"

His smirk gets a fraction wider—the Jeon equivalent of a full grin. It's rare to see him look actually amused, and something warm unfurls in your chest at being the cause.

"Tactical debriefing, huh? That's a new one."

"Come on, Jeon. It's just dinner." You try to sound nonchalant, like you're not weirdly invested in his answer. "Besides, you're probably starving after all that shooting."

He does that thing where he goes all still, like he's running risk assessments in his head.

Finally, he nods. "Alright, but this isn't a habit we're starting."

"Of course not, you have a reputation to maintain, thundercloud."

You can't help the smirk as you head for the door. The nickname slips out before you can catch it, but whatever. You're already in deep.

"Not like anybody would believe you anyway, sunshine." He rolls his eyes, but follows you out.

The way he says sunshine—like it's both an insult and something else—makes your stomach do a little flip. But you're not going to think about that.

This is just dinner. Just two gang members having a totally normal, professional meal together.

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

The walk to the cafeteria is weirdly peaceful.

Neither of you says anything, but it's not that awkward silence that makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

It's just... quiet. Your brain's still processing everything—the training, the arrangement, the fact that you're actually going to dinner with Jeon of all people.

The cafeteria's practically empty when you walk in. Just a few night owls scattered around, most of them looking like they're running on coffee and spite.

It's nice, though. No curious eyes, no whispers. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant clink of dishes.

The buffet spread looks like heaven. Your stomach reminds you that you haven't eaten since lunch, growling at the sight of steaming bulgogi and kimchi jjigae. The castle chefs don't mess around—everything looks magazine-worthy, even at this hour.

You load up your tray like you're preparing for hibernation: bulgogi because duh, japchae because the noodles here are actually insane, kimchi fried rice because comfort food is a thing, and those spicy braised potatoes that make your mouth water just looking at them.

Jeon, for his part, goes straight for the protein—galbi ribs, bibimbap loaded with meat, and bossam like he's got something to prove.

You're about to head for a table when you catch him adding even more bulgogi to his already meat-heavy tray.

"Got enough protein there?" You can't help the teasing tone. "Or are you planning to feed a small army?"

Jeon's mouth does that thing where he's trying not to smile but failing.

"I need to keep up my strength." His eyes flick to yours, dark. "Never know when I might need to pin a smartass against a wall."

The laugh that escapes you is only partly nervous. You lead the way to a corner table, far from the few other diners. It feels weirdly intimate, having dinner with someone who usually eats alone.

The food works its magic. You feel the day's tension melting away with each bite, and even Jeon looks more relaxed. That permanent frown he carries around is smoothing out as he tackles his galbi like it's his division's target.

"Holy shit, this is good," you mumble around a mouthful of noodles.

The chefs here could probably work in any five-star restaurant, but instead they're cooking for a bunch of criminals. Life's weird like that.

Jeon makes this little grunt of agreement, cheeks full like a hamster's. He swallows before speaking because apparently assassins have table manners.

"Only decent perk of this place."

You fall into comfortable silence after that, both focused on demolishing your food.

It's strange how normal this feels—just two people sharing dinner, like you don't kill people for a living, like you haven't had your hands all over each other hours ago.

"That rifle technique you used today was solid. Got good instincts."

Coming from Jeon, that's practically a love letter. You hide your smile behind another bite of food, but can't resist poking the bear.

"Well, I have a good teacher. Even if his people skills need work."

He snorts, stabbing another piece of meat with maybe more force than necessary.

"I don't coddle. You get better by doing, not talking."

"True, but positive reinforcement helps too." You gesture with your chopsticks. "I'm only human, thundercloud."

The look he gives you could melt steel. One eyebrow goes up, and there's something dangerous playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Hmmm. Almost sounds like you want to be coddled, sunshine."

The way he says it makes heat pool in your stomach. Because that wasn't about teaching at all, was it?

You laugh to cover the way your breath catches. "In your dreams, Jeon."

You ball up your napkin and throw it at him, which he catches without even looking because of course he does.

Show-off.

"Still," he says, ruining the moment like he's allergic to peace, "your reaction time needs work."

"I'll keep practicing." You shrug, aiming for casual. "Can't have you worrying about me in the field."

"Who said anything about worrying?" But his eyes give him away—that split-second flicker before his face goes blank again.

"Oh please." You wave your chopsticks at him. "You were watching me like a hawk in there. Probably counting my breaths or something equally anal-retentive."

He just shakes his head, suddenly very interested in his food. But you're on a roll now, feeling brave or stupid or both.

"Admit it, you care about my progress." You lean forward, grinning. "It's almost sweet."

Jeon looks up then, and oh. His gaze is intense.

"I care about not getting shot because you can't handle your weapon, sunshine."

You can't help yourself. Really, you can't. "Mhm? Thought I was getting better at handling weapons, thundercloud."

His lips twitch, just barely, but you catch it. It's fascinating, really, how you've somehow stumbled into this easy back-and-forth with him. How beneath all his sharp edges and your sass, there's this... thing.

This rhythm that shouldn't work but does.

Dinner's winding down, and you notice something different about Jeon. The tension he usually carries—the one that makes him look like he's ready to snap someone's neck at any moment—has eased up. Even his face looks softer, less murder-y than usual.

"This was... not terrible," he says, like admitting it physically pains him. His eyes meet yours across the table. "The food, the company... both exceeded my low expectations."

"Oh my god." You press a hand to your chest, going for maximum drama. "Was that a compliment? Should I call J-Hope? Are you feeling okay?"

He snorts, and there's this little uptick at the corner of his mouth that you're starting to recognize as his version of a smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get used to it."

"Too late." You stand up, gathering your plates. "I expect this level of praise at every meal now. Maybe we can work up to actual sentences by next week."

"Don't push your luck, sunshine." But he's still got that almost-smile as he gets up too.

"I mean, you already admitted you don't hate my company. That's practically a love confession by your standards."

Jeon shakes his head, but there's something soft in his eyes.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

You drop off your dishes, and both head for the elevator, falling into comfortable silence.

You reach for the elevator buttons, aiming for the fourth floor where your room is. But Jeon's arm suddenly appears in your peripheral vision, his chest almost brushing your back as he leans forward. There's this tiny pause—blink and you'd miss it—before he hits the button for the fifth floor instead.

You turn your head just enough to catch his eye, raising an eyebrow. No words needed.

You both know what this is: him taking you up on that offer to help him sleep. Simple as that. Like picking up takeout or scheduling target practice.

The elevator starts moving, and holy shit why is it so slow? The silence should be awkward, but it's not.

Maybe because you both know exactly what this is. No bullshit, no complications. Just sleep. Like you said in the training room—you're no good to each other half-dead from exhaustion.

It's probably stupid, spending the night with your Chief. But you've already crossed that line in his tent, and honestly? If sleeping next to you helps with his insomnia, then whatever.

You're already fuck buddies—might as well be helpful ones.

The doors finally open to the fifth floor, and Jeon steps back. He's giving you space, making it clear this is your call. Which is... weirdly considerate, actually. You step out because why not? This isn't some dramatic decision. It's practical. Logical, even.

The walk to his room feels longer than it should. Your feet are dragging because yeah, you're fucking tired. Today's been a whole thing—training, dinner, and now this weird arrangement that somehow makes perfect sense.

Jeon stops at his door, giving you one last look. Checking if you're sure, probably. You nod because duh. This isn't complicated. You're both adults who sometimes fuck and apparently now sometimes sleep (just sleep) together.

The door clicks shut behind you, and you get your first look at Jeon's private space.

So this is where the Chief of Tactical Assassinations sleeps. You can't help but snoop—it's basically in your job description as a member of Seduction Division.

The room is... exactly what you'd expect from Jeon, honestly. It's like someone took his personality and turned it into interior design.

Everything's black, white, or gray, like he's allergic to color. It matches his whole aesthetic—the guy who sees the world in shades of gray, making calls about who lives and who dies. Maybe the monochrome thing is some kind of metaphor. Or maybe he just really likes black.

There's this massive king-sized bed against one wall, all black sheets and dark gray duvet. The bed's made diligently, but you can see the slight wrinkles that mean he's actually slept in it. Unlike some people who just have fancy beds for show.

Next to it is this super minimal nightstand with just a lamp and—oh. An ashtray. Right. His stress-smoking habit.

The furniture could be from one of those fancy minimalist catalogs. Everything's black wood, clean lines, no fuss. There's a dresser that probably holds his endless supply of black t-shirts, a desk that looks barely used, and a chair that seems more decorative than functional.

What really gets you is how empty it is. No photos, no personal stuff, nothing that says "someone actually lives here."

It's like a really expensive prison cell or one of those model rooms in furniture stores.

You spot a door that has to lead to a private bathroom, and fuck, that's not fair. You're sharing a bathroom with like five other girls while Mr. Chief here gets his own shower? The perks of rank, you guess.

The floor's spotless—like, you could probably eat off it. Not a speck of dust anywhere. The whole place is as buttoned-up as Jeon himself, like maybe if he keeps everything perfectly ordered, the rest of his life will fall into line too.

"Well, it's very... you," you say, because what else can you say about a room that looks like it was decorated by a very organized ghost?

"I don't need anything else." He shrugs.

You hover by the bathroom door, suddenly feeling weirdly out of place. Being in Jeon's private space is... different. Not bad different, just different. Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store, except your teacher is a hot assassin you occasionally fuck.

"Hey," you start, trying to sound casual, "mind if I grab a quick shower first? I always wash up before bed, especially after training." You scrunch your nose. "Pretty sure I don't smell like a spring meadow right now."

Jeon's eyebrow does that thing—that infuriating arch that makes you want to either kiss him or kick him.

"What, you saying I stink, sunshine?"

"We both worked up a sweat today, cloud." You roll your eyes, but you're fighting a smile. "No judgment, just stating facts."

He jerks his head toward the bathroom door. "Go ahead. Towels and shit are in there."

You can't help yourself—really, you can't. As you pass him, you throw out: "Maybe take a page from my book and grab one yourself after. You know, freshen up a bit."

The snort he lets out is almost a laugh. "Watch yourself. I don't take orders in my own quarters."

But his eyes are doing that thing where they get all dark and playful, and you know that look.

Intimately.

"Just a suggestion between... friends."

You draw out the last word, letting it hang there like bait. Because that's what you are now, right? Friends who sometimes sleep together. And sometimes fuck. But tonight's just for sleeping.

(Sure it is.)

"So pushy." His smirk should be illegal. "What, you wanna shower together now? Could've just asked, sunshine."

You roll your eyes because it's easier than admitting how tempting that sounds. "You wish, thundercloud. I can handle washing myself just fine."

You head for the bathroom, but pause at the door because apparently, you hate yourself.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you add: "But you know... my back is kind of hard to reach..."

"Nice try." His voice has dropped lower, rougher. "But we said only sleeping tonight. Go get cleaned up. I'll be here when you're done."

The way he says it—like a promise and a threat wrapped in one—makes you seriously reconsider this whole "just sleeping" thing.

The bathroom is exactly what you expected—black and white everything, minimalist as fuck. It's like the room outside but with more tiles and chrome.

You turn the shower on hot enough to steam up the mirrors and step under the spray, letting it pound against your shoulders.

The water pressure is amazing. Of course it is—Chief privileges and all that. Your shared bathroom on the fourth floor can barely manage a decent drizzle, but this? This is heaven.

You take your sweet time, enjoying the luxury of a private shower where no one's going to bang on the door telling you to hurry up.

When you finally emerge, wrapped in one of Jeon's obscenely fluffy black towels (seriously, where does he get these?), steam billows out behind you like you're making some dramatic entrance. Your hair's twisted up in another towel, water still dripping down your neck.

You feel Jeon's eyes on you before you see him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, and the weight of his stare makes your skin prickle.

His face is doing that careful blank thing, but his eyes? They're giving him away.

"Shower's free," you say, aiming for casual even though the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. "You know, if you want it."

He just makes this low humming sound that absolutely does not make heat pool in your stomach.

Instead of moving, he just... looks at you.

His eyes track down your body, slow and deliberate, like he's memorizing every inch.

Like he's thinking about what's under that towel.

You refuse to squirm under his gaze. Two can play this game.

"Like what you see?" You cock an eyebrow, channeling your inner seductress (which is technically your job, so).

His mouth curves into that dangerous almost-smirk. "Maybe I'm just waiting to see if you'll drop that towel."

"You wish."

You turn your back on him (which is definitely not just an excuse to give him a better view) and head for his dresser.

The drawers are organized because of course they are. You find his t-shirts, all neatly folded like some department store display.

"I'm borrowing this," you announce, grabbing a shirt that looks big enough to work as a dress. You glance over your shoulder, catching his eyes again. "Unless you'd prefer me naked?"

His smirk grows, and fuck, that should be illegal.

"Be my guest."

The invitation in his voice makes your skin feel too tight, but you're not giving in that easy. This is a game of chicken now, and you're not about to lose.

Even if losing sounds really, really tempting right now.

You unwind the towel from your hair and toss it at Jeon, aiming for his face but hitting his chest instead.

"Just sleeping, remember? Go shower."

The towel slides down his front, and you catch this tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth—like he wants to smile but his reputation won't let him.

He stands up in that way he does, all fluid grace and barely contained power. Without a word, he heads for the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and soon you hear water running.

You grab his brush (because of course he has one, Mr. Perfect Hair) and start working through your damp hair.

It's weirdly domestic, sitting here in Jeon's room, wearing his shirt, using his stuff. The brush is probably expensive—it glides through your hair like it's made of silk or something.

Speaking of his shirt... You pull it on, and fuck. It smells like him—pine, wood, and smoke.

The fabric drowns you, hanging off one shoulder, falling to mid-thigh. There's something stupidly thrilling about wearing his clothes, like you're getting away with something.

Once your hair's somewhat tamed, you twist it up into a bun. The mirror catches your eye—one of those full-length ones that probably cost more than your monthly salary. You can't help checking yourself out, tugging the shirt down a bit because apparently, you still have modesty or whatever.

That's when you see him in the reflection.

Oh.

Jeon's fresh out of the shower, water still beading on his chest, towel riding low on his hips like it's trying to start something. He's got another towel in his hands, drying his hair as he sits on the bed, but his eyes?

His eyes are locked on your ass like it's his favorite meal.

The mirror gives you a perfect view of his face, and holy shit. The way he's looking at you—it's not subtle. At all. His gaze is heavy, hungry, like he's thinking about all the ways this "just sleeping" arrangement could go very, very wrong.

(Or very, very right, depending on your perspective.)

The temperature in the room spikes, and it's definitely not from the shower steam. You can practically feel the heat of his stare through the mirror.

So much for keeping things platonic tonight. A smirk tugs at your lips as an idea forms. Because if Jeon wants to play this game?

Well, two can definitely play.

You reach up to your bun, pretending to mess with the hair tie.

Oops—it "accidentally" slips through your fingers, falling to the floor with a silent grace that would make your Seduction Division trainers proud.

"Oh no," you say, channeling your best innocent voice. The one that fools absolutely no one but works anyway. "How clumsy of me."

You turn your back to Jeon, and fuck, you can practically feel his eyes burning into you.

Bending down—slowly, because you're nothing if not thorough—you give him a view that you know from experience he can't resist. The borrowed shirt rides up just enough to be interesting.

You take your sweet time "looking" for the hair tie, even though you can see it right there. Your fingers trail across the floor like you're putting on a show, which... yeah, you absolutely are.

When you finally grab it, you throw a look over your shoulder.

Jackpot.

Dark, obscure eyes pin you in place. Absolutely hungry.
You'd bet good money that towel isn't hiding much anymore.

"See something you like?" Your voice comes out honey-sweet, but there's nothing innocent about the way you're looking at him.

Before he can compose himself enough to answer, you straighten up and sashay over to the bed. The sway in your hips isn't natural, but who cares about natural when it makes Jeon's breath catch like that?

You slip under the sheets, turning away from him because you're evil like that. The mattress dips as he lies down next to you, and you have to bite back a smile.

"We should get some rest." You keep your voice light, casual, like dismissing every inch of space between you. "Long day tomorrow."

He makes this grunt that could mean anything, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the sound of him wrestling with his self-control.

You can picture his face—brow furrowed, jaw clenched, probably glaring at the ceiling like he wants to shadowbox with it.

You wait, barely breathing.

Maybe you read this wrong.

Maybe he's actually planning to be good tonight.

Maybe he really does just want to sleep.

That's fine. Totally fine. This was his idea anyway, right? Just sleeping.

You're about to give up, admit defeat, when the mattress shifts.

Jeon rolls toward you, and suddenly his chest is pressed against your back, all heat and hard muscle. You fight back a shiver as his hand finds your hip, his thumb drawing lazy circles that make your skin buzz. His breath fans hot against your neck, and fuck, this is so much better than sleeping.

"I need to ease some tension, sunshine."

His voice is pure sin, rough and low right by your ear.

Heat pools in your stomach as you roll onto your back, meeting his gaze. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel how much he wants this.

"Oh?" You hold his stare, watching his control slip. "I thought you'd never ask."

You're definitely not getting much sleep tonight.

But hey, that was kind of the point, wasn't it?

 

Chapter 18: bedroom confessions

Summary:

“His real name is the most dangerous thing he’s ever given you.”

Notes:

Y’ALL I’M DECEASED. Just casually writing 7.5k of filth like it’s nothing. Who even am I at this point? My laptop is judging me, my FBI agent is traumatized, and I haven’t made eye contact with my roommate in three days.

So… that happened. Jungkook finally shared his real name AND his bed, and honestly? The power that man holds when he’s being all dominant and teasing is absolutely CRIMINAL. I had to take several water breaks while writing this chapter because WHEW. Is it hot in here or is it just me? (¬‿¬)

The fact that Jungkook’s idea of aftercare is literally “wanna stay connected all night?” has me HOLLERING. Sir, that is NOT how this works—but also it’s so perfectly HIM. Our emotionally stunted sniper boy doesn’t know how to process feelings unless they’re shooting through a rifle scope.

And Y/N with the attitude even DURING sex? A queen behavior. Standing ovation for not becoming a complete puddle the second he touched her (though let’s be real, it was close).

Let’s also talk about how they can’t stop BANTERING even post-orgasm. These two idiots calling it “charity work” when they’re both equally obsessed with each other? THE DELUSION. I love them so much it physically hurts my face.

I know I promised slow burn but uh… Listen. LISTEN. It’s an EMOTIONALLLL slow burn. The fuck buddies tag is there for a reason. Sometimes characters just take over and you have to let them bang it out, you know? It’s for their mental health or whatever.

Don’t get too comfortable though! We all know what happens in this universe when people get too happy… the universe (aka me, their cruel god) decides to throw a wrench in everything. ⌒(o＾▽＾o)ノ

Next chapter will give us a little morning-after situation and maybe even some actual plot development if I can stop writing smut for five seconds!

Love ya, trauma vultures! Keep those comments coming, they fuel my sleep-deprived writing sessions!

xoxo 💋

P.S. Also, for the hate comment I deleted 5 seconds after it was posted (you tried though)... here's an even longer author's note, since yk, like you said, nobody reads them... More for me to yap without consequences, I guess.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You're in Jeon's room. 

Jeon's fucking room. 

When he'd texted you to come to the shooting range earlier, you'd figured it was just another one of his typical late-night training sessions. 

But now? Now you're here, on his bed , with him standing over you like he’s already decided you’re his next target.

Like you’re already dead and just haven’t figured it out yet.

Okay, maybe a tiny part of you had hoped for this. (Shut up , horny brain.)

But you'd only agreed to be fuck buddies like, what, some hours ago?

And here you are already, sprawled across his sheets, heart hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape.

Talk about moving fast.

Except it isn't simple. Not when you're already spread out across his bed like you fucking live here. Not when your heart's kicking like a scared rabbit in your chest.

Your fingers curl into his sheets on reflex. Satin. Dark. Smells like pine and something sharper—pine. Him. God, that should not do things to you but it does.

You fight the dumb grin twitching at the corner of your mouth.

Because here's the thing.

He's just as gone for it.

Jeon's staring down at you like he hasn't eaten in days. Dark eyes locked on you like you're dinner and dessert and every guilty pleasure combined. There's no hesitation. No second-guessing. No going slow. Just that razor-focused, dangerous glint he always gets before pulling the trigger on a mark.

And Jesus Christ, you're the mark.

Your breath catches.

That stormy energy of his? It's fucking alive. Wrapping around you. Crawling over your skin. You feel it. You taste it. Static in the air—sharp, biting, almost buzzing in your goddamn teeth.

His fingers graze your thigh and oh. 

That's nice. Really nice. 

But before you can really enjoy it, he pulls his hand away. Plants it on the mattress by your head, making the bed creak under his weight.

You snap your head up in disbelief. "Seriously?"

Your voice cracks. Great. Love that for you.

But then his other hand comes up—slides along your jaw like he owns you. Fingers rough. Callused. Deadly. And all you can do is stare like a fucking idiot as his thumb presses against your bottom lip. Tugging. Testing.

You go pliant before you even process it. Lips parting on instinct.

His mouth opens just a little—like he's picturing it. Like he wants to taste you. Swallow you whole.

And goddamn it, you want that too.

So bad it hurts.

Is he imagining what it'd be like to kiss you? 'Cause you sure as hell are.

"You sure you can handle the kind of tension relief I'm talking about?" he asks, voice low and gravelly. 

You almost laugh. As if you haven't been thinking about this exact scenario for weeks. 

"Guess you'll have to show me so I can decide, huh?"

That does it. 

He moves. Fast.

You barely register it before he's already there—mouth crashing into yours like he's starving. Teeth. Tongue. Fucking warzone.

There's no slow build-up. No teasing. Just pure, raw take.

Your breath punches out of you as you grab for him. Instinct. Desperation. Your fingers slip into his hair—damp, messy, soft as hell. You tug. Hard.

He groans into your mouth. Loud. Deep. Way too fucking hot. It rips down your spine like lightning.

You bite his lip just to feel him suck in air through his teeth. God, that sound—that sound—shoots straight to your core. Your legs twitch under him, thighs pressing together, trying to ease the ache.

It doesn't work. Makes it worse.

Jeon doesn't let you off easy either. He dives back in. Deeper this time. Tongue claiming, swallowing every shaky breath you give him like he owns them now.

His body shifts—presses down harder—pinning you to the mattress without saying a single word. Your back arches up like a fucking reflex. Can't help it.

And then, just as fast, he pulls back.

Forehead against yours. Breath ragged. Lips slick and swollen.

His chest rises and falls like he just ran a mile.

You're no better. Gasping. Throat dry. Pulse wrecked.

"We doing this?" he asks. 

Not really a question. He knows. You both know. Still—he waits.

And maybe it's stupid how much that makes your throat go tight.

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. "Yes."

One word. That's all it takes for Jeon's eyes to darken further.

His mouth finds yours again, but only for a moment. Then he's moving—trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. When his teeth graze below your ear, a small gasp leaves your throat.

Fuck.

The sound does something to him. You can tell by the way his fingers dig into your hip, how his breath comes out just a bit harsher against your skin.

His other hand slides down your stomach, fingers spread wide like he's trying to touch as much of you as possible. The shirt bunches up with the movement. 

More skin exposed to the cool air of his room. More of you for him to explore.

You can barely breathe right. Every inhale is shallow, desperate. A whine builds in your throat, needy and embarrassing, but you're too far gone to care. You want more. More of his hands on you, more of his mouth, more of the way he's practically caging you in with his body.

He makes this sound—low and satisfied, almost like a growl—that has heat pooling between your legs.

"Jeon," you breathe out. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. 

"Jungkook," he corrects, voice rough with want. "My real name is Jungkook. Say it like that again."

Your breath catches. Using real names in Kkangpae isn't something you take lightly. It's intimate. Personal. A sign of trust that goes beyond the physical.

"Jungkook," you say again, louder this time. Testing how it feels on your tongue. 

The way his eyes darken tells you everything you need to know about how it sounds to him.

He growls—actually growls, okay paw patrol?—at that, like your voice saying his name is doing things to him. Like he can't get enough of it.

God. The way he's looking at you right now.

"Turn over for me," he murmurs like a command, but there's something patient in his voice. "I need to see that ass."

Your whole body feels like jelly as you move. The mattress dips beneath you, and fuck—you realize how exposed you are right now, laid out for him like this. How vulnerable. 

How wanted.

"Ass up, sunshine," he says, voice raspy.

You push yourself up on your elbows, lifting your hips. The position makes you feel s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, but it also feels slightly intoxicating, being on display like this, knowing exactly what it's doing to him.

The sharp intake of his breath is worth it.

His hands hover over you for a moment—those same hands that can take a life from a mile away with a sniper rifle now ghosting across your skin. The anticipation has your stomach in knots, has you fighting the urge to push back against him.

When he finally touches you, it's almost reverent. Like he's mapping out territory he plans to claim.

"Fuck," he breathes out; and the way he says it—like a prayer, like worship—makes your face burn. "You have no idea what your ass does to me."

His fingers dig into the flesh of your ass, kneading with the kind of expertise that makes you wonder h̶o̶w̶ ̶m̶a̶n̶y̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶ if he's thought about this before. 

You have to press your face into the pillow to muffle the sounds trying to escape your throat. 

Because if you start, you're not sure you'll be able to stop.

He takes his time, methodical in a way that's driving you insane. His thumbs spread you open, then let you fall back together. His hands work their way, massaging and squeezing. The heat under your skin builds until you feel like you might combust. Like you might actually catch fire right here in his bed.

"Such a perfect ass," he groans, and then—oh—his lips are pressing against one cheek, then the other. Soft kisses that feel somehow filthier than anything else he's done. "Fucking beautiful."

The praise hits different when it's coming from him. When it's Jungkook—cold, distant, perfectionist Jungkook—telling you how perfect you are.

When he pulls back, the loss of contact hits different. Like someone just yanked a warm blanket off you.

"I want to try something," he says, and okay, when his voice sounds like that you'd say yes to almost anything he'd say. 

"Yeah?" Your voice is breathy, but at this point you're too curious (too turned on) to give a single fuck.

His hand traces up your spine, gentle in a way that doesn't match how intensely he's staring at you. The contrast makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

"I want to spank that gorgeous ass of yours." 

It comes out like a confession, like he's been thinking about this for a while. There's a question mark hanging at the end of it though, waiting for your permission.

Oh.

Something hot and electric zips through you at the suggestion. Your brain staggers for a second, but your body's already made up its mind. You're nodding before you can even process what this means.

"Let's do it," you say, maybe too eagerly, but the thought of his hand coming down on your ass has lit something up inside you that you didn't even know was there.

"Remember our safe word?"

Even in the middle of this is, he's making sure you're both on the same page.

"Black tape," you confirm immediately. 

Having that word there, knowing you can use it anytime—it's like a safety net. Makes everything else feel okay.

"Good."

He positions himself behind you again, and the anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you crazy. His hand hovers over your skin, making you feel every inch of exposed flesh. 

Then, the first spank lands.

It's almost gentle—like he's testing the waters, seeing how you'll react.

The sound it makes in the quiet room has your face burning.

Sharp. Clean. Loud. 

Your skin blooms with heat where his palm connected, and fuck—it's not exactly painful, but it sends this electric feeling through your whole body that has you gasping. The sting melts into something warmer, spreading under your skin until you feel like you're floating.

Your face burns. 

And... It's not from pain.

Obviously, he's watching you like a hawk, trying to read your reaction. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy and intense.

"How was that?" His voice comes out rough, like he's the one who just got spanked.

You have to take a second to remember how words work.

"Good," you manage to get out, barely above a whisper. "Really good."

He gives you time to process, to just feel it. Then his palm is back on your ass, but this time he's not spanking. He's just... touching. Soothing the heated skin with gentle strokes that somehow feel more intimate than the spank itself.

It's messing with your head—how he can switch from rough to gentle so fast. One second he's spanking you, the next he's treating you like you're made of glass.

The air feels exactly like right before a storm hits. 

Jungkook's presence behind you is overwhelming in the best way, and when his hand moves away, you actually have to bite back a whine.

Every second he makes you wait feels like torture. You arch your back a little, trying to be s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ subtle about asking for more. You can't see his face, but you know he's smirking. 

You've seen that look enough times to picture it perfectly—that cocky little quirk of his lips, the way his eyes get all dark and intense.

"Ready for another?" he asks, voice gone all gravelly; and it shouldn't be hot, but it is.

Your heart's going crazy in your chest when you nod. "Yes."

Waiting has has your skin tingling, has you holding your breath without even meaning to.

You can feel him shifting behind you, the mattress dipping as he draws his arm back. 

When his palm connects this time, it's not a question—it's a statement. 

The smack echoes off the walls, louder than before, and holy shit.

"Fuck," you gasp out. 

It stings more this time, sharp and intense, but in a way that makes everything feel unfairly good.

"How does that feel?" His words drip with arousal, but there's still that undercurrent of concern. 

Always checking, always making sure.

"Nice," you hear yourself say, and you're surprised by how eager you sound. Like you can't get enough. "Keep going."

There's a pause, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"As you wish," he finally says, and you don't need to see his face to know he's smirking.

He pulls back again, and like the asshole he is, he makes you wait a little bit.

Not for long though, because clearly, the fucker is enjoying this too.

When the third spank lands, it's like a lightning bolt straight to your core. It's stronger, more controlled, and the pleasure that rips through you is so intense it steals your breath. 

You cry out—not from pain, but from how good it feels. 

How it makes your whole body sing.

This time, his hand stays put. You can feel the heat of his palm against your stinging skin, and it's grounding in a way you didn't know you needed.

"Beautiful," he breathes out, like you're some kind of work of art.

You hadn't pegged Jungkook as the type to be into this kind of thing. But the way his breath catches, the slight tremor in his hand as it rests on your ass—it's like he's discovering something about himself right along with you.

Maybe it's a spanking thing. Or maybe it's just a you thing.

Or your ass thing. 

Either way, the realization that you're affecting him this much? 

Heady. Bargaining material. 

His fingers start tracing patterns on your heated skin, soothing the sting. Again with the contrast, from the spanking to this. Like he's not quite sure himself where he stands.

"You okay?"

You nod into the pillow, not trusting your voice right now. 

Because how do you tell someone that you're more than okay? That you're floating on some kind of pleasure high you didn't even know existed?

And honestly, this whole situation is simply making it hard to think straight. 

But then, Jungkook moves, slowly, creates some distance and—oh? 

A soft thud. His towel hitting the floor. 

He steps closer once more, bare skin against yours, and it's hot. He's hot. His skin is hot.

His body is all hard lines pressed up against your softer curves, and when his cock presses against your panties, you actually have to bite your lip to keep quiet.

You push back against him without thinking. 

S̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ Needy.

"You're driving me fucking crazy," he makes this sound you can't quite classify.

The raw want in his voice does things to you. But before you can even think of responding, his hand comes down on your ass again. 

Hard.

The sound echoes through his room, and you can't help the moan that slips out.

(Anyone walking past his door would definitely hear that one.)

"Tell me you felt that," he demands.

"I felt it," you manage to get out between breaths. "I felt all of it."

Then his free hand wraps around your waist, fingers spreading wide like he's trying to conquer as much of your body as possible. He pulls you closer, and god—you can feel every inch of his cock pressed against you through the thin fabric of your panties. 

The contrast between his rough skin and the smooth material is driving you insane.

"You want more?" 

He's trying to sound teasing, but you can hear how affected he is. His voice is multiple octaves deeper than his usual 'whatever' tone.

"Yeah." Your voice comes out wrecked. "Don't stop."

He laughs—this low, dangerous sound that makes your toes curl. "God, I love how eager you are."

His hand comes down hard—harder than before—and the sound echoes through his room like a gunshot. You can't help the groan that rips from your throat. It's embarrassingly loud, but who cares at this point?

The sting burns hot across your skin, sharp and biting, sinking deeper until it melts into that aching pulse you can’t get enough of. You can feel exactly where his palm landed, the heat of it sinking deep into your flesh.

"Christ, you take it so well," he says, and his fingers dig into the spot he just spanked, pressure making you bite your lip. "I can see the shape of my hand on your ass, turning red. It's fucking sexy."

You're breathing like you just ran a marathon, each exhale coming out kind of whiny and desperate. Your brain’s mush. All you can register is his hands and the heat of him grinding against you.

"Jungkook, please." The way you say his name is straight-up pathetic, way too needy. 

You push back against him, wanting to feel him without these stupid panties in the way.

His fingers trail down your spine, so slow it’s infuriating. They dance over the curve of your ass before playing with the edge of your underwear. When his fingers finally hook into the fabric, you freeze, chest tightening as he pulls the fabric aside.

Your face is pressed into his mattress, ass up in the air like some kind of offering. You should feel exposed, but something about it just feels right.

"You're already so wet for me..." You can hear the smirk in his voice. What an asshole. "How can I resist?"

But he does resist, the bastard.

His touch goes all gentle, fingers just barely exploring your folds like he's got all the time in the world. Like he's trying to memorize every little detail—how wet you are, how warm, the way you can't help but tremble. 

He then makes this approving sound deep in his throat and you've had enough.

"Jungkook," you whine, dragging out his name like some kind of desperate prayer. "Stop teasing."

"But I want to watch you squirm," he says, and fuck—you can tell he means it. 

He wants to see you fall apart, wants to watch you beg.

What a bitch. 

His sadistic little game only gets worse when you complain. You can feel his finger right there, barely touching where you need him most, just collecting evidence of how embarrassingly wet you are. The anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you insane as he slides that finger up and down, parting you without actually giving you what you want. Using your own arousal to make the glide easier.

You try to push back against him, to get his finger inside you—anything. But his other hand is pressed firm against your lower back, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

"Jesus Christ, just fuck me already," you can't help but groan, frustrated. 

But Jungkook—because he's a bastard—just keeps playing his little game.

"I'll fuck you when you're ready to break from wanting it so bad," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. 

He loves it. 

His finger circles your entrance, the touch so light it's actually torture. Every time he passes over that spot, you clench around nothing, desperate to feel him inside you.

When he finally pushes just the tip of his finger in, you actually sigh out loud—half relief, half frustration. Your whole body's shaking with how bad you need more, but he keeps holding back. Adding pressure so slowly it should be illegal, pushing in just to pull back out again.

He's drawing this out just because he can, the power-tripping dickhead.

The pressure builds just a tiny bit as he shows you the smallest amount of mercy, sliding that one finger in entirely so slow you think you might actually lose your mind. 

It's not enough—nowhere near enough—and he knows it. 

You want him to stop being so careful, to just take what you're offering.

Despite how frustrated you are (or maybe because of it), you can't help but smirk. 

"What, you got no condoms this time either?"

The words come out all breathy between your gritted teeth—and honestly? Not your brightest idea, bringing up that particular memory from the tent.

The response is immediate—his hand comes down hard on your ass, sting spreading across your skin like wildfire.

"Aw, what the fuck—?" 

You yelp, caught between the sharp pain and how embarrassingly turned on it makes you feel—like your body can't decide if it wants to flinch away or push back for more.

"You should know better than to sass me right now."

Then his hand is smoothing over the spot he just spanked, gentle in a way that feels almost worse than the hit itself.

"You're such an asshole," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it. 

You both know you don't mean it, not when you're bent over his bed with his finger inside you.

"Mhm, but you fucking love it, don't you?" 

He says it like it's just a fact. Like the sky is blue, water is wet, and you get off on him being a dick.

(The worst part is he's not wrong.)

You can't help but grown more impatient when you feel his ring finger press up against your entrance, right next to where his middle finger is already buried inside you. He pauses there, just letting you feel the pressure.

"For fuck's sake, just do it." Your voice cracks embarrassingly, giving away just how bad you want it.

He laughs, low and rough. "Patience, I want you to feel every single inch."

Can he die? Genuinely. 

Then the pressure builds as he starts working his ring finger in alongside the other one. He's being so fucking methodical about it, pushing deeper into you at a pace that's making you lose your mind. 

Every inch feels like it takes forever.

"You feel so fucking tight, you sure you can handle both?"

The teasing note in his voice makes you want to bite him. He already knows the answer, the smug bastard.

"I can take more than you can give," you get out between breaths, because fuck him.

And it's meant to be cocky, but it comes out sounding more desperate than anything.

"We'll see about that."

His fingers stop moving for a second—just long enough to make you whine—before he starts pushing in even slower. Like he's trying to make you feel every single movement, every stretch, every slide.

And at this point your body's on fucking fire. But can you be to blame, when he's been nothing but an infuriating tease?

Little pleading sounds keep escaping your throat without permission. You're practically chanting 'please's as you try to push back against his hand. But he's got you pinned, keeping that torturously slow pace.

"Fucking... jerk," you mutter—because he absolutely is. 

"Yeah," he agrees. "I am."

When both his fingers finally—finally—bottom out inside you, you actually gasp. Your body clenches around them greedily, trying to get any kind of movement, and the grunt he lets out sounds s̶e̶x̶y̶ pleased.

"Tell me how much you want it."

It's not a request. His voice has that edge to it that makes it very clear.

"I want it more than my next breath." The words tumble out raw and honest.

"Good girl," he says, and even though it's rough around the edges, the praise makes you stutter.

His fingers curl inside you, making you moan embarrassingly loud. Then the bastard just... stops. Stays completely still, letting you feel exactly how deep his fingers are, how they're stretching you open.

You're actually going to lose your mind if he doesn't start moving soon. But you refuse to beg—you won't give him the satisfaction.

"I think listening to you beg is my new favorite sound," he says, like he can read your thoughts.

"Fuck off—" The words die in your throat when his fingers pull back just a tiny bit before pushing deep again, and yup, the sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up pathetic.

"You're driving me insane," you tell him, trying to sound angry.

"That's the idea." He says, but it's all dark and pleased. "I want you out of your mind with need, so when I finally give you what you're begging for, you'll remember who put you there."

Fuck.

His fingers are still buried deep inside you, not moving, and you can feel every single knuckle. It's like a preview of what's coming later—a promise that this is just the start, and he's planning to take his sweet time getting there.

The seconds drag by like hours. You're stuck in this weird space between pleasure and frustration, where his fingers feel so good but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough. The heat of his body against yours isn't helping either. Having him this close but not getting what you want is actually torture.

"Are you planning on moving anytime this century?"

And yeah. It sounds bitchy. 

Exactly how you want it.

"In due time."

You can barely breathe right, desperation clawing at your throat. Then—oh—his finger brushes against your clit, so light you almost think you imagined it. Your hips jerk without permission, chasing that barely-there touch.

"Jungkook," you warn, half-growl, half-whine.

He chuckles. "No patience at all, huh?"

"Just fucking touch me already." The snark in your voice is falling apart, giving way to pure need.

"Ahh, I love it when you get all feisty."

You open your mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove that smugness, but then his finger is back on your clit. 

Just ghosting over it, barely any pressure at all. 

But your whole body lights up anyway, every nerve ending suddenly wide awake.

"This is torture," you accuse, though the breathiness in your voice kind of ruins the effect.

"Not torture. Appreciation." He hums. "I'm just enjoying all those pretty sounds you make. The way you shake. How desperate you get."

Bastard.

His finger starts moving in slow circles around your clit, adding just a tiny bit more pressure. It's enough to make your back arch, trying to get more friction, but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough.

"Please," you whine, past caring how needy you sound. "Just—a little harder, please, Jungkook."

He gives you what you asked for—barely. 

Just a fraction more pressure, but combined with his fingers still buried inside you, it's enough to make your body clench around him. 

He's got you trapped between pleasure and frustration, keeping you right on that edge.

"This what you want?" he asks, mocking. "This pace good for you, hmm?"

You know exactly what he's doing—getting off on your impatience, on how desperate he can make you with just his fingers and that stubborn w̶i̶l̶l̶p̶o̶w̶e̶r̶ control of his. 

The pressure on your clit keeps changing, going from barely-there touches that make you want to scream to just enough to have you chasing more.

"Jungkook, I fucking swear—" 

The words die in your throat when his finger suddenly presses harder.

"What?" His voice drops even lower, hitting that dangerous note that usually means he's about to stop playing nice. "What exactly are you swearing?"

"That I'll rip your fucking hair out if you don't stop messing around." You have to grit your teeth to get the words out, trying to sound threatening even though you're literally shaking with need.

He laughs—this deep, dark sound that vibrates through you—and rewards your threat with a firm stroke that has heat coiling in your stomach.

"That's not very nice," he says, but he sounds more amused than anything. Like your empty threats are entertaining him.

His finger goes back to those slow, torturous circles around your clit. Each pass builds the pressure a little more, but it's never quite enough to get you there.

The most f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ messed up part? You're kind of into it. 

This whole power play thing you've got going—how you push and he pulls, how you threaten and he teases. 

It's addictive. 

Because in truth, there is something powerful about knowing you can make Jeon Jungkook, Kkangpae's perfect soldier, want to hear you say his name.

Suddenly his whole rhythm changes. 

No more of that torturously slow pace—his fingers start moving with actual purpose, curling inside you in a way that has your toes curling. Like he's finally done playing around and just wants to make you genuinely cum.

Hallelujah.

The sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up filthy. You have to press your face into the mattress to muffle it, which only makes you more aware of how heavily you're breathing, each gasp basically fucking advertising how good his fingers feel.

"Come on, sunshine," he teases. "You don't have to be quiet. These walls are soundproof."

But you just press your face harder into the mattress. 

It's become a matter of pride now—you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing exactly what he's doing to you. 

You're right there, so close you can taste it—

And then the fucker stops.

A pathetic whimper leaves your throat as you squirm beneath him, feeling weirdly empty. The loss of sensation has you actually wanting to cry.

When you turn your head to glare at him, he's got this insufferably satisfied look on his face. 

He reaches over to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer like he's got all the time in the world. The foil packet he holds up catches the light, and the victorious look he gives you makes you want to bite him.

"See, I do have condoms this time, you smart mouth." The smirk on his face should be illegal.

"Oh wow, look who's being a semi-functional adult for once." You narrow your eyes at him."Want a fucking gold star or something?"

He laughs whilst tearing the foil packet and for some reason, it is weirdly hot—how focused he looks while rolling the condom on.

"Maybe after this you'll want to give me one," he says, still sounding way too amused.

He settles back on his knees, raising an eyebrow at you like he's waiting for something. You huff, pretending to be all put out even though you're literally dying from how bad you want him. When you press your cheek against his cool sheets again, you make sure to arch your back just right.

You know exactly what that view does to him.

Feeling extra b̶r̶a̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, you wiggle your hips a little. Just a tiny movement, but it's basically saying 'come and get it' without words.

And bingo. 

His hand comes down on your ass hard—but despite that, you feel weirdly victorious. 

Then he's right there, lining himself up. 

His tip brushes against your entrance, teasing to the point of madness, because at this point you just want him inside already.

You bite down on the sheets, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg again. But your body's giving you away anyway—the way you're trembling, how desperately you're trying to push back against him.

He takes his sweet time, just watching you. His eyes trail down your spine to where his handprints are probably turning your ass red. 

After what feels like forever, he finally pushes in, one smooth stroke that rips the air from your lungs.

And it's impossible to muffle yourself; even with your face squashed against the mattress, when he bottoms out completely. 

You feel every single inch of him, filling you up so completely it's genuinely insane. And he just stays there, buried deep inside you. 

"So fucking tight," he growls, sound vibrating through you, making your toes curl.

Your body moves on its own, pushing back against him, desperate for more. You need him to move, need that relentless pace you know he can give you. But the bastard just holds you there, completely still, making you feel every single detail of how he's splitting you open.

His fingers dig into your hips—not hard enough to leave marks (yet), but firm enough to keep you exactly where he wants you. And the slight bite of pain just adds to the pleasure, kind of welcome honestly. 

When he finally pulls back, you almost whine at the loss—but then he slams back in, hard and deep, and your brain melts. Everything gets kind of blurry after that.

Your skin feels like it's on fire everywhere he touches. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes through his room (thank god these walls are actually soundproof), getting louder with each thrust. His pace is brutal, punishing, but it's exactly what you've been dying for.

"That's it, take all of it."

And there's just this thing in how he says it—that has you pushing back against him like you're desperate for it. 

(Maybe you are.)

Every thrust feels like getting hit by a natural disaster; like a fucking hurricane. It's hard to breathe, hard to think about anything except how he's driving you into the mattress.

He's fucking you like he's got something to prove, hips snapping forward so hard it's just obscene, has you clutching at his sheets like they're the only thing keeping you grounded.

Then his hand slides underneath you, looking for your clit. Like he knows exactly what you need without you voicing it out. 

The second he finds it and starts rubbing circles against it, electricity zips through your whole body. It's almost too much, the dual sensation of his cock stretching you open and his fingers working your clit.

"Fuck, Jungkook," you moan, and you barely recognize your own voice. "Don't stop."

He lets out this grunt that gets lost in the sound of him pounding into you. 

But he listens, thank god, keeping up that relentless pace with both his cock and his fingers.

It's not gentle. He's fucking you like he wants to break you, like he wants to hear every embarrassing sound he can wring out of your throat.

"Just like that, sunshine," he pants. "Fucking take it."

Each thrust builds something wild inside you, like being caught in the eye of a hurricane. The pressure coils tighter and tighter until you think you might actually lose your mind. Everything feels too much and not enough all at once.

Your senses go into overdrive—the obscene sound of skin hitting skin, the heavy scent of sex filling his room, the salt of sweat on your tongue. You're drowning in pleasure, and Jungkook's the one holding you under with his relentless pace.

Then it hits.

The orgasm crashes through you in waves, drawing these embarrassingly loud sounds from your throat—whimpers, growls, straight-up begging. Your body clamps down around his cock like it's trying to keep him there forever, fingers still working your clit through it all. Pleasure zips through every nerve ending until you can barely breathe.

"Jungkook—" His name rips from your throat when you come, sounding absolutely wrecked. 

The pleasure is so intense it almost hurts.

He falters for just a second before picking the pace back up, fucking you through your orgasm until you're seeing stars. Each stroke sets off these little aftershocks that have you questioning your sanity. His groans get louder, deeper, mixing with the sounds you can't help but make.

Every thrust hits exactly where you need it, precise and commanding in that way only he can manage.

You can feel how tense he is, how close he is to losing it.

His breathing comes out all rough and uneven, matching the brutal pace of his thrusts. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave marks, using the grip to pull you back onto his cock like he can't get deep enough. 

It's feral, is what it is— how he's moving now—like he's completely lost in it, chasing his own pleasure.

"Shit, I'm close," he groans against your neck, chest pressed tight against your back, skin burning everywhere you touch.

Then he goes rigid as it hits him. 

You can feel every twitch of his cock, every pulse as he fills the condom.

He makes this plethora of sounds—deep, rough groans combined with some high pitched ones; all stripped away until he's just raw need and pleasure.

"Ah— fuck—"

Every curse that falls from his lips sounds snatched from him, desperate.

His hips stutter against yours, losing his rhythm as he rides it all out. His grip on your hips is tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he falls apart. Each thrust gets slower, like he's trying to make it last.

When he starts coming down from it, his hands go gentle where they were rough before. 

He's still panting hard against your neck, little aftershocks making his cock twitch inside you. His heart's hammering so hard you can feel it against your back.

Jungkook collapses against your back, his legs apparently giving out after how hard he just came. His chest is slick with sweat where it presses against you, and his breath fans hot across your neck. He's still buried inside you, cock softening but still making you feel so full. 

The sound he makes—this low, satisfied groan—is almost cute. Like a big cat after a good meal.

The afterglow starts to settle, leaving this heavy kind of quiet between you. Your breathing starts evening out, going from desperate gasping to something more normal. 

You both just... stay there for a minute, too worn out to move.

Then he just... drops his full weight on you. Like his arms finally give out or something.

The heat of his body wraps around you completely, and maybe it'd be nice if he wasn't crushing your lungs. 

His whole body is radiating exhaustion, and yeah—you get it. That was intense. 

"Jeon, move... you're heavy," you grunt into his pillow. 

Your voice comes out all rough from how loud you were being earlier.

"Give me a second," he mumbles against your skin, sounding just as wrecked as you feel. "You can't expect me to move after fucking you like that." 

He sounds half-joking, half-serious, nuzzling into your neck like he's planning to just stay there forever.

You can't help but laugh at that. Something about seeing Kkangpae's perfect soldier brought down by an orgasm is kind of hilarious. 

You shove at his side, trying to get him to budge.

He doesn't move an inch, the bastard. 

Instead, he has the audacity to suggest something so wild it's weirdly very him.

"How 'bout we fall asleep just like this, me still inside you?" His voice comes out all lazy and satisfied. 

You can tell he's half-joking, but there's this note in his voice that says he's actually considering it.

You reach back to smack him, caught between being annoyed and kind of endeared by how shameless he is. 

"Fat chance, thundercloud," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it. 

He laughs—this deep, warm sound that tells you he's smiling even though you can't see his face.

But you really can't breathe with him crushing you, so you push at him again, harder this time. "Seriously, off. You're heavy as fuck."

He makes this exaggerated groan like you're asking him to run a marathon or something, but finally rolls off you and onto his side. 

His cock slips out (and fuck, that's a weird feeling), and then he sprawls out next to you, throwing one arm over his face as he catches his breath. 

The sight of him like this—all tatted up and muscled, skin still kind of shiny with sweat—is doing things to your brain that you really don't want to examine too closely.

After a few more deep breaths, he sits up with this little sigh like moving is the worst thing ever. You watch him from the corner of your eye as he deals with the condom. 

There's something almost gentle about how he handles it, which is kind of funny considering how rough he w being just a minute ago. He ties it off and tosses it in the trash with this practiced little flick that says he's definitely done this before.

"So, you wanna cuddle?" The teasing in his voice is obvious. 

It's a callback to your conversation earlier, when you were both pretending this was just going to be sleeping.

"Seems like I'm not the one wanting to cuddle after all," you shoot back, matching his tone.

Jungkook gives you that smug little grin.

"Just doing some charity work," he says, voice all teasing and challenging, daring you to argue.

You can't help but scoff. The audacity of this man.

"Charity work? Please. If anyone's being charitable here, it's me."

He laughs—this deep, satisfied sound that fills his room. "Ha. Don't act like you didn't enjoy that just as much as I did."

Well. He's got you there, but you're not about to admit it out loud. Not when he's being this smug about it.

You tilt your head, feeling a crooked smile tug at your lips. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. Guess we'll never know."

He shifts closer to you, and fuck—even after everything you just did, your body still reacts to his proximity.

"Maybe I need to fuck you again to find out," he says, voice dropping low enough to make heat pool in your stomach.

"Oh? You sure you can handle another round, tough guy?"

The smirk he gives you is absolutely criminal.

"Sunshine, I've got stamina for days." He says it like he's joking, but something tells you he's not exaggerating.

"For days, huh?" You raise an eyebrow. "Someone's confident."

"Because I know you," he says softly, words ghosting across your skin.

That makes you pause.

Know you? 

He doesn't know you any more than you know him. 

Sure, your bodies seem to speak the same language—the way you fit together, how you respond to each other's touch. 

But that's all this is. 

All it can be. 

Nothing more complicated than pure physical attraction.

But you don't feel like getting into that right now. Not when you're both still riding the high of what just happened.

"Tempting," you say instead, drawing the word out. "But we've got a long night ahead, and I'd rather spend it actually sleeping."

He narrows his eyes at you, looking way too pleased with himself. 

"My bed seems to be the only place you're actually honest," he says, and how does he always have a comeback ready?

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Was that supposed to be a compliment, Jeon? Getting soft on me already?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, putting on this fake serious face. "Can't have you thinking I actually enjoy your company or something."

"Oh, please. Soft is literally the last word I'd use to describe you." You can't help but smirk at the double meaning.

A yawn catches you off guard—not because you're tired (okay, maybe a little), but because you're actually kind of... comfortable?

Weird. 

"Anyway, time for sleep. That's what we said we'd do, remember?

He literally snorts. "Sleep? After what we just did? You're fucking with me."

"Not anymore, I'm not," you shoot back, and the look on his face is actually priceless.

"Come on," he tries again. "Round two? I promise it'll be worth staying up for."

But you're already settling into his stupidly comfortable bed. "Nope. Some of us need actual sleep, thundercloud."

"Fine," he sighs, all dramatic about it. "But just so we're clear—this isn't me giving up. It's a tactical retreat."

You actually snort at that. "A tactical retreat? Is that what we're calling it?"

"Yeah, well." He pulls the covers up, finally accepting defeat. "Pushy ain't sexy."

You both settle comfortably in the quietness of his room.

And you can't help but ponder.

It's weird how easy this feels—being here with him, joking around after what you just did. 

Like you're not just teammates or gang members or even fuck buddies.

That thought's definitely more scary than it should be.

Chapter 19: procurement

Summary:

"Waking up in his bed should feel like victory, but all you can think about are those pill bottles on his nightstand."

Notes:

A/N: As a European, I have absolutely no clue about guns so let's hope my research was decent and their weapons actually make sense ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) If any gun enthusiasts are reading this and I've somehow made a sniper rifle that shoots rainbows, just... pretend it's for the plot.

ANYWAY THE BIG DAY IS FINALLY HERE!!! Next chapter is THE MISSION and are we excited??? Because I AMMMMM!!! I've been building up to this for literal months and my chaotic little writer brain is VIBRATING with anticipation!

Jeon + motorbike = HOT AS HELL 🥵 Like sir, you're already dangerous enough, did you really need to add vehicular competence to your list of attractive qualities? RUDE.

Also Jessi is so mother mommy mama I love her! I mean, I say that about every single one of my characters, don't I? But what can I do—they're all so complex in my opinion! I have to really put myself in their position in every single scene and think genuinely about how they would react. Because one thing is how I WANT them to react, and another is how they would REALISTICALLY react, you know? Keeping those two aligned is harder than it looks, trust me!

Anyway ramble ramble ramble shut up Kiki we don't care—I KNOW BUT I'M THE AUTHOR so you're gonna read my rambling because I said so! I don't write 8k words per chapter to have my feelings dismissed! Y'all gonna put up with me whether you like it or not (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻

Thanks for reading as always, love y'all! Now buckle up because things are about to get SPICY!

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

The obnoxious blaring of Jeon's alarm tears through the quiet morning.

It's 6 AM—that weird time when everything feels kind of hazy and unreal, like the world hasn't quite decided if it's night or day yet.

His phone keeps buzzing against the nightstand, screen lighting up like a strobe light.

You're barely awake, caught in that fuzzy space between sleep and consciousness. Jeon's sprawled half on top of you, which should probably be uncomfortable but... isn't. His arm's thrown over your waist in this weirdly soft way that doesn't match his usual don't-touch-me vibe. You can feel his chest rising and falling against your back, his breath warm on your neck.

For a second, you think about waking him up. But he looks so p̶e̶a̶c̶e̶f̶u̶l̶ different when he's sleeping—none of that cold, distant Chief of Tactical stuff.

Just a guy who really needs some rest.

"Jeon," you try anyway, voice coming out all scratchy from sleep. "Your alarm."

He makes this grunt that might be words but definitely isn't, face pressed against your skin. Instead of getting up, he actually pulls you closer, burying his face in the pillow like if he ignores the alarm hard enough, it'll give up and go away.

"Jeon, come on. Get it." You nudge him with your elbow because that fucking alarm is driving you insane. It just keeps going and going, like some kind of electronic torture device.

He lets out this long-suffering groan that perfectly captures the eternal struggle between wanting to sleep and having actual responsibilities.

His hand flops around looking for his phone, movements all clumsy in that way people only get when they're not really awake yet. When he finally finds it, he misses the screen completely on his first try.
"Fuck off," he mumbles—definitely talking to the phone, not you. The woodsy scent of his skin mixed with mint from his breath fills your lungs.

After what feels like forever (but is probably like, ten seconds), blessed silence falls over the room. 

Jeon just tosses his phone somewhere (hopefully not off the bed) and immediately curls back around you like some kind of clingy octopus. His body's radiating heat like a furnace, and he's definitely not planning on letting you go anytime soon.

His aura wraps around you like summer rain, all soft and warm, making your head spin in the best way.

(You're starting to think maybe he's not a morning person.)

"Five more minutes," he mumbles, voice all rough and sleepy like some kid who doesn't want to go to school.

You can't help but smirk.

Who would've thought the terrifying Chief of Tactical was such a baby in the morning?

"Five more minutes, and you'll be the one explaining to the Council why you're late." You poke his side. "Good luck with that."

"What council?" He sounds like he's halfway to dreamland already.

"Council of 9, dumbass. You know, that super important reunion about tonight's mission?" 

His only response is this little grunt before his breathing starts evening out again.

Oh no. Not happening.

You kick him under the sheets—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to be annoying. He flinches and makes this annoyed clicking sound with his tongue.

Finally, with this dramatic sigh that you can feel rumble through his chest, he gives in. His body peels away from yours like it's physically painful for him to move.

"Fine, fine," he grumbles, surrendering to reality.

When he sits up, cold air rushes in where his body heat used to be. You both kind of... linger there on the edge of his bed.

You watch him rub his face, trying to wake up properly. It's kind of fascinating, seeing him switch from s̶o̶f̶t̶ sleepy Jungkook back to Jeon, the cold and distant Chief of Tactical.

Another yawn catches you as you sit up, letting the sheets pool around your waist. You blink, trying to clear the sleep from your eyes, when something on Jeon's bedside table catches your attention.

Oh.

There's a whole fucking pharmacy there.

Your eyes scan over the labels—hypnotics, sedatives, tranquilizers, sleeping pills. The kind of cocktail someone needs when sleep doesn't come naturally anymore.

It hits different now, remembering all those times you've seen him in the cafeteria at ass o'clock in the morning. Always with that black coffee, those dark circles under his eyes that you thought were just part of his whole intimidating Chief of Tactical thing.

(Turns out even the great Jeon Jungkook has trouble sleeping.)

You can't help but wonder what keeps him up at night. What kind of memories play on repeat in his head when everything goes quiet.

Sure, being a gang leader comes with its own baggage—the violence, the paranoia, always having to watch your back.

But something tells you there's more to it. Things that left marks deeper than the little scar on his cheek. The kind of stuff that makes someone stock up on enough sedatives to knock out a horse.

Your eyes fix on this one bottle of hypnotics that's already half empty. Something in your chest tightens at the sight, but you quickly squash that feeling down.

The last thing Jeon needs is your p̶i̶t̶y̶ concern.

You know how this works. Show any weakness in Kkangpae, and you might as well paint a target on your back. The gang's full of sharks, always circling, always waiting for someone to bleed in the water.

So you bite back all the questions building up in your throat. Push down that weird urge to reach out, to try and make it better somehow.

Whatever demons Jeon's fighting, they're his to deal with.

You've got your own role to play here, and playing therapist isn't it. Some things just stay broken, and some nights just stay sleepless.

And some things are not yours to fix, even if some part of you wants to.

"You ready?" Jeon asks, already heading for the door without waiting to hear if you actually are.

You follow him out with a quiet sigh, but your mind's still stuck on all those pill bottles.

On what they might mean.

On all the nights he probably spends staring at his ceiling, fighting whatever demons keep him up.

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

The common areas in his wing of the Assassination Division are empty this early.

Your footsteps echo through the halls as you make your way to the elevator, where Jeon leans against the wall like he's got all day. He crosses his arms over his chest, getting lost in whatever thoughts are running through that complicated head of his.

When he doesn't move to actually doanything, you have to remind him that not everyone has his fancy Chief clearance level.

"You gonna scan your card or what?" You wave vaguely at the scanner. "You know mine won't work up here."

The corner of his mouth twitches up—just barely—like he's annoyed at himself for forgetting.

He pulls out his access card without a word and taps it against the scanner. The light blinks green, and the elevator starts moving.

While you're waiting, your brain decides to dig up this random memory from weeks ago.

That night Jeon showed up at your door out of nowhere, demanding his jacket back. You hadn't thought about it then, but now...

"Hey," you turn to look at him, "how did you get on my floor that night? To get your jacket back?" The question hits you out of nowhere. "Our cards don't work on each other's floors."

His eyes go wide for a split second—clearly not expecting that question. He just stares at you for a moment, lips parted like he's trying to figure out what to say. Then his gaze darts away and he rubs the back of his neck, which is basically a flashing neon sign that says busted.

(This should be interesting.)

"I, uh..." Jeon starts, looking at you then quickly away. He's actually struggling for words, which is new.

His fingers tap against his thigh in this nervous rhythm you've never seen before. Just when you think he's going to leave you hanging, he lets out this tiny sigh, shoulders dropping just a bit.

"I asked AD for temporary access."

Wait. What?

"And he... just gave it to you? Just like that?"

You narrow your eyes because something's not adding up here. 

You've seen how these two interact—or don't interact, more like it. The way Jeon basically disappears whenever AD shows up, and how AD looks at him like he's personally offended his entire bloodline.

Sure, AD glares at everyone (especially J-Hope), but with Jeon? That's a whole different level of hate.

(Not that it's any of your business what's going on there.)

"Told him I needed my jacket back."

The elevator keeps moving down, and the silence between you gets kind of heavy. Something about how weirdly hesitant Jeon's being makes your curiosity spike. Part of you knows you should probably drop it, but...

"So, your card worked the whole night?" You try to sound casual about it, but there's definitely some skepticism bleeding through.

"Yeah." He finally meets your eyes again. "Clearance passes usually last for 24 hours."

You nod slowly, filing that information away.

"But didn't AD find it weird? The time stamp would show you came in at 3 AM and didn't leave until..." You trail off, remembering exactly why he stayed so long.

Jeon's eyes snap to yours, and something flashes across his face too quick to read before he looks away. The crease between his brows gets deeper as the silence stretches out.

"I don't think he actually checks the access logs that closely," he says finally. "At least he hasn't mentioned anything about the, uh, timeframe."

You think about that for a second. It seems weird that AD, of all people, wouldn't keep tabs on security access. But maybe Jeon's right—maybe AD doesn't actually monitor that stuff.

Then you remember something.

That day after the pool training, you saw AD in the elevator with Kazuha. He'd told you both to "be careful."

Was that his cryptic way of saying he knew exactly what went down that night?

The elevator dings, cutting through your thoughts.

Jeon pushes off the wall, giving you this little nod to go in first. You step inside, and the last thing you see is his back and this lazy wave goodbye before the doors slide shut.

Anyway, something tells you AD knows way more than he lets on.

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

You’d never been in The Council room until now.

And it’s… Well, it’s weird. Tense today.

Everyone's taking their usual spots around this stupidly long table, and RM's at the head of it like always, looking every bit the Supreme Commander he is.

"Thanks for coming, everyone." His voice carries that authority that makes even the most stubborn chiefs shut up and listen.

Well, almost everyone.

"I don't even see why I have to be here when you're all so set on leaving me out of it." V's practically radiating annoyance.

Moon gives him that patient look he reserves for when someone's being difficult. "This mission affects the entire gang. That's why we need the whole Council present."

"But I'm not even part of it." V throws his feet up on the table like the dramatic bitch he is, crossing his arms. "So why do I have to sit through all this bullshit?"

"You listen because shared knowledge makes us stronger." RM's eyes sweep around the table, meeting everyone's gaze—even yours. "Unity isn't just about standing together. It's about thinking as one."

V rolls his eyes so hard you're surprised they don't get stuck. "Yeah, yeah, I get the whole 'one gang' thing. But do I really need every fucking detail?"

"Details matter." Jeon's voice cuts through the tension. "MDF isn't some amateur operation. One tiny blind spot and we're fucked."

"It's a goddamn snake pit we're walking into." J-Hope waves his hands around like he's trying to grab invisible dangers out of the air. "We all need to know what kind of poison we might be dealing with."

JM leans forward, all serious despite his usually gentle demeanor. "That hideout's a maze. You two need more than just a way in—you need a solid plan to get the fuck out of there."

"Exactly." RM's sighs. "This intel could change everything. We do this right, we take out one of their major operations."

Flower, who's been watching everything with that calculating look of hers, finally speaks up. "And V, whether you like it or not, this meeting is what keeps your men at the docks from getting caught with their pants down while we're focused on this mission."

V scoffs, but you can see him actually considering her words.

Jessi stops lounging in her chair like this is some kind of casual meetup.

"Alright, cut the bullshit. What's the actual plan here, RM?" She leans forward, all business now. "And it better be good."

The room goes quiet—that heavy kind of quiet that makes your skin prickle.

RM stands up, and you can feel the weight of what's coming.

This isn't just another mission briefing. This is you and Jeon walking straight into MDF territory.

No pressure.

RM clears his throat, looking down at the stack of papers in front of him.

"Here's how it's going to work," he starts, voice authoritative. "Jeon and Y/N are going undercover. We've got IDs that'll get them through MDF's front door."

The word 'undercover' makes your stomach do this weird flip thing. Jeon shifts slightly beside you, his presence weirdly reassuring for someone who's usually about as comforting as a loaded gun.

"They'll play it as traders," RM continues, spreading out this map that looks like someone went crazy with a red marker. "Fresh faces trying to make it big enough to catch MDF's attention."

Jeon nods, watching AD's finger trace some path on the map. "What about their security? Cameras?"

"System loops every three hours," AD says, sounding bored but you know that's just his thing. "We're setting up a distraction. At 23:00, when the loop starts, they'll get a power surge. Six minutes of blind spots."

"Six minutes?" Jessi raises an eyebrow. "That's cutting it real fucking close."

"We can handle it." Jeon sounds so sure it actually makes you believe him. "Had worse timeframes before."

"That's your window to find the server room and plant the bug." RM points to some spot deep in what looks like a maze. "AD will be in your ear the whole time."

"And when shit inevitably goes sideways?" V asks, and despite how pissy he's been about being left out, you can hear actual braincells there.

"You'll be armed," RM says simply. "But this is about getting in and out quiet. No firefights."

"Right, because stealth missions should totally go to Mr. Shoot-Everything-From-A-Mile-Away instead of, oh, I don't know, the actual Chief of Stealth?" V's voice drips sarcasm.

"V." JM's cuts in. "Enough."

V grunts but actually shuts up, which is kind of impressive. You've never seen anyone else get him to back down that easily.

Flower leans forward, and the room suddenly feels a bit colder. The map spread out on the table looks like some kind of twisted treasure map, except instead of X marking the spot, there's about fifty different ways this whole thing could go wrong.

"Alright, here's the deal," she says, getting straight to the point like always. "You need to be interesting enough to catch their attention, but not so interesting they get suspicious. Think you can handle that?"

She looks right at you, and you can feel the weight of what she's asking.

"Y/N, you're our front person here. While everyone's busy watching you sweet-talk them about money and deals, Jeon's gonna be doing the actual work." Her lips curve into this knowing smile. "Keep them focused on the profit. Rich assholes love talking about money."

Great. No pressure or anything. Just gotta be charming enough to distract an entire criminal organization while your... whatever Jeon is sneaks around their base. Easy peasy.

Flower turns to Jeon next, and her expression goes all business.

"You're playing backup dancer on this one. Stay in the background, watch everything, and when AD hits them with that power surge? That's your window. Get the bug planted without anyone noticing."

The room goes quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

Everyone's thinking the same thing—one tiny mistake and this whole plan goes up in smoke.

"Remember," Flower says, voice serious, "this isn't about showing off. It's about getting in, getting it done, and getting out without anyone realizing what happened."

"And more importantly," RM cuts in, giving you and Jeon a look, "don't fucking die. The intel's not worth either of you."

"What about communication?" you ask, because there's one pretty big hole in this plan. "We can't exactly text each other in there."

"Subvocals," AD doesn't look up from his laptop, but his voice carries that bored confidence that means he knows exactly what he's talking about. "Basically fancy mics that pick up whispers. We'll hear everything, but you two can talk without anyone else noticing. Plus, we'll feed you intel as we get it. Just keep it quiet and you'll be fine."

V lets out this little laugh, eyes twinkling like he knows something no one else does. "Sure putting a lot of faith in luck here, aren't we?"

"Luck's got nothing to do with it." RM's interjects. "This is about being prepared, being skilled, and getting shit done. Don't forget who we are. What Kkangpae stands for."

The room goes quiet again. Then, he continues speaking:

"Once you get that bug planted and grab whatever intel you can, you get out. We're not starting a war. Not yet."

Then Jeon turns to look at you, all Chief-of-Tactical mode.

Stormy.

"We split up as soon as we're inside," he says, voice gone all hard and professional. "Cover more ground, draw less attention."

"Yeah, no." You don't even hesitate to shut that down. The plan's crystal clear in your head. "We stick together, follow the script. Only split when the power goes out. That's the signal."

He scoffs—actually scoffs—and crosses his arms. "You really think playing follow-the-leader's gonna work that long? We're wasting time the second we walk in. Better to improvise early."

"We're not there to improvise," you snap back, getting annoyed now. The air's starting to feel like a brewing thunderstorm. "We have a plan for a fucking reason, Jeon. The power surge is our cover. Until then, you're stuck with me."

His jaw does that tightening thing it does when someone challenges him.

Chief or not, you're not backing down on this. 

"A package deal that screams 'we're obviously here to fuck shit up'." He's practically radiating frustration. "Splitting up makes more sense. It's tactical."

"It's reckless," you cut in, meeting his intensity head-on. "Since when do we pick 'making sense' over actually being smart about this? We split up before the power cut, and we're basically painting targets on our backs."

You can feel everyone in the room watching this verbal sparring match in slight disbelief.

"You're not fucking listening—" Jeon leans into your space.

"Because what you're saying is bullshit," you snap back, refusing to be intimidated even though he's practically looming over you. "We go in toge—"

"Too risky. We split up, maximize our—"

"—chances of getting our asses caught!" You talk right over him, blood rushing hot in your veins. "We stick to the fucking pla—"

"Which is basically asking to get pinched if we're joined at the hip," he fires back, and god, his voice shouldn't sound that hot when he's being this infuriating.

"Oh, and you think going rogue is the ans—"

"It's called thinking on your feet, sunshine. Maybe try it some—"

"Save the condescending shit," you cut in, sharp enough to draw blood. "We're not there to show—"

"—that we're fucking amateurs!" He's almost growling now, and the sound does things to you that you really don't want to examine.

Your voices keep rising, cutting each other off in this heated back-and-forth that's starting to feel less like an argument and more like foreplay.

"Enough." RM's voice drops like a bucket of cold water.

You and Jeon both shut up instantly, turning to face him like scolded kids.

The whole room goes dead quiet, everyone waiting to see how the Supreme Commander's going to handle this.

"Y/N's right," RM cuts in, voice carrying that don't-fuck-with-me tone whilst his eyes bounce between you and Jeon as he speaks. "We made this plan accounting for every possible fuck-up. You go in together, no improvising. The power surge is your cue. Until then, you're just a couple of traders looking to make a deal. We can't afford any slip-ups."

The way he says it leaves no room for argument. You can see Jeon's shoulders drop just a tiny bit, like he's accepting defeat but doesn't want to show it.

"Got it," you nod, trying to look all professional and shit.

Like you didn't just get into a verbal sparring match with your Chief in front of the whole Council.

Jeon takes a second, then gives this little nod that looks like it physically pains him.

"Understood," he echoes, finally looking at you.

And so there’s this weird moment where you're both just... staring at each other; as if calling a truce without actually saying anything.

As RM dismisses everyone, you feel that rush of adrenaline from arguing start to fade. Your shoulders relax, and you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

Right. This whole mission is riding on you and Jeon not fucking it up by going off-script.

You can feel Jeon next to you, his whole vibe changing. He's still got that unreadable expression, but he doesn't look ready to fight anymore.

Before you can make your grand exit, Jessi's voice cuts through the room, making both of you plant your feet on the ground.

"Don't worry, you two. All that sexual tension will make for some hot angry fucking after the mission." She winks at you both like she just said something clever instead of mortifying.

"That's not—we're not—" You start sputtering like an idiot, feeling your face go red.

"Ridiculous," Jeon snaps at the same time, scowling like Jessi just insulted his sniper skills or something.

Jessi just smirks, looking way too pleased with herself. "Whatever you say, lovebirds. Just come by my division after lunch. Gotta get you kitted out for this little adventure."

You open your mouth to tell her exactly where she can shove her assumptions, but she keeps talking.

"AD's gonna set up your access, so don't be late!" And with that, she struts out of the room like she owns the place.

You take a deep breath, trying to get your shit together.

Without a word, you and Jeon turn to leave.

There's still a ton of prep to do for this mission, and you'd rather face MDF unarmed than spend another second in this room with everyone's eyes on you.

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

The elevator feels way too empty when it’s only you and Jeon in it.

Trapped in a metal box after whatever that disaster of a Council meeting was.

The silence feels heavy, like all that heated arguing is still buzzing in the air.

You stand there trying to look casual, watching the floor numbers tick down like they're the most interesting thing you've ever seen.

But you can't help noticing how Jeon's jaw is doing that clenching thing again, his lips pressed together so tight they're practically disappearing. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and his whole body's radiating tension like a coiled spring.

The silence is driving you insane.

So of course, before your brain can stop your mouth, you blurt out: "Just so we're clear, we are not having hot angry sex after this mission."

Great going girl. 10/10.

Jeon's head snaps toward you so fast you're worried he might get whiplash. One eyebrow shoots up in surprise, but then—oh—his expression shifts into thatinfuriating smirk.

"Aw, you sound disappointed," he says, voice dropping into that low, teasing register that definitely doesn't make your stomach flip.

You scoff, rolling your eyes as dramatically as possible. "Yeah, like I was last night."

"Excuse me?" The look of pure indignation on his face is actually priceless. "Pretty sure I had you begging."

"Begging?" You let out a laugh. "More like pointing out how fucking slow you were being."

You're going for casual disinterest, but the memories from last night keep trying to make your face heat up.

He actually laughs at that—this sharp, sudden sound that bounces off the elevator walls.

"Oh, is that what we're calling it now? Because I remember it more like... payback. For all that teasing." His eyes drop to your ass for a second. "Bending over until I couldn't take it anymore..."

You cross your arms, leaning back against the wall like this conversation isn't affecting you at all.

"That wasn't teasing. That was strategic mission preparation." You can't help the sly smile that creeps onto your face. "Besides, you're the one who changed the sleeping arrangement to fucking."

"A strategic move, huh?" His mouth does that little twitch that means he's trying not to smile. "Well, it fucking worked."

"Yeah, you broke so easily." You roll your eyes, but you can feel yourself starting to smile too. "Just for sex"

"Pretty damn good sex, if I might add." He says it like he's stating the weather, but that smirk is getting bigger. 

Before you can even process what's happening, his hand shoots out to the elevator panel. The emergency stop button makes this loud clicking sound, and the whole thing jerks to a halt with this deep rumble that you feel in your bones.

Suddenly the space feels way too small, and all you can hear is your own breathing getting heavier.

Yeah. Yeah, he’s stopped the fucking elevator.

"What the actual fuck, Jeon?" You try to sound annoyed, but the words get stuck in your throat because he's moving into your space like he owns it, like he has every right to be this close.

Then you're trapped between his arms and the cold elevator wall, and fuck—the way he's looking at you makes you feel naked already.

Your heart's going crazy in your chest, completely betraying how irritated you're pretending to be. Heat starts pooling between your legs, and it's honestly embarrassing how quickly your body responds to him.

"We can't—" Your voice comes out all breathy and pathetic. "We can't do this here."

The smile he gives you is pure sin as he leans in closer, close enough that you can feel his breath on your skin, static wrapping around you, making it hard to think straight.

"Why not?"

"Because we're in a fucking elevator—"

"No cameras." He cuts you off like he's been waiting for this excuse.

You try to swallow but your throat's gone dry. Your sling feels itchy against your skin, probably because your whole body's remembering what happened last night.

"People are gonna notice if the elevator's stuck—"

"Maintenance issue." He says it so fast you know he's thought about this before.

"Jeon—" You start to argue, but then his eyes drop to your mouth and your brain just... stops working.

You know you should push him away. That's what any sane person would do. But there's something about Jeon that makes your brain stop working right—like a magnet pulling you in no matter how hard you try to resist. Every cell in your body is screaming at you to just grab him and kiss him already.

Right when you're about to say fuck itand give in, he pulls back.

And the look in his eyes? Pure evil, like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

"Sunshine," he practically purrs, voice gone all low and rough in a way that makes heat pool in your stomach, "you're too eager."

The elevator dings, saving you from doing something stupid.

He steps out onto his floor without another word, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face like he just won something.

You slump against the wall the second the doors close, letting out this huge breath you didn't even realize you were holding

As the elevator keeps moving, the whole thing feels kind of surreal—like maybe you imagined him pressing you up against the wall and looking at you like he wanted to eat you alive.

But the way your skin's still tingling tells you it definitely happened.

When the doors open on your floor, it's like stepping back into the real world.

One where you need to figure out what the hell to tell Yunjin about where you've been all night. She's way too perceptive for her own good, and she definitely noticed you didn't come to your room to sleep.

You walk to your room trying to come up with something believable.

Maybe you were up all night studying mission plans? Or got restless and went wandering around the common areas?

Your brain's still kind of fuzzy from having Jeon all up in your space, which isn't helping with the whole creative lying thing.

But when you push open your door, Yunjin spins around like she's been caught doing something wrong. Her eyes are all wide and guilty, and before you can even open your mouth to make up some excuse about where you've been, she starts talking.

"Okay, before you give me shit for not sleeping here last night—" The words come tumbling out of her like she can't get them out fast enough. "You won't believe what happened. I was just gonna have a few drinks with V, you know, just to chill..."

Well. You surely didn't expect that.

You stand there trying to process the flood of information Yunjin's dumping on you. She's so caught up in her story she doesn't even notice your brain short-circuiting.

"And I know we said to stay away from V's whole... thing, but fuck—" She's practically vibrating with excitement. "We've been dancing around each other for weeks, and last night was just—"

"Yunjin, hold up." You raise a hand to stop her word-vomit. "Are you telling me you spent the night with V? Like, you and V actually—"

You don't finish the sentence because honestly, you don't need to. The implication is heavy enough to sink a ship.

She bites her lip and nods, looking somewhere between guilty and smug.

"Yeah, we fucked..." Her voice trails off before picking right back up. "And let me tell you, it was good. Like, he's not even into all that scary shit everyone thinks he is? But his chaotic energy definitely carries over to bed, god, if you only knew—"

You can't help the snort spreading across your face.

Here you were worrying about how to explain your own night away, and Yunjin's gone and done the exact same thing.

There's something kind of poetic about both of you getting tangled up with people you definitely shouldn't be touching.

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. "Okay, spare me the details. But I'm glad you had fun with your psychopath."

"It was actually really nice?" She's got this dreamy look that would be cute if she wasn't talking about the gang's resident knife enthusiast. "I know we said getting involved with him was a bad idea, but..."

She shrugs, looking almost shy.

"Sometimes you can't help who you want to climb like a tree."

You nod because fuck—isn't that the truth? Your body's still kind of sore from climbing your own dangerous tree last night.

Quick thinking has you saying, "I had an early Council meeting about the mission."

It's not exactly a lie. You did have a meeting. The fact that you came straight from Jeon's bed to it is just... details.

Yunjin seems to buy it, but then her eyes narrow and this little smirk appears on her face.

"Speaking of details... that shirt looks a bit big on you." She eyes the obviously oversized fabric. "Almost like it belongs to someone else. Someone tall, maybe? Tattooed?"

Heat creeps up your neck as you tug at the shirt that definitely belongs to Jeon.

"It's just comfortable," you mutter, but even you don't believe that weak excuse.

"Sure it is." Yunjin's laugh is rather a sneer. "Tell Jeon I said hi."

She throws you a wink and you roll your eyes, but you can't quite fight the smile tugging at your lips.

At least you're not the only one fucking a chief.

✧⋆༺♱༻⋆✧

The scanner actually flashes green when you swipe your card, which is weird.

Usually you only get access to the Seduction floor and common areas, but apparently Jessi wasn't kidding about AD setting up clearance to her realm for you.

You hit the button for the 9th floor and watch the numbers tick up.

The doors slide open to a completely different vibe from what you're used to.

Gone is all that minimalist tech stuff from AD's floor or the sterile efficiency of Assassination.

The Weapons Division looks exactly like what it is—a place that deals in death. The lights are dim, pipes running everywhere like exposed veins, and the floor's just straight-up concrete. No fancy finishes here.

You've maybe been here like, three times? And every visit feels like stepping into some alternate universe inside Kkangpae's castle. The contrast between this and your division's sleek aesthetic is wild.

"Well, well, look who we have here!"

The voice booms through the hallway, making you jump.

You turn to find this huge guy with a green mullet heading your way, covered in neck tattoos that probably tell some interesting stories. You're pretty sure his name is Jae? He's Jessi's second-in-command, but you've barely exchanged two words with him before.

Not that you'd know it from how he grins at you like you're old friends.

"Jessi's waiting on you," he says, slapping your back hard enough to make you stumble forward. (What is it with these Weapons Division people and casual violence?) "Come on, can't keep the boss lady hanging."

You follow Mullet Man through these massive double doors and holy shit—the weapons depot is huge. The ceiling's so high it's got actual walkways crisscrossing it, leading to what looks like storage units. Every table is packed with enough firepower to start a small war: rifles, handguns, knives, stuff you don't even have names for.

Jessi's off to one side, checking out this fancy-looking automatic rifle like she's shopping for groceries. Her fiery aura fills the space with heating energy.

When she spots you, those red lips curl into this knowing smirk that makes you kind of nervous.

"Right on time," she says, putting down the gun like it's no big deal. "Now we just gotta wait for lover boy to complete the set."

Jae throws up this exaggerated salute and swaggers off, leaving you perched on a nearby stool while Jessi's aura dances around like actual flames.

Jessi leans back against one of the weapon-covered tables, arms crossed and this knowing look in her eyes that makes you kind of nervous.

"That was quite the show this morning. Never seen Jeon actually engage like that before."

"What do you mean?" You frown, thinking about how often Jeon and V are at each other's throats. "He fights with V all the time."

"Nah, that's different." She shakes her head, red hair swaying. "When he fights with V, it's all explosions and death threats. Pure chaos."

Her hands make this exaggerated boommotion.

"But this morning? That was like... verbal foreplay. He was actually in there with you, giving as good as he got."

You think about that for a second.

Now that she mentions it, Jeon does usually just... shut down when other people try to argue with him. Goes all cold and distant, like he can't be bothered to even engage.

But this morning he was right there with you, matching your energy blow for blow.

"Huh." The realization hits you harder than it probably should. "He's not usually much for back-and-forth, is he?"

"That's what I'm saying!" Jessi looks way too pleased with herself. "That emotionally constipated asshole usually keeps everyone at a distance. But you?" She wiggles her eyebrows in this ridiculous way. "Something's different..."

Your face heats up because fuck—she's not wrong. But you are absolutely not having this conversation right now.

"So anyway," you say quickly, probably not as smooth as you think, "what kind of gear are we talking about here?"

Jessi's smirk says she knows exactly what you're doing, but she lets it slide.

Instead, she turns to this impressive spread of weapons and gadgets laid out on the table. Some of them look deadly enough to make you nervous just looking at them.

"Only the best for our star infiltration team," she says, sounding like a proud mom showing off her kid's artwork. "Let's talk comm units first..."

Then, you catch it.

That woodsy, pine scent that clings to him like his leather jacket.

You don’t even need to turn around to know it’s him.

Jeon appears in the doorway looking unfairly good in his all-black everything, like some kind of high-fashion assassin.

When his eyes find you and Jessi, one eyebrow goes up.

"Starting without me?" His voice is dry as desert.

"Look who finally decided to show up." Jessi's teasing, but then her expression turns into something more devious. "I was just telling your partner here how I've never seen you get so fired up before. Something about her really pushes your buttons, huh?"

You kind of want to melt into the concrete floor. Leave it to Jessi to stir shit up just because she can.

But Jeon just shrugs, cool as ever.

"Just discussing strategy." His voice gives absolutely nothing away, which is honestly impressive considering how heated he got earlier.

Jessi looks kind of disappointed that she couldn't get a reaction out of him. Classic Jeon, refusing to take the bait. She lets out this dramatic sigh and turns back to all the gear spread out on the table.

"Well, now that his highness has graced us with his presence," she says, standing up with that natural grace she has, "let's get you both looking the part. Can't have you walking into MDF territory looking like gang members, can we?"

You follow her through the rows of weapons and equipment. It's kind of amazing how she knows exactly where everything is in this massive space. Her energy is contagious—she's clearly in her element here, surrounded by all these tools of destruction.

The weapons depot starts feeling less like an armory and more like some underground fashion studio as you walk deeper in.

Because of course, procurement doesn’t only mean weapons and human resource.

Apparently, it also means Jessi has a pass to turn a room full of deadly weapons into her personal styling space.

There's this sectioned-off area that looks like a makeshift dressing room, complete with different fabrics hanging everywhere.

"Over here, Jeon." Jessi's voice has that tone that means she's already planning something. She looks him up and down like she's mentally redesigning his whole outfit.

Jeon follows her, trying to look like he's not into it, but you can see the interest in his eyes. You hang back a bit, kind of enjoying watching him get the Jessi treatment.

Jessi starts pulling stuff from these racks that look like someone couldn't decide if they were making tactical gear or runway fashion. Every piece somehow manages to be both bulletproof and stupidly stylish.

First up for Jeon: this black suit that catches the light in a way that's definitely not standard issue.

"Put this on," she tells him, shoving the suit in his hands. "It's reinforced—won't stop a bullet, but a knife won't get through."

He disappears behind this makeshift changing screen, and you're definitely not counting the seconds until he comes back out.

When he does, though... fuck.

The suit fits him like it was painted on, showing off all those muscles you're way too familiar with now. The jacket makes his shoulders look even broader, and the pants are doing criminal things to his legs. He looks like he walked straight out of some high-end assassin movie.

"You could probably kill someone just by walking into a room looking like that," you say before you can stop yourself. Your voice definitely doesn't sound as casual as you meant it to.

The smug bastard actually smirks at that. "Wouldn't be the first time."

But Jessi's not having it. She shakes her head, looking at him like an artist who's not quite happy with their work.

"Too polished. We need dangerous, not James Bond. Try this instead."

She pulls out this whole new look: leather jacket that probably costs more than anything you own (which is not much), deep maroon shirt that's somehow both simple and expensive-looking, and black jeans that you just know are going to be trouble.

When he steps out this time, his whole aura shifts.

The leather sits on his shoulders like it belongs there, and that hint of maroon under all the black just... works.

He looks like someone who could sweet-talk his way into a deal and then burn the whole place down if it goes wrong.

"Now that's more like it," Jessi says, looking satisfied. "Says 'I do business, but I also do crime' in all the right ways."

You find yourself nodding along because damn.

He looks exactly like what a high-level arms dealer should look—dangerous enough to take seriously, stylish enough to have clearly made money doing it.

Jeon catches you staring and raises an eyebrow, like he's asking what you think. You give him a small nod because what else can you do? He looks f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ good.

Really good.

Jessi rummages through another rack and pulls out this long-sleeved black shirt.

"Here, put this under the jacket. The fabric's breathable but bulletproof-adjacent. Won't stop a direct hit, but it'll give you a fighting chance."

Jeon shrugs off the leather jacket and slips the shirt on. It's thin but looks sturdy—perfect for someone who might need to move fast or fight their way out of trouble.

Jessi finally steps back, eyeing him like she's inspecting a weapon.

"Not bad. Looks casual enough that no one'll think twice, but you can actually move in it." She hands him back the leather jacket. "Try it all together."

You try to look professional while he puts the jacket back on over the maroon shirt and black base layer, but fuck—the whole ensemble is perfect.

The layers somehow make him look even more dangerous, like he could either charm you or kill you and you wouldn't know which until it was too late.

While Jeon and Jessi get into some deep discussion about fabric weights and mobility ranges, you're kind of amazed at how much thought goes into this.

It's not just picking out nice clothes—every piece has to tell the right story without saying a word.

One wrong detail and the whole cover's blown.

The attention to detail is actually impressive. Jessi knows exactly how to make someone look dangerous but approachable, wealthy but not flashy.

In this world, the wrong outfit can get you killed as quick as the wrong word.

You watch them fine-tune every detail, fascinated by how each adjustment shapes the character Jeon's going to play. And then… The final touch.This plain black watch that probably has fifteen different ways to kill someone. Jeon checks it over with that focused look he gets when he's handling weapons.

"Nice," is all he says, strapping it on.

Standing there in his perfectly crafted outfit, Jeon looks like he was born to play this role. Then Jessi turns to you with this wicked gleam in her eyes that makes your stomach drop.

"Your turn, beautiful," she says, gesturing at another rack of clothes. "Let's make you look expensive but deadly."

Something tells you this is going to be way more complicated than just picking out a nice dress.

You step forward to check out what Jessi's picked out, and damn—she really knows what she's doing. Every piece looks like it was chosen to tell a specific story about who you're supposed to be for this mission.

First up is this skin-tight dress that practically screams ‘honey trap.’ Jessi takes one look and tosses it aside with a muttered "too fucking obvious."

Then there's this whole secretary fantasy thing with a high-necked blouse and pencil skirt, but that gets vetoed too. ("Can't fight for shit in that.")

Then she hands you this black button-up that feels expensive as hell, paired with these tailored pants that feel way too nice to the touch. The fabric's got that perfect balance—soft enough to feel good but sturdy enough to take a beating if things go south. 

When you slip into it, something shifts. The shirt fits in all the right places, making you feel d̶a̶n̶g̶e̶r̶o̶u̶s̶ powerful. And the pants? They let you move like you might need to throw down at any second, which, considering it's MDF territory you're heading into, isn't exactly unlikely.

You step out to get Jessi's opinion.

And catch Jeon straight-up staring at your ass.

You’re not surprised.

When you meet his eyes, he looks away so fast it's actually kind of funny, pressing his lips together like he's trying not to smile. He looks like a kid who just got caught stealing cookies, and something about that expression makes you bite back a smile of your own.

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Jessi says, looking you over with that critical eye of hers. "You look like someone who could either make a deal or break some kneecaps. Perfect."

The outfit's actually making you feel kind of invincible. (The fact that it got Mr. Perfect Sniper all flustered doesn't hurt either.) You do a little turn, testing how it moves. Everything feels right—professional enough to be taken seriously, but with enough edge to remind people you're not someone to fuck with.

"Hold up," Jessi says suddenly, her eyes getting that dangerous glint that usually means trouble. "Got one more thing. Don't move."

She strides off into her weapons paradise, leaving you standing there wondering what else she could possibly have planned.

You definitely don't check if Jeon's still watching.

(Okay, that's a lie. You totally do.)

The button-up fits you like it was made for you—professional enough to command respect but with just enough something to make heads turn. You're fiddling with the collar when you notice it's buttoned kind of low. Like, maybe too low for a serious arms deal. But before you can decide whether to fix it, Jeon's suddenly right there in your space.

"Let me," he says, voice gone all low and rough (molten lava in your stomach)

His fingers brush against your skin as he does up that one button over your chest, and fuck—that tiny touch has your brain stuttering a bit.

Probably because your body remembers what those fingers can do.

When you look up at him (because of course he's using his height to loom over you like the smug bastard he is), his eyes are dark enough to drown in.

The little gleam swimming in them tells you he knows exactly what he's doing.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" you say, trying to sound annoyed even though you can feel yourself starting to smile.

"Immensely." He says; and his voice is pure sin wrapped in amusement.

He just keeps staring at you with this intensity that makes it hard to breathe, like he's thinking about all the ways he could mess up your perfectly put-together outfit.

Then Jessi bursts back in, completely ruining the moment.

"Found it!" She's waving around this black blazer like she just discovered buried treasure.

Jeon steps back, but not before giving you one last look that promises later. That little smirk is still playing on his lips as Jessi throws the blazer over your shoulders like she's putting the final touch on a masterpiece.

While Jessi goes over the tech specs of your gear, you sneak another look at Jeon. That heated playfulness from earlier is gone, replaced by that laser-focused look he gets when he's in Chief mode.

But there's still this... tension hanging in the air between you, like neither of you has quite forgotten what almost happened in that elevator.

Jessi then looks you both up and down with this satisfied smirk, like an artist admiring her masterpiece.

You have to admit, she knows what she's doing—the outfits are perfect for your cover, walking that line between dangerous and professional.

"Now for the fun part," she says, suddenly all business. "Let's get you two properly armed."

She leads you deeper into her weapons paradise, stopping at what looks like a plain wall. But when she presses her hand against this hidden scanner, the whole thing comes alive with soft beeps and whirs. A keypad appears, and Jessi punches in some code faster than you can follow.

The wall basically transforms, splitting open to reveal these massive hidden cabinets that look straight out of a spy movie.

Inside is enough firepower to start (or end) a small war, all arranged with the kind of precision that would make Jeon proud.

You've seen weapons before—kind of comes with the whole gang thing—but this is different.

Every gun, knife, and thing-you-don't-even-have-a-name-for gleams under the lights like they're on display in some very deadly museum.

"For when things get up close and personal," Jessi says, picking up this compact black handgun, "you'll want this beauty."

She hands you a Glock 26, and fuck—it's heavier than it looks.

"Small enough to hide, big enough to make someone regret their life choices."

Then she turns to Jeon with a different gun. "You get the Sig P226. More range, more punch. You can hang back and give her cover while she works her magic up close."

Jeon takes the gun and with a flick of his wrist, he expertly checks the chamber and magazine. You can't understand why your brain thinks that's hot, but the little nod he gives tells you Jessi picked right.

She keeps pulling out more gear—silencers that look way too professional, extra magazines, these holsters that probably cost more than your monthly pay. Then come the knives, small enough to hide pretty much anywhere but sharp enough to make you nervous just looking at them.

Jessi's whole vibe changes as she finishes arming you up. "These aren't just fancy accessories. Every time you pull one of these, you're making a choice that could end someone—maybe even yourself."

The weight of what she's saying hits different when you're actually holding deadly weapons. Her eyes lock onto yours, and you can tell she's trusting you not to fuck this up.

"One more thing," she says, pulling this fancy-looking gadget from a drawer. "Multi-tool kit. Has everything from basic lock picks to a mini torch. Trust me, you'll want options when shit hits the fan."

She hands it to Jeon, who clips it to his belt with practiced ease. (Of course he knows exactly what to do with it—guy probably has a whole collection of spy gear at home.)

Jessi takes a step back, giving you both this final once-over that feels kind of like a proud mom sending her kids off to prom.

(If prom involved infiltrating a rival gang's hideout.)

"You're good to go. Just remember—get in, do the job, get out. Don't try to be heroes."

Her words stick with you as you follow her out of the weapons room.

You walk through another set of doors to find a…

Holy shit. The garage is massive.

It's like walking into some billionaire's private car collection, except every vehicle probably has hidden gun compartments or something.

So Jessi's definitely got a thing for cars. There's everything from flashy Lamborghinis to those huge Bentleys that scream ‘I'm rich and probably dangerous.’ Motorcycles, sports cars, even some vehicles that look straight-up bulletproof—all lined up like some very deadly candy shop.

You're starting to think maybe the weapons aren't even Jessi's favorite toys.

Jessi leads you through her collection of cars like a proud mom showing off her kids' trophies. She stops at this black Lamborghini that looks expensive enough to make your eyes water. The lights bounce off its surface like it's made of pure money.

"This baby right here?" She runs her hand over the hood like she's petting a cat. "Zero to sixty in 2.8 seconds. Makes people's heads turn so fast they get whiplash."

Then she drags you over to this Bentley that screams old money.

"And this beauty? When you need people to think you've got more dollars than sense." The inside looks like someone skinned a whole herd of very expensive cows and covered it in fancy wood.

"We're taking my bike."

Jeon's voice cuts through Jessi's car tour sharply.

He says it like it's already decided, which—knowing him—it probably is.

Jessi whips around to look at him, and fuck—her fiery aura actually flares up like she's about to burst into flames.

"Are you kidding me? Look at these beauties!" She waves at her collection. "They're begging for some action!"

But Jeon just shakes his head. "Bike's more maneuverable. Better control. Makes more sense for what we need."

"Ugh, fine." Jessi throws one last longing look at the Lamborghini like she's saying goodbye to a child. "But I swear to god, one of these days I'm getting your ass in one of these cars."

The little smirk Jeon gives her actually looks kind of fond. "Keep dreaming."

So you follow him to another part of the garage where his bike's parked.

It's this sleek, black monster of a machine that somehow manages to look both subtle and dangerous—kind of like its owner. The thing practically radiates power, but in that quiet way that says it doesn't need to show off.

Jessi watches Jeon check over the bike with this resigned look.

He runs his hands over the handlebars, checking everything with the kind of attention to detail you'd expect from someone who regularly makes impossible shots from a mile away.

"At least you take care of my presents," she mutters, but there's no real heat in it.

Jeon just nods, swinging his leg over the bike like he was born to ride it. When he turns to look at you, his face has gone all serious again.

"You good?"

You nod, feeling your heart start picking up speed.

This is really happening.

Jessi steps back, smiles, and then just waves you two off, not before adding something else.

"Watch your asses out there. And remember—you need backup, we're just a call away."

— 𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊 —

Chapter 20: infiltration

Summary:

"When you ask about Sylvia, you are poking at wounds that run deeper than any knife Jeon's ever taken to the chest."

Notes:

THE INFILTRATION MISSION IS FINALLY HERE!!! Can I just say how absolutely FERAL I am about this chapter?? Because holy SHIT did this turn out more intense than I planned. Originally this was going to be a straightforward "get in, plant bug, get out" situation but then my brain said "hey what if we make this psychologically devastating instead?" and here we are!

First off, let's talk about Jeon on that motorcycle because DEAR GOD. Writing him all leather-clad and dangerous while being simultaneously protective and calculating? *chef's kiss* The man really said "let me create the perfect storm of sexual tension and strategic brilliance" and then had the AUDACITY to pull that husband stunt. Like sir, who gave you permission to be that smooth under pressure? The way he reads Kaleido's predatory nature and immediately adapts the cover story? That's not just tactical genius, that's emotional intelligence wrapped in a bulletproof vest and it's SO fucking attractive.

But can we also discuss the absolute NIGHTMARE that is Fervio? Writing that character genuinely made my skin crawl. I spent SO much time researching the psychology of sadistic personalities to make him authentically terrifying without glorifying anything. The yellow contacts, the theatrical cruelty, the way he gets off on psychological manipulation—every detail was chosen to make readers feel the same visceral discomfort that Y/N experiences. And Y/N having to flirt with that monster while maintaining her cover? That girl deserves a medal for not throwing up or committing murder on the spot.

The comm line dynamics absolutely DESTROYED me to write. Having AD and Jeon's fractured relationship play out in real-time while Jeon's navigating enemy territory? The guilt, the anger, the way old wounds keep reopening? And then that slip about Sylvia—OOPS. Y/N hearing that name and filing it away for later? The way Jeon's walls SLAM back up the second she asks about it? I'm obsessed with how trauma shapes every interaction between these characters, how the past keeps bleeding into the present no matter how hard they try to compartmentalize.

Speaking of compartmentalizing—Y/N's performance in this chapter showcases exactly why she belongs in Seduction Division. The way she reads the room, adapts to Jeon's improvisation, keeps both psychopaths distracted while processing the horror of their situation? That's not just survival, that's mastery. She's not some damsel being protected; she's a professional doing her job under the worst possible circumstances. The balance between vulnerability and competence, between genuine fear and trained composure—that's what makes her such a compelling character.

The ending though? Jeon retreating back into his shell the moment Y/N shows curiosity about his past? PAIN. Pure, unadulterated emotional pain. He's so desperate to maintain distance, to keep his trauma locked away, but Y/N's already under his skin. She's asking the right questions and it terrifies him. Because letting someone see your wounds means risking them poking at them, and Jeon's been hurt enough for several lifetimes.

Next chapter is going to be... *evil laughter* ...let's just say the aftermath of this mission is going to hit DIFFERENT. Hope you're ready for some serious emotional excavation because these two aren't done processing what just happened. Not by a long shot.

Edit: Also, yeah. The coins was a post-editing addition because I’ve been watching the John Wick movies and I loved the coin system so I adapted it heheheheh. 🤭

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

Pine is all you can smell right now.

It's annoying, really, how the air outside the night air hits different outside the castle. It's crisp—almost sharp against your skin.

And of course, because the universe loves to fuck with you, it's saturated with that distinct scent of pine and wood that follows Jeon everywhere.

You check your phone. 22:00. Perfect timing.

The moon's doing that thing where it makes everything look like a noir film, all dramatic shadows and silver light washing over the castle grounds. It's actually kind of pretty, in a moody sort of way.

Jeon's walking ahead of you, and god—even his walk is intimidating.

The air around him swirls slightly, tinged with static. Like a thunderstorm incoming.

You're starting to think his whole 'I must look badass 24/7' thing is just his default setting.

The gravel crunches under his boots as he approaches his bike. It's this sleek, black monster of a machine that somehow manages to look both elegant and menacing.

Just like its owner, you think, watching him move with that fluid grace that comes from years of... well, probably things you'd rather not think about.

He opens a compartment on the bike, pulling out leather gloves with an ease that makes it look like he's done this a thousand times before. Which, knowing him, he probably has. The way he slides them on is almost hypnotic—not that you're staring or anything.

(d̶e̶f̶i̶n̶i̶t̶e̶l̶y̶ maybe staring.)

Then he's got two helmets in his hands, checking them over like he's inspecting weapons.

Everything's a tactical operation with this man, isn't it?

He puts his on first, and suddenly Chief Jeon of Tactical Assassinations is fully activated. The transformation would be impressive if it wasn't so intense.

The second helmet comes flying at you without warning.

Your hands scramble to catch it—which you do, thankfully, because dropping it would be mortifying. But then comes the real challenge: actually putting the damn thing on.

The straps are being particularly bitchy tonight. They keep slipping through your fingers like they're coated in butter or something. You're probably making this look way harder than it needs to be, but whatever.

You catch Jeon watching you, and there's this tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. It's barely there, but you've learned to spot these micro-expressions of his. The fact that you can read him at all is probably something you should worry about later.

"You always manage to make the simplest tasks look like a battle," he says, voice slightly muffled by his helmet.

The words should sting, but there's this undercurrent of... something else. Something almost playful, if you didn't know better.

He steps closer, and fuck—the wind hits you full force.

It's like being caught in the eye of a storm, where everything's calm but you know there's chaos just inches away.

His gloved hands reach for the straps, and despite the leather barrier, his touch is weirdly gentle.

Clinical, sure, but gentle.

"There," he says, and it's just one word but it feels loaded.

You make the mistake of looking up at his eyes—those dark, intense eyes that make you feel like you're being dissected and devoured all at once.

"Thanks," you manage to say, keeping your voice steady because you refuse to let him see how much he affects you. "I guess I'm still not used to all this."

He takes a step back, and you can breathe again. His expression is back to that unreadable mask he wears so well.

"You're still fairly new, you've got time to learn. Everyone does, eventually."

Silence. Words hovering between you, carried by the night breeze.

If you were s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ optimistic enough, you might think his voice had softened just a bit. But you know better.

You've learned better.

"We should get going," he says, breaking whatever moment was building. "We have a long night ahead of us."

Yeah, you think. A long night of pretending this tension doesn't exist.

Jeon swings his leg over the bike with this fluid grace that's honestly unfair, engine purring beneath him like some mechanical beast waiting to be unleashed.

You climb on after him, trying (and probably failing) to look half as graceful. The leather seat is cool against your thighs, and you're suddenly very aware of how close you need to be.

Fuck it.

You wrap your arms around his torso, hands splaying across his abdomen. Even through his jacket, you can feel how solid he is—all muscle, all heat, like a human furnace.

The proximity makes your skin tingle where you're pressed against him.

He goes completely still for a moment. You feel his breath catch, just slightly. Then he relaxes, and you could swear the air shifts, becoming less stormy, more like a breeze.

The engine growls louder as he revs it.

"Hold on tight," he says, and you know that tone. That's his 'I'm-about-to-be-a-little-shit' voice. "Don't let go."

You barely have time to process the warning before he twists the throttle.

The bike lurches forward and—holy shit—you slam back against him, the sudden acceleration catching you completely off guard. A very u̶n̶d̶i̶g̶n̶i̶f̶i̶e̶d̶ surprised yelp escapes you as he immediately cuts the speed, leaving you pressed firmly against his back.

The bastard chuckles. You can feel it rumble through his chest where you're plastered against him.

"Gotta hold on tighter than that, sunshine," he taunts, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Don't want you flying off the back now."

You smack his shoulder, hard enough to mean business but not enough to actually hurt.

Not that you could probably hurt him anyway. He's like a fucking brick wall.

"You're such a dick," you mutter, but you're fighting back a smile he can't see.

You can practically feel his shit-eating grin and you're starting to think this whole helmet struggle earlier was just an excuse to mess with you.

"Maybe I should drive," you say, matching his teasing tone. "Since you clearly can't be trusted to act like a proper adult."

"In your dreams, sunshine." The pet name rolls off his tongue like honey-coated poison. "Now hold on properly, unless you want another demonstration."

You tighten your grip around him—maybe a bit more forcefully than necessary. Your chest presses flush against his back, and you swear you feel his breath hitch again.

"Just drive the damn bike, Jeon," you say, trying to sound annoyed but probably failing miserably.

"Yes ma'am," he drawls, and this time when he revs the engine, the acceleration is smooth as silk as you both glide into the darkness.

The bike thunders beneath you, eating up the empty backroads leading away from the castle.

You catch glimpses of city lights in the distance, little pinpricks of civilization breaking through the darkness.

Jeon handles the bike like it's an extension of himself, without exaggeration.

His back is solid against your chest, and you're definitely n̶o̶t̶ totally noticing how the leather jacket stretches across his shoulders with each turn. One gloved hand stays steady on the throttle while the other grips the handlebar confidently.

The road then straightens out, and Jeon takes full advantage.

The engine roars as he opens up the throttle, and you instinctively press closer. Your thighs tighten around the bike, and you swear you feel him tense for a split second before relaxing again.

After that, your world becomes a blur of shadows and occasional bursts of neon. Each mile brings you closer to the city, that concrete jungle where your target is hiding.

The buildings start growing taller, streets getting busier, and Jeon weaves through traffic with this contained impatience that you feel in your bones. Every block brings you deeper into enemy territory, and you can't help but think about what's waiting at the end of this ride.

God, you think, this is actually happening.

The bike slows as Jeon turns down an alley, the engine's growl echoing off brick walls before he kills it.

You've stopped beside this completely unremarkable door that somehow manages to look threatening anyway.

Because you know what's behind it.

Who's behind it.

Jeon pulls off his helmet, and those dark eyes find yours.

They're intense, focused—the kind of look that makes your stomach do this weird flip thing you're choosing to ignore.

"We're here," he says, voice low and serious.

You resist the urge to say 'no shit.'

Barely.

Jeon slides off the bike and you follow, yanking off the helmet and running fingers through your hair to fix whatever mess the wind made of it.

The alley you're in is sketchy as fuck—all grimy walls and creepy shadows.

And to add onto that—a siren wails somewhere in the distance before dying out, and you can't help but think how perfectly ominous that is.

You take a deep breath, trying to get your shit together.

The mission brief keeps playing in your head like some twisted PowerPoint presentation: get in, play nice with the bad guys, wait for the lights to go out.

Easy peasy.

Right.

No pressure or anything—just the tiny matter of infiltrating a rival gang's hideout.

Then, Jeon is moving—towards the grimy door.

Wind cuts through the clothing that shields you from the force of nature he is.

You follow close behind, channeling every ounce of that Seduction Division training into looking like you absolutely belong here. Time to put on the mask, become whoever these assholes need you to be.

Jeon knocks on the door—two quick taps, one long, two quick. The sound bounces off the alley walls before getting swallowed by the night.

For a moment, there's nothing but silence and your heartbeat doing this annoying thing where it won't slow the fuck down.

Then comes the click of locks, and the door swings open to reveal this absolute unit of a guy. His face is mostly shadow, but his suspicion? That's crystal clear.

He gives you both this once-over that practically screams 'I don't trust you,' but steps aside anyway.

Jeon walks in first, and you follow his lead, channeling your inner bad bitch because that's what's gonna keep you alive tonight.

The inside is like every seedy underground bar in every crime movie ever, except the smell is worse. It's this nasty cocktail of booze and something sickeningly sweet that makes your nose want to revolt. You force yourself not to react, keeping your face neutral even though your lungs are screaming.

You weave through the crowd behind Jeon, feeling eyes tracking your movement. Some look curious, others suspicious, but most are too wasted or high to give a shit. You keep your head high, shoulders back, playing the role of someone who's seen it all and isn't impressed.

Jeon posts up at the bar like he's been coming here his whole life. When the bartender comes over, Jeon pulls this smile that's all teeth and zero warmth. It's kind of terrifying how good he is at this.

"We're here to see Kaleido," he says, smooth as silk. "Tell him the traders he's been expecting have arrived."

The bartender's got a sour face on. "I don't know any Kaleido," he says, flat and cold.

But Jeon? He doesn't even blink. Just does this thing where he bites the inside of his cheek—which is not distracting at all—and pulls out two golden coins, sliding them across the counter like he's dealing cards.

"We're the new faces in town," he says, casual as fuck. "Kaleido is expecting us."

You resist the urge to smirk. Because damn, he's good at this.

The bartender snatches up the coins like they personally offended him. His eyes flick between the metal and your faces, doing that thing where he's trying real hard to catch you in a lie. You keep your face neutral even though your stomach's doing gymnastics.

After what feels like fucking forever, he gives this tiny nod that probably killed him inside and slides the coins in his pocket.

"Wait here," he grunts, disappearing through a door that's seen better days.

You fight the urge to bounce your leg or fidget with your clothes or do any of the thousand nervous tells that would blow your cover right now.

The wait is excruciating. You're about to lose your mind when the bartender finally emerges with this dude looks like he bench presses cars for fun, with a face that's all hard angles and zero emotion. He doesn't say a word, just jerks his head toward the back like you're supposed to know what that means.

Jeon pushes off the bar, and the way he straightens up is somehow both lazy and intimidating. He tilts his head slightly—your cue to follow. Your heart's going absolutely feral in your chest, but you've got your game face locked down tight.

No backing out now.

You follow Jeon and Mr. Mountain through the crowd.

The place is exactly what you'd expect from a seedy underground bar—sketchy people having sketchy conversations over even sketchier drinks.

The hallway they lead you down is grimy as fuck, and you can hear music thumping through the walls from somewhere nearby.

Muscles McGee opens a door to what has to be the most depressing room you've ever seen—dim, small, and probably hasn't seen a cleaning crew since the 90s.

"Kaleido will be with you shortly," he rumbles, and his voice matches his appearance perfectly—like gravel in a blender.

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you alone with Jeon.

His eyes find yours in the low light, and there's this whole conversation happening without words.

You both know what's at stake here.

One wrong move and you're both d̶e̶a̶d̶ screwed.

The door swings open again, and in walks this guy who looks like he raided a rapper's closet. His suit probably costs more than your yearly salary, and he's wearing enough gold to fund a small country.

He gives you this dismissive once-over that makes your blood boil before turning to Jeon with barely concealed suspicion.

"Was told to expect the woman," he drawls, sounding bored out of his mind. "Didn't mention anything about a man crashing our little party."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Men.

Jeon's eyes narrow just a fraction, but you jump in before he can say something that'll probably piss everyone off.

"I'm the one you're here to meet," you say, keeping your voice smooth and professional. "My associate is—"

"Her husband," Jeon cuts in, voice like silk over steel.

The word rolls off his tongue like he's been saying it his whole life instead of pulling it out of his ass two seconds ago.

You shoot him a look that could curdle milk.

Husband? Really?

But Jeon's locked onto Kaleido like a sniper on his target, completely ignoring your death glare. His jaw is set in that way that means he's about to be a stubborn ass about something.

Kaleido's laugh is sharp and mocking, the kind that makes you want to punch teeth.

"Her husband?" He looks between you both like this is the funniest shit he's seen all week. "What, she needs a big scary guard dog to hold her hand during business deals?"

You watch Jeon's jaw clench, the muscle jumping under his skin. But his voice stays steady, dangerous in its calmness.

"More like insurance."

You clear your throat, loud enough to make a point.

"As I was saying"—and you put just enough emphasis on that word to let Jeon know you'll be having words about this later—"my associate and I have some opportunities that might interest you. The kind that makes serious money."

Kaleido finally tears his eyes away from Jeon to look at you, and something in his gaze makes your skin recoil.

"Well then," he drawls, dropping into his chair like a king on his throne, "let's talk business."

His eyes rake over you both, lingering a bit too long for comfort.

"Impress me."

You meet his stare head-on because fuck that—you're not some rookie who's gonna get intimidated by his wannabe mob boss act.

Time to put all that Seduction Division training to work.

You've got a whole script of lies ready to roll off your tongue, each one crafted to hook this smug bastard right where you want him.

Game fucking on.

You start laying out the deal, watching Kaleido's face shift from bored rich boy to actually interested businessman. But part of your brain is still stuck on Jeon's little improvisation. Because Jeon doesn't do random—every move is calculated, every word chosen for maximum effect.

He saw something in Kaleido that made him change the plan.

And whatever it was, it was bad enough to make him go full protective mode.

"So these new routes we've set up?" You tap the documents as you slide them across the table, keeping your voice casual but confident. "They'll keep the good shit flowing steady. Premium grade only—none of that watered-down crap."

Kaleido snatches up the papers like they're made of gold, those calculating eyes scanning every detail. His perfectly manicured finger stops at something, and his face does this thing where he's trying to look unimpressed but you can tell he's interested.

"End of next week? With customs breathing down everyone's neck lately?" He clicks his tongue. "That's a bold claim."

His eyes lock onto yours, and it feels like being dissected. You can feel the cold breeze intensify beside you, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

But you've got this. This is what you were trained for.

"Yeah, customs is a bitch lately," you say with a knowing smirk, leaning forward slightly. "Good thing we've got someone on the inside who's very invested in looking the other way."

You tap the timeline sheet with one perfectly manicured nail.

"See this? Already factored in their... cooperation. We might work outside the law, but we're not stupid about it."

Kaleido stares at the paper for what feels like forever, then his eyes snap back to you. His eyebrows climb up his forehead, and suddenly he's grinning like you just told him his favorite candy is back in store. He claps once, the sound sharp and jarring in the small room.

"Well, fuck me," he says, sounding genuinely impressed. "You actually know what you're talking about."

He stands up, straightening his ridiculous designer suit.

"There's someone else who needs to hear this. Come on."

He gestures toward a door at the back of the room like some fancy maître d' inviting you to the VIP section.

You catch Jeon's eye for a split second—just long enough to see the tension in his jaw.

Something's off about this whole thing, but you're in too deep to back out now.

You follow Kaleido down this sketchy-ass hallway.

The subvocal mic hidden in your collar is tiny but feels like it weighs a ton as you activate it.

"What the fuck was that husband shit about?" you whisper, making sure your lips barely move. "Because I know you didn't just pull that out of your ass for fun."

Jeon's voice comes through your earpiece, quiet but crystal clear.

"Guys like him?" There's a edge to his voice that makes your skin prickle. "They see single women as prey. Trust me on this one."

Oh. Well, shit.

You throw a glance over your shoulder, brows furrowed because what the actual fuck is going on in that tactical brain of his. But Jeon's already explaining through the subvocals, his voice low and steady in your ear.

"These types get off on finding weak spots they can dig their fingers into," he murmurs, and something in his tone makes your skin prickle. "A couple? That's like serving them weakness on a silver fucking platter."

You have to fight to keep your voice down. "So you just painted a giant fucking target on our backs for fun?"

"Think of it as controlled bait," he says, and you can practically hear that annoying smirk in his voice. "They see what looks like an obvious pressure point, but they also see two people who won't let the other out of their sight. Can't divide what won't separate."

Kaleido throws this look over his shoulder that's trying way too hard to be casual. You flash him your best trophy-wife smile before turning back to your hushed conversation.

"I don't like playing from behind," you breathe into the mic. "If this blows up in our faces—"

"It won't." The certainty in his voice would be irritating if you didn't know how that big brain of his works. "Guys like Kaleido? They're like snakes. They won't strike without knowing exactly where to sink their fangs. Marriage looks like an easy weak spot to exploit, but it also means they have to be real careful about how they play it. Nobody wants to poke a bear and its mate."

You chew on your bottom lip as you follow Kaleido through another door into what looks like some bougie conference room from hell.

"So what you're saying is," you whisper, working it out, "we look like an easy mark, but we're actually too much of a pain in the ass to fuck with directly?"

The tiny nod he gives is barely perceptible. "Bingo. It's all about the balance—make him think he's got leverage, but make him second-guess using it."

You take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The pieces are starting to click into place.

"Okay, yeah. I get what you're doing here."

It's actually kind of brilliant, in a fucked-up way. Present a tempting target that's also too risky to take a shot at.

Classic Jeon strategy—making someone think they've got the upper hand while he's actually ten steps ahead.

You just hope his read on Kaleido is as accurate as he thinks it is.

The new room is bigger, fancier, trying way too hard to look impressive.

But what catches your attention isn't the tacky decor—it's the guy sprawled in this throne-like chair (what's with these people and thrones?). His hair's this violent shade of red, styled up in a mohawk that screams 'look at me, I'm dangerous.'

But it's his eyes that make your stomach drop.

Yellow contacts that make him look like some kind of Boomslang sizing up its next meal.

You feel Jeon go completely still beside you, every muscle in his body coiled tight. The air around him sharpens into something deadly, and you just know this situation just went from bad to absolutely fucked.

"Where the fuck are you going?" AD's voice cuts through your earpiece, sharp and irritated.

You tilt your head slightly, keeping your voice barely above a whisper. "Kaleido brought us to meet someone else. Apparently, they're very interested in our deal."

"Who?" The way AD snaps the word makes your skin prickle.

"Red mohawk. Yellow contacts. Looks like he raided some goth's closet," you murmur, trying to keep the tension out of your voice.

There's this pause that feels heavy enough to crush your lungs.

Then AD's voice comes back, cold as ice: "That's Fervio."

"Motherfucker," Jeon mutters under his breath, and the fact that he's breaking radio silence to curse tells you everything you need to know about how deeply shit you are.

You glance between Mohawk Guy—Fervio—and Jeon, trying to piece together why everyone's suddenly acting like you're standing in front of Death himself.

Your confusion must show somehow through the comms because AD starts talking again, his voice tight with barely contained urgency.

"Listen carefully. Fervio's not just another MDF thug. He's their fucking torture specialist." There's a rustling sound, like AD's leaning closer to his mic. "We're talking serious psychological damage. The kind of shit that keeps other psychopaths up at night. Makes V look like a boy scout."

"Hey!" V's voice cuts in, sounding actually offended. "I have standards, okay? And do you know how hard it is to get blood out of designer suits?"

"Both of you, shut up," RM's voice slices through the chatter, cold and commanding. "Get out. Now. Before he decides you look interesting."

You watch Fervio rise from his chair with this fluid grace that makes your skin crawl, yellow eyes locking onto you both like a snake spotting mice.

"We can't," you breathe into the comm, keeping your face neutral even though your heart's trying to punch through your ribs. "Backing out now would be suspicious as fuck."

Great, you think. Just great.

Of all the psychos in MDF, you had to run into their resident Hannibal Lecter.

Before AD can continue with his rant, J-Hope's voice cuts in, sharp and deadly serious.

"Listen here, you little shit," he hisses, and you've never heard him sound this intense before. "That psycho in front of you? I've had to put his victims back together. Multiple fucking times. And let me tell you something—there usually isn't enough left to work with. The things he does to people? That's not normal torture. That's not even human. He's a fucking monster wearing people skin for fun."

Your stomach does this violent flip thing, but you keep your face perfectly blank. Years of Flower's training kicking in as Fervio stalks toward you.

Those yellow contacts make him look like something that crawled out of a horror movie, and that smile—fuck, that smile is all kinds of wrong.

Next to you, Jeon's whole soul has turned deadly, like the kind of storm that levels entire cities. His body is coiled so tight you can practically hear his muscles screaming, ready to launch at Fervio's throat at the smallest wrong move.

"We need to find another way," you breathe into the comm, barely moving your lips. "But if we bolt now, this place turns into a fucking slaughterhouse. We stick to the plan."

AD starts cursing in your ear, and J-Hope's protests get even more colorful, but you tune them out.

Time to put on the performance of your life.

You stretch your lips into what you hope is a convincing smile and extend your hand to Fervio.

"Pleasure to meet you," you say, voice steady despite your heart trying to punch through your ribcage. "Kaleido mentioned you might be interested in what we're offering."

Your skin crawls when Fervio takes your hand. His grip is too tight, too deliberate, and he holds on way longer than necessary as he brings your knuckles to his lips in this theatrical gesture that makes you want to g̶a̶g̶ grimace. Those yellow eyes never leave yours, gleaming with something that looks too much like hunger.

"A pleasure indeed," he practically purrs, and the way he says it makes you feel like you need a shower.

You force yourself to stay still, channeling every ounce of Seduction Division training into keeping your expression pleasant and engaged.

"The pleasure's mine. Your reputation precedes you."

Please, you think, let us get through this without anyone getting skinned alive.

Those creepy yellow contacts slide over to Jeon, and you watch Fervio size him up. "And who's the strong, silent type?"

"Her husband," Kaleido cuts in before either of you can speak, his smirk dripping with smug satisfaction. "Though he doesn't seem too keen on... friendly conversation."

Fervio's laugh is sharp and ugly, like broken glass scraping metal. "Oh, I get it. The big scary guard dog act, right? All growl, no real bite. What, they keep you on a leash, make sure no one gets too handsy with the missus?"

You feel Jeon's hurricane darken dangerously, but his voice stays deadly calm.

"Trust me, she doesn't need protection. She's perfectly capable of handling herself."

Your hand shoots out to grip his bicep—partly to stop him from doing something stupid, partly to ground yourself. When he glances at you, his tongue flicks out to play with his lip ring.

"I'm sure my husband"—and god, that word feels weird in your mouth—"would appreciate it if we skipped the implications and got down to business."

You can feel Jeon practically vibrating with tension under your grip, so you squeeze his arm just a bit harder.

Don't, you try to telegraph through the touch. He's testing us. Don't give him what he wants.

Fervio's eyes dart between you and Jeon, calculating and hungry, before settling back on you.

"Of course, my sincerest apologies," he says, in a tone that suggests he's about as sorry as a cat in a canary shop. "Let's discuss this fascinating deal of yours."

He sinks back into his chair with a loud thud, and you take the seat across from him whilst Jeon drops into the chair beside you. His presence is both comforting and terrifying—like having a loaded gun pressed against your back. Protection and danger all wrapped up in one p̶r̶e̶t̶t̶y̶ lethal package.

Fervio leans back, threading his fingers together like some b̶u̶l̶l̶s̶h̶i̶t̶ wannabe movie villain. The smile playing around his lips makes your skin crawl. It's the kind of smile that says he knows exactly how much power he holds in this room, and he can't wait to use it.

"So," Fervio drawls, and his voice makes your skin want to crawl right off your body. "Partnership's a delicate thing, isn't it? All about that... give and take."

You nod, studying his face like you're trying to read a book written in blood.

"That's right. We're always looking for deals that work out for everyone involved."

He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Everyone involved? Now that's interesting. I've always enjoyed... expanding my circle. Trying new things. Meeting new friends."

You force yourself to stay still. "Well, they do say variety keeps life interesting."

Jeon clears his throat, this tiny sound that somehow manages to carry a death threat.

Fervio's attention snaps to him like a rubber band, and fuck—those yellow eyes are practically glowing now.

"What about you, tough guy?" Fervio's words drip with mock sweetness. "You like getting your hands dirty, or do you just stand there looking pretty while the missus handles business?"

You feel Jeon's muscles coil under your touch. His jaw clenches so hard you can practically hear his teeth grinding.

"I do whatever needs doing," he says, voice cold enough to freeze hell. "And I never just stand there."

"Ooh, feisty," Fervio actually fucking giggles, and it's the most unsettling sound you've ever heard. "I like that in a man."

Your brain is going a mile a minute, mapping every possible way this could go sideways.

The clock on the wall reads 22:45.

Fifteen minutes.

Just fifteen fucking minutes until the power goes out and you can stop playing nice with this psycho.

You lean in, like you're actually interested in whatever sick shit he's suggesting.

"So what exactly did you have in mind for this partnership?"

Fervio's mouth opens, probably to say something horrifying, but you cut him off with a perfectly timed cough.

"Of course," you add quickly, matching his suggestive tone, "we'd need to explore all the possibilities first. Make sure everyone's needs are met."

"Oh, I like you," he purrs, and his smile is all teeth and zero warmth. "I have so many... creative ideas we could try. I've gotten quite good at finding that sweet spot between pleasure and screaming."

You feel Jeon tense beside you, practically vibrating with the need to put a bullet between Fervio's eyes. Your fingers dig into his arm, silently begging him to keep it together.

"We're always eager to learn new methods," you say, keeping your voice light. "As long as they get results."

His laugh sounds like gravel in a blender. "Trust me, sweetheart. My methods always get results. I've turned it into an art form."

22:50.

You maintain your flirty smile even though you want nothing more than to dump bleach on your brain to wash away this entire conversation.

Ten more minutes, you think. Just ten more minutes of not punching this creep in his stupid face.

You force yourself to lean forward, all casual interest like you're not sitting across from a literal psychopath.

"Maybe we should talk specifics first. You know—terms, guarantees, all that boring but necessary shit."

"Of course, of course." Fervio's smile promises pain. "Always good to handle business before... other matters."

He starts laying out some proposal, but you're only half listening. Your eyes keep darting to the clock while trying to look like they're not. Jeon's still beside you, watching Fervio like he's mentally cataloging all the ways he could end him.

22:55. Five more minutes of this psychological torture session.

You can practically feel AD's planned blackout humming in the air—or maybe that's just your nerves making shit up.

You keep nodding, throwing out questions designed to keep Fervio talking. The more he talks, the more he reveals just how fucked in the head he is. But you're careful—dancing on the edge of interest without actually promising anything.

"That's an... interesting approach," you say, watching his yellow eyes light up at your apparent engagement. "Very creative."

Kaleido shifts in his seat, and you catch this tiny frown crossing his face. Someone's starting to smell something fishy.

But then it happens.

23:00 hits, and everything goes black.

The darkness feels like a goddamn blessing after staring at those creepy yellow contacts.

You let out this little laugh, playing it cool. "Well, this is getting atmospheric."

"Indeed it is," Fervio practically purrs, and fuck—his voice has dropped into something that makes your skin want to crawl right off your body. "The darkness has a way of... bringing out our true natures."

You can feel Kaleido's tension from here. He's not buying this convenient timing, but Fervio's too caught up in his own twisted fantasy to notice.

"They do say the best deals happen in the dark," you drawl, channeling every ounce of Seduction Division training into your voice. "When you can't see the fine print."

Come on, you think. Just keep them distracted for a few more minutes.

The darkness is so thick you could probably drown in it, and somewhere in it, Fervio is getting way too excited about this whole situation. But you've got bigger problems than his murder boner—like making sure Kaleido doesn't put two and two together before you can complete the mission.

You feel Jeon slip away like a ghost, silent and deadly in the darkness.

Kaleido's head snaps toward the movement—fuck, he's sharp.

Time to do what you do best: be really fucking distracting.

Your hand finds Kaleido's arm, touch light enough to seem inviting rather than desperate.

"Hey now," you purr. "Don't get distracted. We were just getting to the fun part, weren't we? There's enough entertainment to keep everyone happy."

You hear Kaleido's breath hitch—gotcha. "Is that right?" His voice has that edge of interest that tells you he's taking the bait.

Hook, line, and s̶u̶c̶k̶e̶r̶ sinker.

But then Fervio's voice cuts through, a bit irritated. "Fun is an art form. It's not about how many players are in the game. It's about how thoroughly you can explore each possibility."

Something touches your hand—Fervio's fingers, cold and invasive. Every instinct screams at you to pull away, but you hold steady. Years of training kick in, and you force yourself to lean into the touch instead of breaking his fucking fingers.

"Couldn't agree more," you say, making your voice all honey and smoke. "Quality over quantity, right? Though sometimes..." You let the words hang there, suggestive. "A little variety can make things interesting."

Fervio's laugh makes your skin want to crawl right off your body and run for the hills.

"Let's keep our friend out of this particular equation," he says, and there's steel under that fake playfulness. "I prefer my entertainment more concentrated. Just us three."

You paint on a smile he can't see in the dark, grateful for small mercies.

"Whatever you say," you reply, like you're actually disappointed. "Your house, your rules."

The minutes drag by like years. Your heart's going so hard you're amazed they can't hear it, but you keep talking, keep flirting, keep Kaleido's suspicions buried under layers of innuendo and suggestion.

Every time Fervio opens his mouth, something more twisted comes out, but you dance around his sick fantasies like you're actually interested.

Come on, Jeon, you think. Hurry the fuck up.

You remind yourself that every creepy comment, every time Fervio's hand 'accidentally' brushes yours, every moment you have to pretend his psycho ass is fascinating—it's all getting you closer to bringing these bastards down.

This is what you trained for. This is what you're good at.

And when those lights come back on, you'll walk out of here without a scratch, leaving these fuckers none the wiser.

Because that's what you do. That's who you are.

You're not just some pretty distraction.

You're a goddamn professional.

This fucking hideout is a maze—that's all Jungkook can think as he tries to move through silently.

The mission weighs on his shoulders, made heavier by AD's voice crackling through his earpiece—sharp, cold, and deliberately sparse with information.

"Left. Next intersection."

His eyes scan the dim corridor, searching for any sign of the server room. Or worse—company.

The lack of proper directions makes his jaw clench. AD's being difficult on purpose, and they both know it.

A soft shuffle of footsteps echoes from around the corner. His body moves on instinct, melting into a shadowed alcove. The wall is cold against his back as some MDF grunt walks past, completely oblivious to the death that could have been waiting for them.

"Almost got made," he mutters into the comm, keeping his voice low. "Your directions are fucking useless."

The silence that follows is loaded.

"Oh no, what a tragedy that would be. What would we do without our perfect Captain America?"

The words hit exactly where AD means them to—right in that raw spot that never quite heals.

But Jungkook swallows it down, like he always does. Like he deserves to.

"Just focus on the fucking mission."

"Whatever you say." AD's voice drips acid. "Next right, straight down. Try not to die—the paperwork's a bitch, and I'd hate to waste my time processing your replacement."

His teeth grind together so hard his jaw aches. The guilt sits heavy in his chest, a constant companion these days. AD never lets him forget what happened with Sylvia, never misses a chance to twist the knife.

But that's fine. He deserves that too.

The mission is what matters. Everything else—the guilt, AD's hatred, the constant reminder of his failures—that's just background noise. He's gotten good at drowning it out.

Focus on the objective, he thinks. Nothing else matters.

(But god, some days the weight of it all feels like it might finally break him.)

"Thanks for the fucking concern," Jungkook mutters, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Not that he expects anything else from AD these days.

"Don't flatter yourself." AD's voice crackles with venom through the comm. "I'm here for the mission. You're just the unfortunate means to an end."

Each step feels heavier than the last, weighted down by years of AD's cultivated hatred.

But the mission is what matters.

That's what he keeps telling himself, anyway.

Has to keep telling himself.

The LED lights overhead cast these long, twisted shadows that remind him too much of things he'd rather forget.

Of Sylvia. Of choices he can't take back. Of the way everything went so spectacularly wrong.

"Left door," AD says, clipped and cold. "Try not to fuck this up too."

Jungkook's hand pauses over the doorknob, metal cool against his palm. He presses his ear to the door, listening for movement, for breath, for anything that might mean trouble. Nothing but silence answers back.

"You know," he breathes, slipping into the room like a ghost, "with how much you hate me, you'd think I killed her myself."

The laugh that comes through his earpiece is ugly. "Didn't you? Might as well have handed her the gun yourself."

He's right, of course. Jungkook deserves every bit of venom AD spits at him.

He simply exhales. Ignores the guilt that threatens to choke him.

"Moving on," he says quietly, both an update and a desperate attempt to change the subject.

"Yeah, better hurry," AD sneers. "Clock's ticking, and we both know how good you are at getting people killed when you're running out of time."

"Crystal fucking clear," Jungkook grits out, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

But pain is familiar territory these days. Almost comforting, in a twisted way.

"Door on your left, five meters." AD's voice is clinical now, professional.

Sometimes that's worse than the open hostility.

At least hatred is honest.

"Could you at least pretend not to want me dead?" Jungkook mutters.

"Maybe if you hadn't gotten Sylvia killed, I would."

It hits him like a bullet between the ribs, the name.

Sylvia.

It always comes back to her, doesn't it?

That night haunts every interaction with AD, turning what used to be friendship into this twisted thing full of barbs and old wounds.

"I know."

It's all he can say. All he's allowed to say, really. Some apologies are just fucking pointless.

The server room is exactly what he expected—all blinking lights and humming machines. Perfect place to hide a bug.

His hands move on autopilot while his mind keeps circling back to AD's words like picking at a scab.

"Focus, Jeon." AD's voice cuts through his thoughts. "Get the job done and get out."

Jungkook crouches down, finding a spot that'll give them good coverage. The familiar motions of planting surveillance gear almost feel like penance. Almost. His fingers work quickly, efficiently, working with the kind of precision his father drilled into him.

The comm line goes quiet. AD's probably stewing in his anger, replaying old memories like a fucked-up highlight reel.

Jungkook knows because he does the same thing.

"Bug's planted," he whispers, straightening up. "Moving out."

There's this pause—longer than usual. Like AD's wrestling with something.

When he finally speaks, his voice has lost some of its edge. "Watch your back."

It's not forgiveness. Not even close. But it's... something.

A tiny crack in the wall of hatred AD's built between them.

Maybe it's just muscle memory from their old friendship, or maybe AD's just too tired to maintain the rage.

Either way, it doesn't change anything.

Some mistakes can't be undone, some bridges stay burned.

And dead people always stay dead.

Jungkook heads back the way he came, knowing he needs to hurry. He can't afford any mistakes, not now—not ever again, really. Time's running out, and he can't afford to fuck this up too.

"Move your ass, Jeon. You got less than a minute."

AD's voice has faded to white noise in his ear, like a storm that's finally burned itself out.

But the urgency remains, thrumming under his skin like a fucking hornets' nest.

And his mind isn't helpful—keeps circling back to everything riding on this—the mission, the intel, the fact that you're still in that room with those psychos.

A drop of sweat slides down his temple, and he forces himself to focus.

No room for distractions. Not now.

He's almost at the final corner, freedom just fucking there, when he catches the low rumble of voices. His body reacts before his brain, pressing flat against the wall in a shadowed spot. His breath comes shallow and quiet as footsteps approach.

The seconds crawl by like years. Each heartbeat feels too loud, each breath a risk. The guards' voices drift closer, then past, then fade into nothing.

The moment the footsteps disappear, Jungkook moves.

Those last few meters might as well be a mile, but he covers them in seconds. The lights could come back any moment, and if he's not in that room when they do—

He slides into his seat beside you, forcing his breathing to stay steady even though his heart's trying to punch through his ribs.

The power surges back on immediately. The sudden brightness makes his eyes burn, but there's no time to adjust.

You turn toward him, probably to ask if he got it done, but the room's already buzzing with conversation again like nothing happened. Like he didn't just plant a bug that could bring this whole operation crashing down. Like there aren't two psychopaths sitting across from you both, one of them already suspicious.

His eyes meet yours for a split second. There's relief there, yeah, but also the weight of knowing this is just the beginning.

"Looking forward to our... partnership," Fervio then purrs, those creepy yellow contacts flicking between you and Jeon. "I'm veryinterested to see what you bring to the table."

You catch Jeon giving you this look from the corner of your eye—all confusion and barely concealed questions.

Of course he's lost, poor bastard missed the whole song and dance while he was playing spy. His dark eyes are practically screaming for some kind of explanation, any hint about what kind of mess he just walked back into.

You meet his gaze for a split second, trying to pack a whole conversation into one look.

Later, you try to telegraph. When we're not surrounded by psychos who want to wear our skin as party hats.

After a few more minutes, everyone starts getting up, chairs scraping against the floor.

Kaleido's already at the door, and you and Jeon fall in line behind him like good little lambs to the s̶l̶a̶u̶g̶h̶t̶e̶r̶ meeting.

The hallway feels weirdly normal after that pressure cooker of a room. Just the click of shoes on fancy floors and the distant mumble of voices that could almost make you forget you're in the heart of enemy territory.

Jeon slides into step beside you, and it's kind of impressive how he manages to look completely chill while also being wound tight enough to snap. His shoulders are relaxed but his eyes keep scanning everything, cataloging exits and threats like the walking weapon he is.

Your brain's working overtime, trying to figure out how to explain everything that went down while he was gone. How do you even begin to summarize that clusterfuck of a conversation?

'Hey, so while you were planting bugs, I had to flirt with two different flavors of psychopath to keep us alive. Fun times!'

He's counting on you to be his eyes and ears in there, to help him navigate whatever landmines you just agreed to. And fuck if you're going to let him down now.

God; you are in so far over your heads. But hey, at least you're drowning together.

The walk back through MDF's territory feels like it takes forever.

Kaleido leads you through this maze of hallways that all look the same—probably designed that way on purpose, the paranoid bastards.

You've got questions burning holes in your tongue, and you can tell from the way Jeon keeps glancing at you that he's got plenty of his own.

Finally, finally, you push through the exit doors and the night air hits your face like freedom.

Jeon practically deflates next to you, all that coiled tension leaving his body in one long exhale.

You get it. Being in there felt like having a knife pressed against your throat for hours.

It's weird how normal everything looks when you just spent the evening playing nice with actual monsters.

You reach up and pull out your earpiece, watching Jeon do the same.

No more voices in your head—just the ambient noise of Seoul at night and about a million questions that need answers.

The bike's waiting right where you left it, looking like the most beautiful thing you've ever seen because it means you can get the fuck out of here.

Jeon moves toward it, probably ready to bolt, but something's been nagging at you since those comms went live.

"Who's Sylvia?"

The words slip out before you can stop them.

It's probably not the best timing, but if Seduction has taught you anything is that information is power.

And right now you feel pretty fucking powerless.

You watch Jeon's shoulders lock up again, his whole body going still like you just pulled a gun on him instead of asking a simple question.

Fuck. He forgot about the comms.

In the rush to get back before the lights came on, Jungkook completely forgot the line was still open.

That you heard everything—including that name.

Sylvia.

The word sits like poison in his mind, dragging up memories he's spent years trying to bury.

His heart slams against his ribs, and it has nothing to do with almost getting caught back there.

Your question hangs in the air between you, and suddenly he can't breathe right. Can't think straight.

Because you weren't supposed to know about this. About her.

He turns to look at you, trying to read your expression in the dim light. Trying to figure out how much you heard, how much you understood.

But your face gives nothing away—you've gotten too good at that. The Seduction Division taught you well.

His features lock down on instinct, years of practice kicking in like muscle memory.

It's easier this way. Safer. Put up the walls, shut everything down, become the cold, untouchable Chief everyone expects him to be.

"Nobody you should be concerned about." His voice comes out flat, empty. The kind of tone that usually makes people back off real quick.

He watches something flicker across your face—curiosity maybe, or concern. But you don't push. Don't demand answers.

You just say "Alright" in this careful, neutral way that somehow makes everything worse.

Because you're giving him space he doesn't deserve.

Understanding he hasn't earned.

Jungkook turns back to the bike, jamming the key in with more force than necessary.

The engine roars to life, and he focuses on that sound instead of the chaos in his head. Instead of the weight of all these secrets pressing down on his chest.

You climb on behind him, and the warmth of your body against his back feels wrong.

Too close. Too real.

Too much like something he can't afford to want.

"Let's get out of here," he says, keeping his voice empty.

The city starts to blur as he accelerates, but his mind stays stuck on that name. On memories he can't outrun.

Distance, he reminds himself. Distance is survival.

 

Chapter 21: ghosts that haunt

Summary:

"Sometimes the most dangerous wounds are the ones that never bleed on the outside—they fester in silence until one wrong touch makes everything spill out."

Notes:

This chapter gutted me to write. Not because of the action (though, yes, Fervio's eye contact is a jumpscare), but because it begins cracking open the emotional center of the story. What begins as a seemingly quiet moment—a late-night beer, a 7/11 pit stop, a chance to breathe—becomes a confrontation with identity, projection, and the illusion of normalcy.

The psychology of this chapter is all about what we don't say. What we deflect. What we bury so deep, even tenderness feels like violence.

Jeon isn't pushing the reader away because he hates her. He's pushing because she sees him. And when your entire survival has depended on being unreadable, invisible, dangerous on purpose? Being seen is fucking terrifying. It strips you. It asks, what's left of me once I put the gun down?

Reader's mistake—understandable, human—is thinking that wanting to understand someone is inherently safe. That intention equals permission. And it doesn't. Not always. The line between empathy and intrusion is razor-thin when trauma's involved. And Jeon is not healed. He's fragmented, coiled like wire, and for him, vulnerability is not romantic—it's lethal.

This chapter is also the turning point where the reader starts to understand that being in Kkangpae isn't about who you kill. It's about who you let live in your head. Hobi, Jeon, AD—every single one of them is haunted. You don't get to this point in the underworld without dragging ghosts behind you, and this is the chapter where those ghosts stop being metaphorical.

Some of you will hate that Jeon lashes out. That he refuses softness. That he uses cruelty as armor. But that's the point. This story isn't about quick healing arcs or morally sanitized character growth. It's about what happens when you try to love someone who doesn't think they're lovable. And what happens when you realize you might not be either.

I'll say this again, because it matters: you are not owed someone's vulnerability just because you want it. And love—real love, the kind that survives places like this—isn't about unraveling someone until they break. It's about waiting at the door and letting them open it.

And sometimes, they don't.

Anyway. Hope you like the chapter ♡

The thing about riding through Seoul at night with a man who's trying really hard to pretend you don't exist? It fucking sucks.

The wind whips past as you race through Seoul's neon jungle and it feels good—like it's scrubbing away all that weird tension from Jeon's ice-queen act earlier. At this point, the city's just a blur of lights and shadows, the bike's engine drowning out everything except your thoughts.

There's something weirdly freeing about being just another couple of idiots on a motorcycle at night.

Nobody knows you're gang members. Nobody knows about the psychos you just left behind. Nobody knows about whatever the fuck that 'Sylvia' thing was about.

Right now, you're just... existing.

You keep your arms wrapped around Jeon because you n̶e̶e̶d̶ have to. That cold dismissal of his still stings, but the speed and the night air make it easier to pretend it doesn't.

Almost easier.

The 7/11 sign catches your eye—this bright, artificial beacon of normalcy in the middle of all this chaos.

Something about it calls to you. Maybe it's because it's so fucking normal. Maybe you just need a minute to breathe air that doesn't taste like pine and secrets.

"Pull over," you say, tapping his shoulder and pointing at the store.

You're not even sure why you want to stop. Maybe you just need to stand on solid ground for a minute. Maybe you need to remind yourself that the regular world still exists outside of Kkangpae's bubble.

Jeon doesn't argue, just guides the bike to the curb with that nonchalance of his that makes everything look easy. The engine rumbles for a second before he kills it, and suddenly the night feels too quiet.

Your legs are shaky when you climb off, but it's not from the ride. It's something else—this weird mix of leftover adrenaline and... whatever the fuck that conversation did to your nerves.

You need something normal. Something that doesn't involve creepy yellow contacts or coded warnings or names that make Jeon shut down completely.

You watch the man himself pull off his helmet, his hair falling into his eyes in that annoyingly perfect way that one would think probably takes hours to practice.

He doesn't even steal a glance your way—just keeps this unreadable expression that doesn't give anything away.

Back to his usual self, huh.

He nods toward the store's entrance, and you think maybe he needs this break from reality too.

The 7/11's wacky lights hit different after spending so much time in that fancy-ass castle hidden in the woods.

The doors whoosh shut behind you, and suddenly you're wrapped in this bubble of artificial cool air and the smell of cheap coffee.

It's weirdly comforting, like stepping into a pocket dimension where you're just a normal person buying normal things.

If only.

You wander down the aisles, running your fingers over bags of chips and candy bars. It feels surreal—like playing pretend at being regular.

Four months ago, this was just another convenience store. Now it feels like visiting a museum of your old life, everything familiar but somehow distant.

Jeon's still outside, probably looking like the world's hottest security guard as he leans against his bike. You can feel him watching you through the windows, probably wondering what the fuck you're doing.

But he doesn't come in, doesn't rush you.

Maybe he gets it—this need to pretend everything's normal for five fucking minutes.

You grab some chips because your stomach's been doing that angry growling thing for the past hour. Add a drink because your throat's still dry from all that talking with Fervio and his creepy yellow contacts. Then your eyes land on the beer fridge, and yeah—after the night you've had? You definitely deserve alcohol.

The cashier looks about as dead inside as you feel, barely glancing at your random assortment of convenience store therapy. You kind of want to tell him "hey, at least you don't have to flirt with psychopaths for a living," but that might blow your cover.

Back outside, you hold up the beer like a peace offering.

"Thought you might need this," you say, trying to sound casual even though there's still this weird tension hanging between you from the whole thing.

His eyes flick from the beer to his bike, and suddenly there's this little smirk playing around his lips.

"You trying to get me fined?" The words come out all low and rough, and fuck—your body really needs to stop reacting every time he uses that voice. "Not sure how driving under the influence is gonna look on my resume."

You lean back against the bike, trying to look cool and unbothered even though your skin's still buzzing from earlier.

"Please," you scoff, "I've seen how you handle this thing. Pretty sure you could drive it in your sleep."

He smiles, but takes the beer, fingers brushing against yours, and god—even that tiny contact sends electricity shooting up your arm.

"Just one drink," Jeon says, popping the can open with this casual flick of his thumb that somehow manages to look cool. "Don't want you thinking you can lead me astray."

He takes a sip, and the inside lights from the 7/11 catch on the silver of his lip ring, on the curve of his throat as he swallows.

You find yourself staring for a second too long, because fuck—sometimes you forget how pretty he is when he's not being an emotionally constipated asshole.

You laugh, tension somehow bleeding out a bit. "Lead you astray? Please. You're already halfway to hell, and I'm pretty sure you bought a first-class ticket."

The sound that comes out of him is actually a real laugh—not that quiet chuckle he usually does, but something genuine that makes his nose scrunch up.

It's kind of adorable, not that you'd ever tell him that.

The night air shifts into something softer, like a warm summer rain.

"Can't argue with that," he says, and there's this little smirk playing around his lips. "At least I'm upfront about being a piece of shit."

The silence between you isn't awkward anymore. It's nice, actually.

The air smells like rain and city smoke, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wails.

Seoul at night—your new normal.

Jeon's looking at the skyline, all those fancy buildings cutting through the darkness.

He takes another drink, and you can't help but notice how relaxed he looks right now. His shoulders aren't carrying all that tension they usually do, like for once he's not expecting an attack from every shadow.

You get it, though. Sometimes you need these moments—these tiny pockets of almost-normal where you can pretend you're just two people sharing a drink instead of what you actually are.

Where the weight of everything you've seen, everything you've done, feels a little lighter.

Maybe that's why you fit together so well, in this weird, fucked-up way.

You both know what it's like to walk in the shadows, to wear masks and play parts.

To find comfort in the darker corners of the world.

God, you think, watching him take another sip. When did this get so complicated?

"Past has a way of being a real bitch, huh?" You murmur.

Jeon's still staring at the skyline when he responds. "Yeah. Can't let it fuck with the present though."

"Look at you, being all wise and shit."

You bump his shoulder with yours, trying to lighten the mood.

Because this? This feels dangerous. Like you're walking on thin ice, and one wrong step could send you both plunging into whatever darkness Jeon's carrying around.

Shadows morph his features when he turns slightly. You catch that little scar on his cheek again, looking deeper in this light, like a secret.

"What's got you thinking so hard?" His voice is quiet, curious. "Usually you're the one telling me to shut up and stop brooding."

Your eyes meet his, and fuck—there's something in that look that makes your chest feel tight.

"Just thinking about how we've all got our own demons to deal with." You take another sip of your drink, buying time. "Some people run from them. Some people let them ride shotgun."

The smirk that crosses his face is different this time—softer around the edges, less guard dog and more human.

"Didn't know you could get philosophical. Should I be worried?"

You laugh, and it feels real for once. Not the fake shit you've been throwing around all night with Fervio and his creepy yellow contacts.

"Fuck off. I contain multitudes."

It's quiet for a few seconds, comfortable until it isn't.

Because there's this annoying thing tinging your interactions with him ever since you asked about Sylvia.

"Hey," you say, keeping your voice gentle. "Whatever ghost you're carrying around? It doesn't define you."

For a second, you think he's going to shut down again, throw up those walls and go back to being Chief Jeon, the untouchable assassin.

You're already turning toward the bike, ready to pretend this conversation never happened.

But then he lets out this breath that sounds like he's been holding it for years, and that makes you look back at him.

His eyes now are less storm and more rain, like maybe he's too tired to keep the hurricane spinning.

"That simple, huh?" His voice is rough around the edges. "Just... let it go?"

You stay perfectly still, like he's some wild animal that might bolt if you move too fast.

Because this feels like the first time ever you've seen him less guarded emotionally.

"Nah," you say carefully. "Not simple at all. But maybe it doesn't have to be this heavy all the time."

The look he gives you then—it's like he's seeing you for the first time. Really seeing you, not just looking through you like he usually does.

Dangerous, you think again.

But maybe that's exactly what you both need.

"Maybe," he says, so quiet you almost miss it. "But when your past is full of fuck-ups and dead bodies, it tends to stick around."

The words hit different—not because of what he's saying, but how he's saying it. As if he's cracking open his chest and showing you something he usually keeps locked down tight.

You move closer before you can stop yourself, drawn in by this rare moment of honesty.

Close enough to see the way his jaw works as he tries to keep his shit together.

Close enough that you can smell pine and mint and leather and cigarette stubs.

"Jungkook." His real name feels heavy on your tongue, important. "The past doesn't have to define you. It's just... part of the story."

You take another step closer, watch how his whole body goes tense, and those dark eyes keep flickering between yours, asking questions he won't voice out loud.

He swallows hard—you watch his throat work—then suddenly jerks his head away like he can't stand to look at you anymore.

"Don't," he says, barely above a whisper, like hurts coming out.

You frown, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

"Don't what?"

He doesn't respond at first, just lets silence fill the void.

When he finally looks back, his eyes are different—harder, distant. Like he's building walls as fast as he can.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, and there's something almost angry in his voice.

"Like what?"

His mouth opens, closes, opens again. The muscle in his jaw jumps.

When he finally speaks, the words come out rough, almost accusatory:

"Like... like I'm something you want to figure out"

Oh, you think. Oh, fuck.

Because maybe you do want to figure him out. Maybe you want to understand him way more than you should.

You're not sure what to say—if there even is anything to say that won't make this worse.

Because Jeon's always been this complicated puzzle of sharp edges and hidden depths, but you're starting to realize it was never about solving him.

Maybe it was just about... seeing him. Really seeing him.

It's almost as if he's scared—not of you, exactly, but of being seen.

Of someone looking past Chief Jeon, the cold-blooded assassin, and finding whatever's left of the person underneath.

You stay perfectly still, barely breathing. It feels like one wrong move could shatter whatever's happening here.

Then something in him just... breaks.

He backs away so fast you almost stumble, his whole body going rigid like he's preparing for a fight.

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek—that nervous tell you've started to recognize—and when he speaks, his voice is freezing.

"I'm not your fucking project," he snarls. "Not some broken toy you can fix when you're bored."

You flinch, caught off guard by the venom in his voice.

"What? Jungkook, that's not what I—"

"Jeon." He cuts you off, stepping right into your space until you have to tilt your head back to look at him. "Not Jungkook. Not to you."

The correction hits like a slap, like an invisible wall slamming down so fast it leaves you dizzy.

"Jeon," you try again, but he's not done.

"You think I haven't noticed?" His voice drops lower, dangerous. "All your little questions, your fucking looks. Like if you just dig deep enough, you'll find something worth saving."

"I was just trying to—"

He laughs, and it's an ugly sound.

"To what? Understand me? Help me? Save your fucking pity. I see right through you, watching me like I'm some damaged little puppy you can nurse back to health."

The accusation makes something hot and angry flare in your chest.

"That's bullshit and you know it. I've never thought of you as weak."

"No?" His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump. "Then why are you always trying to get in my head? Acting like you know me, like you have any fucking clue what I've been through?"

He spins away from you, dragging his fingers through his hair like he's trying to tear it out, violent.

When he turns back, his eyes are burning with something that looks too much like fear dressed up as anger.

"What, you think because we fuck sometimes that gives you the right to play therapist?" His voice drops low, dangerous. "A few heart-to-hearts and suddenly you think you've got me all figured out? You don't know shit about me or the things I've done."

"You're right, I don't," you snap back, refusing to back down even though your chest feels tight. "And not because I haven't tried."

His face twists into something ugly. "Yeah, because the last time I let someone in, it ended in fucking bloodshed. One I'm still paying for!"

That makes you swallow, the knot in your chest twisting more tightly.

But Jeon's not done—he's like a shark that's smelled blood in the water.

"I don't need your fucking pity. I'm not some broken little boy for you to fix up and save. I've been handling my shit just fine without your amateur psychology bullshit."

The words sting, but there's something desperate in the way he's throwing them at you—pushing you away before you can get any closer.

"I never said you needed fixing, you absolute—"

"Then what?" He cuts you off, voice sharp as glass. "What exactly did you want? Access to my tragic backstory? Keep your savior complex to yourself. I'm not interested."

"You don't have to be such a dick about it," you say, and fuck—your voice comes out shakier than you meant it to.

"No? Then how about this: there's nothing here for you to see. So drop the fucking act."

"Act?" You actually laugh, but it's not a happy sound. "That's rich coming from you, Mr. Big Bad Wolf. Should I howl at the fucking moon? Maybe then we'd speak the same language."

"That's the problem right there! You trying to speak the same language. There's nothing to try. Nothing to fix. Nothing to understand. So back the fuck off."

"Right. My bad. Sorry for giving a shit, I guess."

"Keep working on it. Maybe one day you'll achieve perfect emotional constipation like the rest of us."

The sarcasm in his voice makes you want to scream. Or cry. Or maybe both.

When you don't immediately snap back, he makes this sound in the back of his throat—this ugly, disgusted sound.

"Fuck this. We're done here."

He turns to leave, but something makes you reach out, fingers wrapping around his arm before you can think better of it.

The muscle under your hand goes rock hard, and when he looks down at where you're touching him, his eyes are cold enough to freeze hell.

You let go like he's burning you, but you plant your feet. You're not backing down, not this time.

"Look," you say, keeping your voice soft but firm. "I get it, okay? Opening up is scary as shit. But it doesn't make you weak, Jeon. Might even help, whenever you're ready."

He stares at you, and for a second—just a second—something cracks in his expression. Like maybe he's tired of carrying whatever weight is crushing him. But then the walls slam back up so fast it gives you whiplash.

"Then you can sit there and wait until you fucking rot," he says, voice colder than a morgue drawer.

He jerks away from you, spinning toward the bike with the kind of finality that screams conversation over.

You stand there, anger and frustration mixing in your chest until you feel like you might explode.

"Bold of you to assume I've got that kind of patience," you throw at his back.

He freezes mid-step, and you see his shoulders tense.

When he speaks, his voice is completely flat, like all the life's been drained out of it.

"Even better."

Then he's swinging his leg over the bike, waiting for you to climb on so he can pretend this whole thing never happened.

Like he can outrun his demons if he just drives fast enough.

Stubborn asshole, you think, walking toward the bike.

But you're starting to realize that maybe his walls aren't just for show.

Maybe they're holding back something that terrifies him more than any enemy ever could.

You swing off the bike on slightly shaky legs, yanking the helmet off and trying to get your hair under control.

Jeon's doing that thing where he runs his fingers through his hair, making it look effortlessly messy and hot at the same time, which is annoying you're trying to stay p̶i̶s̶s̶e̶d̶ professional.

His face is blank, but you can read the tension in his shoulders. You get it—going against direct orders to play nice with MDF's resident psychopath probably wasn't your brightest moment. Not to mention that whole clusterfuck of a conversation outside the 7/11.

"Time to get our asses handed to us," he mutters, and his jaw is clenched so tight you're worried he might crack a tooth.

You follow him inside, each step echoing off stone walls like a countdown to execution.

The walk to the council room feels longer than usual, probably because your stomach's doing gymnastics while Jeon walks ahead like he's heading to his own funeral.

The council room hits you with a brightness that makes you squint. All nine chiefs are already there, seated around that stupidly long table like some corporate board meeting from hell. They turn to look at you both, and you brace yourself for the shitstorm.

But then—what the fuck?

The room explodes with cheers and applause.

You actually take a step back, wondering if you've somehow walked into an alternate dimension. Beside you, Jeon goes completely still, like someone hit his pause button.

The Council is losing their collective mind. J-Hope's whistling like he's at a concert, V's cackling like a hyena, and even RM's got this smile on his face that makes him look ten years younger.

What timeline is this?

"Brilliant work!" RM's voice cuts through the chaos, and you're pretty sure your jaw's on the floor. "You've exceeded all expectations."

You look at Jeon, completely lost. "What the—?"

And then it hits you—the earpieces weren't just for show—the Council heard everything.

Every word with Fervio, they watched you dance with the devil and somehow come out on top.

"A partnership with MDF as independent traders?" Moon sounds like someone just handed him a winning lottery ticket. "That changes things."

You're still trying to process how you went from expecting a punishment to... this.

But one look at Jeon tells you he's just as thrown as you are. His eyes are slightly wider than usual, which for him is basically the equivalent of screaming in confusion.

Well, this is definitely not how you expected this night to end.

The rest of the Council starts talking over each other, throwing around words like "brilliant" and "game-changing."

You feel your face heat up—partly from pride, partly because this is not the ass-kicking you were expecting. Next to you, Jeon's got that look on his face, the one that says he's about three seconds from calling bullshit on this whole situation.

"What the fuck?" he growls.

There it is.

"We literally did exactly what you told us not to do."

The room quiets down as RM raises his hand, and even through the chaos, everyone snaps to attention. That's the kind of respect he commands.

"Yeah, you went against orders," he says, and his voice has that careful neutral tone that could go either way. "But you also just handed us the biggest opportunity we've had in years. Sometimes disobedience pays off."

The Council members nod like those bobblehead dolls people put in their cars.

Jeon's eyebrow does that tiny twitch thing it does when he's really f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ pissed.

"This could be huge for us." J-Hope's voice is serious, none of his usual snark. "But one wrong move and we're all fucked six ways to Sunday."

Flower leans forward, her dark eyes sharp. "Especially with that psycho Fervio involved. He's probably just waiting for us to slip up."

RM's got that look on his face, the one that means his big brain is working overtime. "It's a risk, sure. But it's one we need to take. And we'll need our best people on this."

The silence that follows feels like it weighs a ton.

Everyone's thinking the same thing—this could either be Kkangpae's biggest win or its worst nightmare.

"The cover story worked perfectly," RM continues, and you can practically feel Jeon's shoulders tensing up beside you. "Fervio bought the whole illegal arms dealers slash married couple act. We can use that."

Jeon exhales loudly; eyes darkening a shade. His face stays blank, but you know him well enough by now to see the storm brewing behind those dark eyes.

"I want you both to keep playing these roles," RM says, leaning forward in his chair. "The power-hungry married couple looking to make it big in the underworld. It's perfect."

Your brain short-circuits for a second because what? This means more pretending to be married to Jeon. More acting like a couple. More of...

"With Fervio thinking you're on his side, we'll finally get inside MDF." RM continues. "This is the break we've been waiting for."

He looks between you and Jeon, and his expression turns serious.

"Can you handle it?"

"Yeah, of course," is your reply.

RM catches Jeon's tension—of course he does, he doesn't miss anything. His voice softens just a fraction.

"I know what I'm asking, Jeon. Especially from you." He trails off for a second, like he's choosing his next words carefully. "We can't change what happened before. But this? This is bigger than personal history."

There's something heavy in those words, something that makes your ears prick up.

Is this about Sylvia? That name you caught over the comms, the one that made Jeon shut down faster than a computer during a power surge?

You want to ask—god, you want to ask so badly it hurts. But after that disaster outside the 7/11? Yeah, not happening.

Some secrets in Kkangpae are meant to stay buried. You're learning that the hard way.

Jeon just nods, short and sharp. "Understood."

"Good." RM's voice has that final tone that means orders are being given. "You'll be our inside track to Fervio's operation. Get close, find weaknesses, but don't take stupid risks."

The Council members nod along, looking all serious and determined. Everyone knows this is huge—dangerous as fuck, but huge.

The meeting breaks up, and reality starts sinking in. You're really doing this. Playing happy married couple with Jeon while trying not to get murdered by a psychopath who gets off on torture.

Cool. Cool cool cool.

You glance at Jeon, trying to read his expression. But those dark eyes might as well be black holes for all they give away.

You can't decipher what he's thinking. At all. But he's not happy about it, whatever it is.

Then he just... nods at RM and walks out. No goodbye, no look back, nothing. Just turns on his heel and disappears through the door like he can't get away fast enough.

You watch Jeon storm out like he's got hellhounds on his heels. Something about it makes your chest feel tight. J-Hope must notice you staring because he leans in, voice pitched low so only you can hear.

"Don't take it personal, kid. Jeon's got... history with this kind of thing."

You turn to him, frowning. "What, following orders? Or not following them?"

"More like..." J-Hope pauses, and you can practically see him picking his words like he's defusing a bomb. "Let's just say he's not a fan of the Council being flexible with rules."

Your frown deepens. There's something here you're missing, some context that would make this all make sense.

"Because he's a stickler for protocol?"

"Because the Council doesn't do flexible." J-Hope says the word like it tastes bad. "Never has."

He glances at the door Jeon disappeared through, something dark crossing his face.

"Rules exist for a reason. And when they get bent or broken... well. Let's just say Jeon knows firsthand what that costs."

You let that sink in for a moment, turning it over in your head.

"This is about Sylvia, isn't it?"

The name drops between you like a stone in still water.

J-Hope goes completely still, and for a second, you see something flash across his face—pain? Anger? But then it's gone.

"Sylvia," he says, like he's testing how the name feels in his mouth. Then he shakes his head. "That's not my story to tell. If Jeon wants you to know about that particular clusterfuck, he'll tell you himself."

Gentleness finds his eyes then, looking as if he feels bad for you, stumbling around in the dark while everyone else seems to know where all the landmines are buried.

"Just... give him time, Jeon's got his reasons for being the way he is. And pushing him to talk about it?" He lets out a low whistle. "That's a real good way to make sure he never does."

You chew on your bottom lip, processing.

It's obvious there's more going on here—some whole tragic backstory (funny how he mentioned those two exact words) you're not cleared to know about.

"Yeah, okay," you say finally. "Everyone's got their demons, right? He can keep his locked up if he wants."

J-Hope's smile is small but genuine. He squeezes your shoulder, and his touch is surprisingly gentle for someone who patches up gunshot wounds for a living.

"Smart girl. And hey—Jeon might act like he's made of ice, but..." He trails off, thoughtful. "Let's just say I've seen him care about things before. Even when he probably wishes he didn't."

Great, you think. More cryptic bullshit.

But maybe that's just how things work around here. Maybe some secrets need to stay buried until they're ready to come out on their own.

You just hope you're still around when they do.

You give J-Hope a grateful smile, making a mental note to back off with the Sylvia questions.

Some wounds need time to heal, and pushing Jeon before he's ready would just make him shut down harder.

For now, maybe it's better to focus on what you do have—even if that's just really good sex.

Your philosophical moment gets interrupted by V's voice, bright and chaotic as ever.

"Well, I think this calls for drugs and alcohol!" He sounds way too excited about potentially getting everyone high.

J-Hope's head whips around so fast you're worried he might need to treat himself for whiplash.

"Absolutely fucking not!" His voice goes full doctor-mode stern. "Or did you all collectively forget the shitshow that happened last time?"

V just grins that manic grin of his, the one that usually means trouble's coming. "Aw, come on, Doc! We're all grown-ups here. What's the worst that could happen?"

(You make a mental note to never ask that question in a gang full of assassins.)

"Fuck them drugs," AD perks up from his corner, actually looking interested in something that isn't computers for once. "I'm rolling a joint and zoning out in my corner."

"Dibs on the good stuff!" Jessi's practically bouncing in her seat. "It's been forever since I got properly fucked up. Let's make it a party!"

Flower leans forward. "Anyone got acid? Because I've been wanting to try that."

JM's watching all this go down with that calm lake energy of his, looking way too amused.

"Face it, Doc. You're fighting a losing battle here."

"You too, Jimin?" J-Hope looks personally offended. "I'm the medical professional here. You know, the one who has to deal with your dumb asses when things go wrong?"

Moon just sits there with his usual zen master vibe, like he's watching children argue about candy.

"Perhaps we can find a middle ground that doesn't end in medical emergencies?"

"Moon's got a point," RM says, and you can practically see him calculating the odds of this turning into a disaster. "There's probably a way to do this that doesn't involve J-Hope having an aneurysm."

You lean back, watching chaos unfold in real time.

Because apparently this is your life now—sitting in a high-tech castle while a bunch of deadly assassins argue about getting high like college students planning spring break.

What even is your life?

J-Hope throws his hands up like he's trying to physically catch his last shred of sanity.

"There's no middle ground with you hooligans!" His voice hits that pitch that means someone's about to get a medical lecture. "Last fucking time Hyunjoo nearly turned our whole operation into a bonfire because she thought her instant ramen needed to be cooked with actual fire!"

Jessi's trying (and failing) to hold back her laughter, which only makes J-Hope more agitated.

"And you—" He whirls on AD, who's slouching in his chair looking done with life. "Two days! You disappeared for two whole days!"

"I was finding peace with nature," he mutters, checking his nails. "Weed is enlightening."

"The only thing enlightening was how many bug bites you got on your ass, you absolute disaster."

J-Hope's not done though—oh no, he's just getting started.

"And let's not forget Tae's brilliant fucking idea to invite the cops over for a party." J-Hope's voice drips sarcasm. "All because he wanted to, and I quote, 'party with the law'."

V sprawls in his chair, looking delighted by the memory. "Come on, Doc. Live a little! What's the point of being criminals if we can't have some fun with it?"

You watch J-Hope's soul leave his body in real time. His shoulders slump, and he lets out this long-suffering sigh that probably took years off his life.

"Fine. Fine. You win, you bunch of walking medical emergencies." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "But when you're all hugging toilets tomorrow and crying about how you can see through time, don't come running to me!"

The look on his face says he knows exactly where he'll be tomorrow—patching up whatever chaos this lot manages to create while high off their asses.

But that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight? Tonight's about to get real interesting.

Well, at least being in a gang is never boring.

"Ramen's on the stove!" Jessi's voice bounces off the castle walls like a rubber ball on crack. "No naked forest adventures this time, Doc, I promise!"

The castle's kitchen usually looks like something out of a luxury real estate listing. But right now? It's more like a college party gone wild, if college parties were thrown by professional killers.

You're posted up against one of those fancy counters, watching chaos unfold with a mix of amusement and holy shit, are we really doing this?

The prospect of trying acid for the first time is making your stomach do this weird flippy thing—half excitement, half terror. Mostly terror. But hey, when in Rome (or in this case, when in a high-tech castle full of assassins planning to get absolutely blasted)...

J-Hope sidles up next to you, and his sandalwood scent cuts through the MSG-heavy air. His face says 'I'm so done with this shit' but his eyes are doing that thing where he's trying not to look amused.

"Look at these fucking morons," he mutters, watching Jessi wave a wooden spoon around like she's conducting an orchestra. "It's like babysitting toddlers. Toddlers with access to weapons and illegal substances."

You bump his shoulder with yours. "Aw, come on. Don't act like you don't love playing mom friend to this disaster crew."

He gives you this look that's half exasperation, half fondness. "The entertainment value? Sure. The aftermath? Not so much."

His eyes track Jessi as she does some kind of interpretive dance with the ramen pot.

"Last time, I spent a week dealing with the fallout. Do you know how hard it is to treat someone who's convinced their fingers turned into snakes? Because I do. I really, really do."

You can't help but laugh because yeah, that tracks.

"But look at everyone," you say, gesturing at the room full of deadly assassins acting like actual human beings for once. "When's the last time you saw the divisions mixing like this? Usually everyone's too busy being dramatic and mysterious."

J-Hope lets out this long-suffering sigh that probably took years off his life. "Yeah, yeah. Just... try not to lose your mind completely on the acid, okay? I really don't want to explain to RM why one of our newest recruits is trying to have a philosophical debate with the security cameras."

"Please," you scoff, even though your heart does a little jump at the thought. "I'll be fine. Just curious to see what all the fuss is about."

"That's what Tae said," J-Hope deadpans. "Right before he decided the trees needed a strip show."

You lean against the counter, watching the chaos unfold around you.

It's kind of wild how a bunch of professional killers can act like college kids at a frat party. But that's Kkangpae for you—one minute you're infiltrating rival gang territory, the next you're watching Jessi try to juggle instant ramen packets.

J-Hope's steady presence beside you feels grounding through the general mayhem. Even when he's complaining about having to babysit a bunch of 'walking medical emergencies,' you can hear the fondness in his voice.

He's such a mom friend, not that you'd ever tell him that to his face.

Having J-Hope here, with his medical knowledge and surprisingly good dad jokes, makes the idea of trying acid feel less intimidating.

At least someone will know what to do if you start seeing dragons or whatever.

Then V materializes like he's been summoned by the promise of bad decisions, carrying a tray of shots that probably contain enough alcohol to strip paint. His grin is all teeth and trouble as he slides up to you both.

"Special delivery," he practically purrs, pushing a shot glass your way. The liquid inside looks radioactive. "A little something to kick-start your journey to enlightenment."

J-Hope's hand shoots out faster than you can blink, blocking the shot like he's defending a goal.

"Absolutely fucking not. Mixing alcohol with psychedelics? That's a one-way ticket to the worst night of your life."

"Aw, come on, Doc." V's eyes glitter with that dangerous playfulness he gets sometimes. "Let the girl live a little. It's just one tiny shot."

You watch J-Hope's face do this thing where he's trying really hard not to lose his patience. His jaw tightens, but his voice stays professional.

"This isn't about living. It's about not ending up in medical because someone thought mixing drugs was a good idea."

V leans in, and suddenly the air feels thick with tension. "When did you get so boring, Hoseok? Used to be you knew how to have fun."

The use of J-Hope's real name makes his whole body go rigid, and something dark flashes across his face.

Welp, this is about to get real uncomfortable.

"This isn't about being scared," J-Hope says, and his voice has that edge he gets when someone's pushing his buttons. "It's about not wanting to spend my night pumping stomachs because you idiots can't make good choices."

V's smile turns sharp, thorny vines of his aura creeping into the air between them. "Or maybe you're just projecting your own issues onto everyone else, our pride and hope."

Oh shit.

The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.

You watch J-Hope's hands curl into fists, sandalwood notes in the air turning bitter.

"That's enough." J-Hope's voice could freeze hell. "This isn't about me. It's about keeping people alive."

"Alive? From what?" V's laugh has too many teeth. "The big bad vodka monster?"

"It's not about the fucking vodka, Taehyung—"

"I mean, I get it—"

"—for fuck's sake, she's not—"

"—vodka's Russian and all but—"

"—it's not about the goddamn—"

"—Putin ain't gonna jump out the bottle—"

The overlapping voices make your head spin, but then—holy shit.

J-Hope snatches the shot right out of V's hand and downs it like it's water. The room goes so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

V actually shuts up for once, thorns retreating like he's been slapped. Everyone's staring, probably thinking the same thing you are: What the actual fuck just happened?

The empty glass hits the counter with a clink that sounds like a gunshot in the silence.

"There," J-Hope says, voice empty. "Problem solved."

Then he just... walks away. Like he didn't just do something that has everyone's jaws on the floor.

V blinks like his brain's still buffering, but because he's V, he bounces back in seconds. That million-watt smile slides back into place like it never left.

"Well, fuck me sideways," he says, turning back to you with a laugh. "Looks like the good doctor's still got some surprises up his sleeve."

Thorns wrap around the room again, playful and dangerous.

"Now, about that acid trip you're planning. Just remember—if you need a spirit guide through the gates of perception, I'm your man."

He throws you a wink and floats off to terrorize someone else with his tray of shots, leaving you to wonder what the hell kind of drama you just witnessed.

Note to self, you think, watching J-Hope's figure make it out the doors. Never mention vodka around those two.

AD materializes then like some tech gremlin summoned from his cave, clutching a bag of weed and another one of acid.

He does that thing where he pretends not to care about anything or anyone, scanning the room with his typical 'everyone here is an idiot' expression.

"Well, if it isn't our favorite antisocial hacker," you say, watching him do his best impression of someone who definitely isn't looking for a specific person.

His face scrunches up like he's tasted something sour.

"Where's the walking medical textbook?" he asks, and you can hear the eye roll in his voice even though his face stays neutral.

Classic AD—pretending he's not worried about J-Hope's whereabouts.

"You mean J-Hope?"

"No, I mean the other mother hen who follows me around telling me to eat vegetables. Yes, J-Hope."

He starts unpacking his little bag of happiness onto the counter, then grabs a rolling paper with two fingers—gentle, like he's holding a butterfly wing—and brings it up to his lips.

"Lucy for the newbie," he mutters, holding up the other tiny plastic bag between his fingers like it's a USB drive containing nuclear codes.

"He left," you say, taking the bag and examining it because apparently that's what you do with illegal drugs now.

Your life is weird.

AD's eyebrow shoots up in that way that says 'elaborate before I hack your phone and set all your alarms to 3 AM.'

"V was being V, trying to get me to drink before dropping acid. J-Hope wasn't having it."

"What, did he storm off to avoid watching his precious patient make bad decisions?" AD snickers, but there's something almost fond in his voice. "He gets pretty pissy about alco—"

"Actually," you cut him off, matching his grin "he grabbed the shot, downed it like a champ, and bounced. Total power move."

The change in AD's face is like watching someone hit ctrl+alt+delete on his entire personality.

The smirk drops so fast it probably left skid marks.

"He did what?"

"Yeah, just... knocked it back and walked out. Pretty badass, if you ask—"

"What was in the glass?" His voice goes sharp, all traces of amusement gone.

"What?"

"The fucking shot, what was in it?" There's something urgent in his tone that makes your stomach drop.

"I don't know, V said something about vodka—"

"Fuck." AD drags his fingers through his hair like he's trying to pull it out. "Fuck fuck fuck."

"What's wrong with—"

"Where's V?" he snarls, and holy shit, you've never heard him sound like that before.

You can't help but inwardly panic as AD's face cycles through about fifteen different shades of murder.

AD's eyes lock onto V like a heat-seeking missile, and suddenly he's moving with the kind of purpose that usually ends in bloodshed. You watch him shove V hard enough to make the chestnut-haired man stumble back into Moon's drink setup, glasses rattling dangerously.

"What the actual fuck?" V catches himself, bristling with barely contained rage.

"You gave him vodka?" AD's voice is deadly quiet. The kind of quiet that comes before violence. "You fucking knew—"

"He took it himself!" V straightens up, getting right in AD's face, smile cruel. "Not my problem if your precious doctor can't handle his shit."

"I'm going to rearrange your fucking face—" AD's hands curl into fists.

"Try it, you basement-dwelling freak. Maybe if you spent less time obsessing over Hobi's sobriety and more time getting over your pathetic crush—"

You move before your brain can catch up with what a monumentally stupid idea this is.

Getting between two Chiefs when they're about to throw down? Definitely not in the Kkangpae employee handbook.

But guilt's churning in your stomach because you were there.

You watched J-Hope take that shot and did nothing.

"AD," you say, keeping your voice soft but firm. Everyone's staring at you like you've lost your mind, and maybe you have. "This isn't helping. We need to find J-Hope."

AD's practically vibrating with rage, and V's thorny aura is sharp enough to draw blood. But finally, finally, AD takes a step back.

"Fucking narcissistic asshole," he spits at V as he turns away. "Too busy jerking off your own ego to give a shit about anyone else."

V's laugh follows you down the hallway, high and unhinged. "Aw, don't be like that, Yoongi! I thought we were having fun!"

You follow AD, his muttered curses painting the air blue.

After that disaster with Jeon earlier, you're not sure you should push for answers. But worry's gnawing at your gut.

"Is he going to be okay?"

AD lets out this heavy sigh that sounds like it starts in his toes. His eyes keep scanning every corner, every shadow.

"I don't... fuck. He..." He drags his fingers through his hair, messing up the blonde strands. "Hobi's got history with alcohol, alright? Bad history. He's been clean for... Christ, I don't even know how many years."

Shit.

You watch AD practically vibrate with nervous energy as he searches, and suddenly his reaction makes a lot more sense.

"We'll find him," you say, and you mean it.

Because maybe you can't fix whatever's going on with Jeon (and it's not your job anyway), but this?

This you can help with.

AD nods sharply, his face set in grim determination. "Yeah. We fucking better."

You and AD split up to search the castle, which is exactly as fun as it sounds—like playing hide and seek in a maze designed by someone with a sick sense of humor.

But you keep going because it's J-Hope. The guy who patches everyone up without judgment, who keeps this chaotic family of killers alive despite their best efforts to the contrary.

He deserves someone in his corner for once.

The party noise fades as you climb higher in the castle, until all you can hear is your own footsteps echoing off stone walls.

It's weird seeing these halls so empty—usually there's at least a few people around, heading to missions or sneaking off for... whatever.

Then you turn a corner and your heart does this weird flip thing when you see J-Hope's there, crumpled against a column like someone cut his strings. His knees are pulled up to his chest, head down, and fuck—seeing him like this feels wrong. Like walking in on something you weren't meant to see.

The empty glass beside him makes your stomach twist.

"J-Hope?"

He lifts his head so slowly it hurts to watch. His eyes meet yours, and that's worse somehow. All that warmth and steadiness that makes him J-Hope is just... gone.

"Hey," he says, voice barely above a whisper.

"Hey yourself." You drop down next to him, trying to keep your voice gentle. "How're you holding up?"

"Just fantastic." His laugh is hollow, and the smile he gives you is about as real as the designer bags they sell in back alleys.

You bite your lip, wanting to help but not sure how. Your hand finds his shoulder, trying to say without words that he's not alone in whatever this is.

"What you did back there, protecting me from that shot? You didn't have to. But... thanks. For caring. You're good at that, you know? The caring part."

He looks at you for a long moment before his head drops again, but this time his smile seems a little more genuine. A little less broken.

"AD told you about the alcohol thing, didn't he?"

You tense up, your hand going still on his shoulder. Shit. You don't want him thinking AD was gossiping about his personal shit, but—

"It's fucking stupid," he says before you can explain, and his voice is so soft it makes your heart hurt. "Everyone here's got blood on their hands, trauma up to their eyeballs, and I'm falling apart over some fucking vodka."

Your grip on his shoulder tightens. "Hey, no. Pain isn't a competition. Your demons aren't any less valid just because they come in a bottle instead of a bullet."

J-Hope stares at his thighs like they hold all the answers to the universe, keeping quiet for a few seconds like he needs it. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough around the edges.

"Seven years," he says, like he's counting each one in his head. "Seven fucking years without touching a drop. Made that promise to myself when I joined Kkangpae. Thought I'd take it to my grave."

His eyes are different now—missing that sharp focus that usually makes him look like he's scanning for injuries. Instead, they're glossy with tears he won't let fall. The sandalwood scent in the air is muted, dulled.

"Used to be a doctor, you know? A good one. Fucking naive though." He lets out this hollow laugh that makes your chest hurt. "Thought I could change things from the inside. Make a difference in that corrupt shitshow they call healthcare."

You stay quiet, letting him get it out. Sometimes silence says more than words.

"You can't—" His voice catches. "You have no idea what it's like in there. The fucking politics of who lives and who dies. Had this kid once, sweet little thing. Needed emergency surgery. But some rich asshole's cousin needed a cosmetic procedure, and guess who got the operating room?"

Your stomach turns as the implications hit. J-Hope's face twists like he's tasting something bitter.

"I watched that kid die. Right there on my table. And you know what the hospital director said? 'These things happen.' Like it was a fucking paperwork error." His hands are shaking now. "That wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was how normal it was. People dying because they couldn't pay, while others bought their way to the front of the line."

He takes this shuddering breath that sounds like it hurts.

"Started drinking to numb it. Just a little at first—a shot before bed, something to take the edge off. But that's how it gets you, right? One shot becomes two, becomes a bottle, becomes..." He gestures vaguely at himself. "Becomes this."

"You were an alcoholic?" The words come out soft, careful.

"Yeah." It's barely a whisper. "Lost everything. My job, my license, my apartment. Ended up sleeping under bridges, spending whatever I could beg or steal on cheap vodka. Real fucking inspirational story, right?"

When he looks at you, the raw pain in his eyes makes your heart squeeze.

"Then RM found me. Saw something worth saving in this drunk piece of shit passed out behind a dumpster. Gave me purpose again. A chance to help people without all the bureaucratic bullshit."

He picks up the empty shot glass, turning it in his hands like it might bite him.

"That's why I swore off drinking. Not just for me—for RM, for everyone here who gave me a second chance when I didn't deserve one."

You watch him struggle with words, with memories, with demons you can't see but can feel in the heaviness of his words.

"Found a family here. Got to be a doctor again, on my own terms. Started putting myself back together." His fingers tighten around the glass. "But tonight, one fucking shot and—"

"You did it to protect me," you cut in, because you can't stand the self-loathing in his voice. "That counts for something."

His smile is sad, tired.

"Maybe. But that's not..." He shakes his head. "I can't go back there. Can't be that person again. The one who couldn't save anyone, not even himself."

The confession sits between you as you watch J-Hope—this man who patches up assassins and keeps everyone's secrets—look more vulnerable than you've ever seen him.

Fuck. No wonder he's so protective of everyone.

You squeeze his shoulder, trying to put everything you're feeling into that touch.

"You're not that person anymore, Doc. Look at you—patching up assassins, keeping us all alive, being everyone's voice of reason. One shot doesn't erase seven years of being fucking incredible."

His smile is small but real this time.

"Thanks, kid. I..." He swallows hard. "I needed that."

You bump his shoulder with yours. "Yeah, well, even newbies gotta remind you you're not just the grumpy doctor who yells at us for getting stabbed."

He actually chuckles at that, a quiet sound that makes his whole body shake.

"Newbie? You've been here four months. Pretty sure you've seen more action than some of our veterans."

"Maybe," you say with a grin. "But I still can't tell the difference between morphine and saline, so I think that keeps me firmly in the rookie category."

That gets a real laugh out of him, and some of the tension finally leaves his shoulders. He looks at you, and there's something warm in his eyes that wasn't there before.

"You know what? Screw the formalities. Call me Hoseok. Or Hobi, if you're feeling lazy."

Your eyebrows shoot up. "Wow, first-name basis? I feel so special."

"Don't let it go to your head," he says, but he's smiling now. "I just figure anyone who's seen me have an emotional breakdown in a hallway has earned it."

"Hoseok it is, then." You lean your head against his shoulder, feeling weirdly comfortable despite the cold stone floor and the lingering heaviness in the air. "Though I might go with Hobs. It suits you better."

"Hobs?" He doesn't shrug you off, which feels like a win. "I can live with that."

You sit there in comfortable silence for a while, just existing in the same space.

It hits you then, how human everyone in Kkangpae is.

Sure, you're all part of this big, scary criminal organization, but underneath all the tough talk and violence, you're just... people.

People with pasts, with regrets, with demons you're all trying to outrun.

"Hey, Hobs?" you say after a bit.

"Mm?"

"Thanks for trusting me with this. I know it's not easy to let people see the messy parts."

He's quiet for a moment, then his hand finds yours, giving it a quick squeeze.

"Thanks for giving a shit, kid. It's... it's been a while since someone did."

You're about to say something else when footsteps echo down the hallway. AD appears around the corner, looking like he's aged ten years in the last hour.

When he spots you both, the relief on his face is so obvious it almost hurts.

"You absolute fucking idiot," AD says, dropping to his knees beside you both. His voice is rough but his hands are gentle when they reach for Hobi. "Do you have any idea—I thought—fuck."

"Sorry," Hobi mumbles, and he sounds exhausted. "Didn't mean to worry you."

"Shut up." AD's already pulling one of Hobi's arms over his shoulders. "Just... let's get you to bed before you fall asleep in this hallway like some drunk college kid."

You help AD get Hobi to his feet, each of you taking some of his weight.

The party's still going strong somewhere below, but up here, it's just the three of you navigating dark corridors, trying to keep each other from falling apart.

Family. This is what family looks like.

The walk back to J-Hope's room feels longer than it should, like the hallways are stretching out just to fuck with you.

His words keep echoing in your head—all that stuff about hospitals and corruption and losing everything.

It's weird seeing someone you thought had their shit together turn out to be just as messy as the rest of you.

When you finally reach his door, AD does this thing where he opens it super carefully, like he's afraid of waking up a sleeping baby or something.

You both help J-Hope inside, and damn—his room is exactly what you'd expect from the guy who patches up assassins for a living.

It's all neat and tidy, medical books stacked up like little towers of knowledge. There are plants everywhere too, which is kind of adorable. You can just picture J-Hope fussing over them between stitching up bullet wounds and lecturing people about their alcohol intake.

J-Hope practically collapses onto his bed, letting out this sigh that sounds like it's been building up for years. When he looks at you both, his eyes are all soft and grateful. It makes your chest do this weird tight thing.

"Thanks, guys," he says, and his voice sounds steadier now—like maybe getting all that shit off his chest actually helped.

"Don't get sappy on us," AD grumbles, but you can tell he's worried because his usual grumpy cat routine is dialed down to about a three. "Just get some rest, alright? Can't have our medic falling apart on us."

J-Hope actually laughs at that, even if it's a weak sound. "I'll be fine. Just a little hiccup in the sobriety journey. Won't happen again."

AD nods like he believes him, but you can see the doubt in his eyes. He turns to you, all serious business now.

"Thanks for the assist. I've got it from here."

You nod, feeling weirdly relieved that J-Hope's not gonna be alone.

"Yeah, of course. Take care of our favorite doctor, yeah?"

J-Hope gives you this smile that makes him look younger somehow. He mouths 'thank you' as you head for the door, and for a second, you consider staying.

But nah. AD's got this.

And you? You've got a lot to process.

You start walking back towards your own room, mind still spinning.

Because if J-Hope—steady, dependable J-Hope—has skeletons in his closet, what the hell is everyone else hiding?

Fuck. You realize you're in way deeper than you thought. But the weird thing is?

You're not sure you want out.

Chapter 22: 21 | the gentleness that breaks us

Summary:

"Sometimes, control looks like holding your breath in a dark corridor. Sometimes, it looks like letting someone else say your name."

Notes:

*hits play on "My Way" by Frank Sinatra, volume to the heavens* 🎶 FOR WHAT IS A MAAAAAAN, WHAT HAS HE GOTTTTTTT 🎶 *crowd claps, I curtsey in a blood-stained gown, mascara running, utterly unrepentant*

Okay. Listen to me. KGP 21 is FINALLY HERE. I know it took forever. I know I vanished like Yoongi on enlistment day. But I swear on my cat-shaped soul that it was for a good cause. This chapter gave me grief, heartbreak, and finally, euphoria. I am not sorry. I am satisfied. And you? You are receiving high-grade, ethically sourced, 100% Kiki-certified QUALITY. So you're welcome.

Let me tell you. The spicy scene? *throws the old draft into the sun.* Past me tried. She wanted to give NA vibes. But it was giving... Wattpad circa 2011. Like why were there no pussies?? Why was the word 'cock' banished like Voldemort?? Why did I write 'bud' and 'member' like I was a middle-aged regency author trying to sneak past the church?? 😭

Look. There's nothing wrong with euphemisms. I love them when they're used for style, when they're there for rhythm or character voice. But when the whole fragment is tiptoeing around the vulgarity like a scared child peeking behind the curtain... I CRINGE. I BACKFLIP. I GAG (derogatory). This scene needed bite. Needed grit. Needed his cock. The literature gods will not smite you for using the C-word. Say it with me now: cock. That's right. We're brave here.

Also. Jungkook's name. THE NAME. The use of his actual name when everyone has codenames? That shit is crack to me. Denotation of trust. Intimacy. Power reversal. Kink. Because that's the real kicker: he likesssss hearing it. He whimpers. He melts. It's doing character work and smut work and emotional-arc work all at once. UGH. I hate him. I love him. I am him. I am unwell.

Anyway.

Can you tell I have favorites? Because THE DANCE SCENE???? Takama is my special kiwi boy. My emotionally literate wall of muscle. My safe space. I want to knit him a sweater. I want to protect his peace. He knows things. He sees. He doesn't push. He's the best deputy Jeon could ask for and the emotional contrast he provides? Yes. Delicious. Wrap yourself in that scene and breathe.

Yunjin, baby girl, you are joy incarnate. My sunshine. My serotonin. Even when high off your face you're still somehow charming and soft and loved. As for V... AHAHAHAHA. Yeah. He's a menace. He's chaos incarnate. You may proceed to scream at me in my inbox. Some of you are gonna hate him. Some of you are gonna want to climb him like a tree. I welcome you both with open arms. You're all valid.

AD... If you've read Lost and Found you know. You KNOW. The softness. The competency. The trash bin placement. The hair tie. :(

And keep. an. eye. on. V. The little inner monologue slippage? The contradictions? The things he doesn't say? Yeah. Yeah. There's more beneath the surface. He's not as silly as he acts. That's all I'll say for now.

Alright, go forth. Read. Cry. Moan. Yell at me. Message me with threats and compliments. Leave kudos and comment with keysmashes and Jungkook hate and Takama love. As always: read with care, stay hydrated, and remember—I hurt you because I love you (and because it's fun).

Kiki out. ⭑˖ ࣪𖤐*˚₊✩‧₊💥

The tenth floor is empty tonight, or so it seems.

Your footsteps echo against marble as you make your way to the circular corridor outside the cafeteria, and each of them remind you how different everything feels.

Because that's the thing—the castle's usual buzz (hushed whispers, hurried footsteps, the constant undercurrent of danger) has been replaced by a strange stillness, everyone else caught up in the celebration downstairs.

You pause at the entrance to your favorite spot, where floor-to-ceiling windows curve into infinity.

The forest is beautiful from here; it stretches endlessly beneath, a sea of dark leaves rustling secrets into the night. All those trees standing sentinel while you're up here, trying to make sense of... whatever this mess is.

That's when you notice him.

Jeon's leaning against the window, cigarette dangling between his fingers like an afterthought. The smoke curls around him in lazy spirals, adding to the s̶t̶u̶n̶n̶i̶n̶g̶ strange way the moonlight catches on his profile. The air around him shifts—hurricane gone quiet, more like the calm before a storm—and something in your lungs squeezes tight.

He doesn't look at you, but you know he knows you're there. It's impossible not to; Jeon's got that sixth sense that comes from years of watching his back, of knowing exactly who's in a room and where they stand.

His gaze stays fixed on something in the distance, and you find yourself wondering what he sees out there in the darkness.

The familiar scent of pine and wood mingles with cigarette smoke as you drift closer. It's... nice, in a way you probably shouldn't think about too hard.

The quiet, the moonlight, the way his presence fills the space without overwhelming it—it somehow makes everything feel less sharp-edged.

"Thinking about the mission?" Your voice comes out softer than intended, barely disturbing the stillness between you.

It's probably stupid to try talking to him when he's like this, all distant eyes and tense shoulders.

But you've never been good at leaving well enough alone.

He takes a long drag, the ember of his cigarette flaring bright against the darkness.

When he finally turns his head, the look in his eyes makes your breath catch—there's something raw there, something you're not sure you're meant to see.

"It's not the mission," he says, voice low and rough around the edges. "It's everything else."

Always with the cryptic answers, like he's physically incapable of giving a straight response.

You move closer, settling against the window next to him. Not too close—you know better than that—but close enough to share this moment, this view, this quiet.

You glance downwards again. Up here, with the party's distant thrum barely reaching you, it's easy to pretend you're somewhere else entirely. Somewhere without blood on your hands or secrets in your throat.

"In this world, Jeon," you murmur, watching a leaf spiral down into the darkness, "isn't it always 'everything else'?"

The question hangs between you like smoke, like all the things you can't say, like the weight of the wind wrapping around your lungs in a way that should feel suffocating but somehow... doesn't. Not anymore.

You stay there, sharing the silence, while the forest keeps its vigil below.

He takes another drag, longer this time, like he's trying to buy himself time to think. The smoke drifts between you both, creating patterns you could almost reach out and touch. The breeze enveloping you seems softer now, feels more like rain against windows than thunder and lightning.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, the way his jaw works like he's chewing on words he can't quite spit out.

It's fascinating, really, how someone so deadly can look so... lost sometimes.

Not that you'd ever tell him that. You like breathing, thanks.

When he finally speaks, it's so quiet you almost miss it.

"Sorry."

The word catches you off guard, makes something in your chest do a weird little flip.

It's not just about the fight—you know that much.

It's about everything: the hostility in the council room, the way he'd looked at you like you were something that needed to be eliminated, the tension that's been choking you both since.

You turn to look at him properly, can't help yourself really.

His eyes meet yours and—oh. His eyes... they look unguarded, real, human. Like he's disposing from his usual cold distance and blankness and letting you see deeper.

The moonlight catches on his features, softening the sharp edges you've grown so familiar with. There's a tiny crease between his brows, the barest downturn at the corners of his mouth—subtle tells that speak volumes to anyone who knows how to read them.

And you do, don't you?

Somehow, without meaning to, you've learned his language of micro-expressions and half-formed thoughts.

You don't fully understand what it is, this thing between you. This whatever-it-is that makes you notice the way his fingers tap against the window frame when he's thinking, or how his shoulders carry tension like it's a second skin.

You want to understand him—the real him, not just the cold-blooded assassin everyone sees. You want to know what made him this way, what keeps him up at night, what makes him him.

But you're not stupid.

You know better than to push, to dig too deep.

Jeon's got more walls than the castle itself, each one built from pain and trauma and years of keeping everyone at arm's length. That much is clear from the way he reacted last time you tried to dig deeper.

Getting close to him would be like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands—beautiful to watch, but ultimately impossible.

Still.

"Apology accepted," you say, and you can't quite keep the small smile off your face.

Because this? It feels like victory, like progress, like something real in a world built on lies and pretense.

Silence falls once again, comfortable in a way it probably shouldn't be. The forest breathes below, a living thing full of rustling leaves and night sounds. The atmosphere now is almost peaceful—still stormy, but the kind that makes you want to curl up with a blanket and watch the rain.

He takes another drag. Watches the smoke unfurl.

"Why aren't you at the party?"

It catches you a bit off guard—his tone's casual enough, but there's something else there—curiosity maybe, or suspicion. It's hard to tell with Jeon sometimes.

You shift your weight, considering how much to say.

It's not like you can tell him about J-Hope's relapse, about helping him back to his room with AD.

That's not your secret to share.

You know how guarded privacy is in this castle.

"I had to step out for a bit," you say instead. "Take care of some business with AD."

His eyebrow shoots up, and even when he's being suspicious he's stupidly handsome.

"Business? At this hour?"

You shrug, aiming for nonchalant. "You know how it is. Things come up."

He studies you then, really looks at you, like he's trying to read between lines you haven't even written.

But he doesn't push—of course he doesn't. That would mean caring, and caring means attachment, and attachment is the one thing Jeon avoids more than paperwork.

"Well," he drawls, smoke curling from his lips, "I hope you wrapped up your 'business' quickly. Wouldn't want you to miss the entire celebration."

There's a hint of something almost playful in his voice, and it makes your stomach do that weird flippy thing again.

You snort, grateful for the shift in tone. "What, you mean the raucous drunken antics of the crew? I think I'll survive without witnessing Eunchae's attempt at a table dance again."

The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close enough.

"Fair point," he concedes. "But the night's still young. I'm sure there's more debauchery yet to come."

"Guess I'll have to take your word for it." You turn to face him properly, can't help the way your eyes catch on the sharp line of his jaw. "But I could ask you the same thing—shouldn't Kkangpae's fearless assassin be in there overseeing the festivities?"

His expression clouds over, just slightly, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

Then, a sigh. "Not feeling it."

You recognize that look—it's the same one he gets when someone mentions AD, or when V enters a room. It's his don't fucking ask face, and you've learned to respect it.

"Well," you say, keeping your voice light, "I won't keep you from your solitary brooding. I should head back in soon anyway."

The word "Wait" nearly stops your heart.

Not because of the word itself—but because of how he says it.

Soft.

Almost... hesitant?

You turn back, and oh.

His expression makes your mouth go dry.

"I've been..." He pauses, dark eyes searching yours. "This tension's been getting to me."

You know that look. Have seen it before, usually right before clothes start hitting the floor. His eyes are all soft and pretty—eyes that say 'please understand what I'm asking' and 'please don't make me say it out loud.'

Your heart kicks against your ribs.

"You feeling tense?" The words come out steadier than you feel.

"Very." His lips curl into that infuriating smirk of his, tongue playing with his lip ring in a way that should be i̶l̶l̶e̶g̶a̶l̶ distracting. He crushes his cigarette against the windowsill, and the gesture feels oddly final. "You?"

"...Yeah." The admission comes out softer than intended.

That's all he needs, apparently.

His hand finds your hip, warm and insistent through your clothes, and suddenly you're being guided backward until cool glass meets your spine. The contrast makes you shiver—or maybe it's the way the air around him has shifted, no longer a storm but something darker, heavier.

Reality crashes back in.

"Wait." Your breath hitches as his thumb traces circles on your hip. "We're... we're in a pretty public area here, Jeon."

He leans in close—too close, making your head spin with pine and smoke and him.

"It's night," he murmurs, voice gone low and rough. "No one comes up here."

"And the cameras?" You hate how breathless you sound, caught between wanting this and knowing better.

The laugh that rumbles through his chest is all smug bastard.

"Blind spot." His eyes gleam in the dark. "Why'd you think I smoke here?"

His hand slides lower, testing, and your muscles lock up on instinct. Not from fear—never that with him—but from the way anticipation tangles with anxiety in your gut.

You press a hand against the window, trying to ground yourself.

"Wait, Jeon. We're right by a window, for fuck's sake." There's a hint of shyness in your voice that you'd deny to your grave.

The look he gives you is pure sin, but there's something almost gentle in it too; like he knows exactly what you're thinking, what you're worried about.

"Relax," he murmurs, hovering close enough that you can feel his body heat without him actually touching you. "We don't need to fuck, sunshine."

His next words make your whole body burn.

"I can make you cum just with my fingers."

He watches you, pupils blown wide, head tilted just enough for his gaze to feel heavy. Intent. Like he's waiting for something, anything—a nod, a flicker in your expression, an unspoken yes.

His thumb brushes over your hip again, and it's almost like he's giving you an out. Letting you decide, even though his cocky little smirk makes it clear he already knows what your answer will be.

You should stop this. Really, you should.

You could push him back, laugh it off, tell him the tension isn't that bad, that you've got it handled.

But you don't.

Because after everything—the mission, the fight, that disaster of a council meeting—the tension's been building like a pressure cooker.

And well... this wouldn't be the first time you've made questionable decisions around Jeon.

"Alright," you breathe out, and watch his eyes darken.

"That's my girl." The words rumble through his chest, sending shivers down your spine.

It's almost affectionate, the way he says it. Almost.

And then his lips are on your neck, soft and barely there, like he's building up to something bigger. His mouth skims across your skin, light enough to make shivers prickle down your spine.

You smell like chai, warm and sweet and so not what he should be associating with you.

Jungkook doesn't even realize he's breathing you in like an addict getting a hit, but the scent sticks in his head anyway, grounding him in a way that makes his chest ache.

Though he'd rather die than admit how often he catches himself chasing that scent in crowds, how it lingers in his thoughts long after you've left.

His fingers slip between your legs, middle and ring making their way to your panties. Slow. Confident. Brushing over your clit with the kind of deliberateness that makes you bite your lip.

The pads of his fingers move in slow, torturous circles, just enough pressure to make you squirm but not enough to tip you over the edge.

And god, he knows it, too.

He's smug about it, his breath warm against your neck as he hums like he's got all the time in the world. Completely unhurried, like he's savoring the way you're already getting wet for him.

You can't help the sound that escapes against his shoulder—something between a whimper and a plea that you'll definitely deny making later. Your hand finds his chest, gripping his shirt like it's the only thing keeping you upright (it probably is).

Your other hand starts wandering south, tracing the ridiculous muscles he tries to hide under those oversized hoodies.

You reach his belt, fingers brushing against warm skin and cold metal. It's such a Jeon thing—even his belt buckle is a weapon, probably hiding a blade or something equally lethal.

Not that you're thinking about that right now.

No, you're too busy fumbling with said belt, trying to maintain some dignity while basically pawing at him like a h̶o̶r̶n̶y̶ desperate teenager.

The metal clinks as you work, and you're suddenly very grateful for the party music drowning out any... suspicious sounds.

He hums against your neck, low and deep, and the sound makes heat pool in your gut. His breath is hot on your skin, minty and familiar. The silver chain around his neck brushes cold against your collarbone when he shifts closer, pressing you harder against the window.

And now, his fingers move along the edge of your panties, teasing, before finally—finally—slipping underneath. But of course he doesn't give you what you want right away.

No, that would be too easy.

And Jungkook is a bastard.

Instead, his fingers trace along your folds, barely touching, like he's mapping you out for the first time. The feather-light touch makes you clench around nothing, frustration building as he takes his sweet fucking time.

You're about to tell him to hurry the fuck up when his fingers find your clit properly, and—

Oh.

Oh.

The first real touch has your hips jerking forward without permission, chasing more pressure.

He chuckles against your neck, the motherfucker, but at least he takes the hint. His fingers start working your clit in earnest now, tight little circles that have you biting back embarrassing noises.

But two can play this game.

Your hand moves before you can second-guess it, slipping past the waistband of his briefs.

You don't hesitate, fingers wrapping around his cock—and fuck, he's already hard. Like, really hard. The weight of him in your hand, hot and thick and already leaking... yeah, okay, that's doing things to you.

"Fuck," he breathes, and the raw need in his voice sends shivers down your spine.

His dick twitches as you stroke him, your grip firm but not too tight, exploring the smooth skin, the prominent veins, spreading the precum down his shaft.

The way he responds—hips tilting into your touch, breath coming quicker against your neck—makes your pulse stutter.

His fingers get bolder, sliding through your wetness before—finally—pushing inside. Two at once because apparently now he's not fucking around anymore, and the stretch has you gasping against his shoulder.

And fuck, why does he know exactly how to curl them?

You arch instinctively, head tipping back against the cool glass behind you, and his name falls from your lips in a breathless whisper.

"Jeon... slow down," you manage, voice all breathy and d̶e̶s̶p̶e̶r̶a̶t̶e̶ needy.

The chuckle he gives you is infuriatingly smug, warm against the shell of your ear.

"Savoring you," he murmurs, voice thick and husky. "Thought you'd appreciate the effort."

The nerve of this man. The absolute audacity.

Your grip on his cock tightens, just enough to make his breath hitch against your neck. His hips jerk in response, fucking into your fist, and the faint curse he mutters under his breath makes you smile.

"You keep moving like that—" His voice is rough, strained. "And I won't last long."

There's something about the way he says it—half a warning, half a plea—that sends satisfaction racing through you.

You almost want to challenge him, to see exactly how far you can push him... But then his fingers curl inside you, finding your g-spot with an ease that's basically insulting, and all coherent thought scatters like smoke.

You can't help the moan that escapes. Like, actually can't help it. Your toes curl against the cold floor, free hand gripping his shirt so tight you're probably stretching the fabric.

God, you don't even care.

You try to muffle your sounds, but he's having none of it.

"Don't—you better not hold back your sounds, sunshine," he murmurs, teeth grazing your earlobe. "Wanna hear you."

Something snaps inside you at his words, and now every pump of his fingers draws out sounds you didn't even know you could make—desperate little whimpers and moans that echo in the empty corridor.

His thumb finds your clit, pressing in tight circles while his fingers work inside you, and your legs are actually shaking now.

"Jungkook," slips out before you can stop it, breathy and wrecked.

Using his real name feels dangerous, intimate in a way that makes your heart do weird things.

But the response that gets you?

Fuck, he makes this sound—something between a growl and a groan—and you feel his cock throb in your hand, more precum leaking from the tip.

Worth it. So fucking worth it.

"Say it again," he pants, his voice rough against your ear, like the sound of his name is oxygen and he's been starved of air.

"Jungkook," you whisper, pumping his cock faster.

His response is immediate.

His fingers curl against your g-spot, thumb pressing harder on your clit, and holy shit—the cry that leaves your mouth is embarrassingly loud.

You'd be mortified if you could think straight, but all your brain cells are focused on the way he's finger-fucking you like it's his job.

"Oh—" is all you manage.

Because the same precision he uses for sniping, the same control he has on his bike? Yeah, all picture that, but laser-focused on making you fall apart.

"Fuck," you pant, not even sure what you're asking for. "Please—"

He knows. Somehow he always fucking knows.

But Jungkook doesn't answer with words.

He doesn't need to.

His actions speak volumes, fingers curling against your g-spot, thumb on your clit, maintaining exactly that same speed and pressure that's driving you insane.

Your head falls back once again, but you barely notice when your body starts trembling, thighs shaking as that familiar sensation bubbles up in your abdomen.

You know he feels it too—the way your breath hitches, how your pussy clenches around his fingers. He knows your body almost as well as you do at this point.

"Come on, sunshine," he urges, voice rough with his own need. "Fucking cum for me."

And god—how can you resist when he asks like that?

Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, all-consuming and overwhelming, tearing a broken sob from your throat as your pussy spasms around his fingers.

Your hand stutters to a stop on his cock, fingers trembling as you ride out the high. Every nerve feels electrified, your mind going blank as pleasure overtakes you.

Jungkook grunts, low and satisfied, like watching you cum is working for him too—literally, apparently, because his cock pulses with need.

He's always so fucking controlled, even now.

Well. Not on your watch.

You're still gasping for air, pussy still fluttering around his fingers, but you're determined to see him lose it too.

Your hand works faster on his cock, twisting on the upstroke the way you've learned drives him crazy. Your thumb swipes over the head, spreading all that precum down his shaft.

"Jungkook," you breathe against his neck. "Cum for me."

"Fuck—" His voice actually cracks.

And there it is.

The sound you've never heard from him before.

A whimper.

It's small, barely there, but in the quiet corridor it might as well be a fucking shout.

Your breath catches, fresh heat pooling in your belly even though you just came.

Because that? That whimper? That's doing things to your brain you didn't know were possible.

The fearsome Chief of Tactical Assassinations, reduced to these desperate little noises just because you said his name while jerking him off.

You want more. Need to hear it again.

Your hand moves faster, grip tightening just how he likes it, and the response is immediate—his cock pulses, more precum making everything slick and messy and his fingers dig into your hips, the way his breath comes in harsh pants against your neck.

"Yeah, that's it Jungkook," you murmur, and fuck—the way he shudders at you slurring his name?

"Ah, god, sunshine—"

You've never seen him like this before—guard completely down, just pure need.

His head falls forward onto your shoulder, breath hot and ragged. You can see the tendons in his neck straining as he fights to hold back, always trying to keep some control even when he's about to blow.

But fuck that.

You lower your voice, testing your theory again.

"Jungkook," you say, slow and deliberate. "Gonna cum for me?"

"Mhm," he whines, the sound muffled against your skin.

God, you want to hear that noise every fucking day for the rest of your life.

When he finally falls apart, it's beautiful—his whole body going rigid against you, cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum spurt over your fingers.

He moans—a guttural, broken sound—and your lips press against his just in time to swallow it.

You stroke him through it, feeling every twitch and pulse as his orgasm wracks through him. His hands are gripping your hips so tight you'll definitely have bruises tomorrow, but you couldn't care less.

"I love it when you moan my name."

His voice is rough, gravelly in a way that sends little aftershocks down your spine—something soft dancing in his tone, a vulnerability you rarely hear.

"Makes every damn thing better."

The words settle in your chest, and for some reason, they hit deeper in the afterglow.

But you think you understand now.

He is Jungkook in these moments, when you're both stripped bare of pretense—when his hurricane calms to gentle rain, and his walls come down just enough to let you glimpse whoever he was before Kkangpae turned him into what he is now.

But outside of this? Outside of heated touches and shared breaths and moments stolen in dark corridors?

He's Jeon. To everyone else, and to you too. Jeon, the fearsome assassin, the cold and distant Chief who keeps everyone at arm's length.

But Jungkook? Jungkook is the one who whimpers when you say his name, who holds you like this afterward, who lets his guard down just enough to admit he loves the sound of his name on your lips.

It's a package deal, you realize. Can't have one without the other.

And somehow, you find yourself thinking that's okay.

The music hits you before you even reach the lounge—because t's loud as fuck, bass thumping through the walls.

Your steps slow as you near the entrance, taking in the absolute chaos that unfolds before you.

Yeah. It's a fucking mess.

The room is packed wall-to-wall with bodies—gang members in various states of drunken revelry, sprawled across every available surface like they've forgotten what personal space means. Empty cans litter every flat surface, and someone's idea of mood lighting has turned the place into a discount nightclub, all flashing colors and shifting shadows.

You weave through the crowd, dodging elbows and trying not to step in anything suspicious.

The whole area reeks of cigarette smoke and cheap beer, and everywhere you look there's another scene playing out—Eunchae's attempting what looks like interpretive dance on a coffee table, while Sakura's got a crowd gathered around her, probably telling that story about the time she infiltrated a royal wedding.

And then there's Takama.

He's alone on one of the leather couches, looking like a painting of youthful rebellion with his tattoos catching the colored lights. There's something almost soft about him right now, lost in whatever thoughts are swirling behind those eyes as he nurses his beer.

You drop onto the couch beside him without warning, making him startle slightly. The grin he gives you is lazy, familiar, as he shifts to make room.

"Well hey there, stranger," he drawls, voice warm with genuine pleasure at seeing you. "Living it up?"

You cast another look around the room, watching someone—is that Yunjin?—try to start a conga line.

"It's... something alright." Your eyebrow lifts as you turn back to him. "What about you? Usually you're out there supervising."

His laugh is soft, barely audible over the music.

"Eh, not tonight," he admits, sinking deeper into the leather. "Needed a break from..." He waves his beer vaguely at the chaos around you. "All that."

You get it. Sometimes the noise gets to be too much, even for people like you who are supposed to thrive in it.

"We haven't really had time to just... chill lately," he adds, studying you over the rim of his can; something thoughtful in his expression.

"Been a bit busy trying not to die," you point out, but you're smiling as you say it.

You twist on the couch to face him properly, getting comfortable.

"But you're right. So what's new? Besides the sleeve—which we are going to talk about, by the way."

He grins, and just like that, the conversation flows.

It's always been easy with Takama—no pressure, no politics, just the comfortable back-and-forth of two people who've seen each other at their best and worst.

You trade stories about recent missions, swap gossip about who's sleeping with who (apparently Flower caught two of the new recruits making out in a supply closet), and reminisce about the stupid shit you used to pull when you were both barely weeks in and thought you were immortal.

It's... nice and simple. The kind of moment that makes you forget, just for a little while, about the blood under your fingernails and the weight of expectations on your shoulders.

The party rages on around you, but here on this couch, it feels like you've found a pocket of peace in the chaos.

Someone cranks the music even louder, but you barely notice. Time gets weird when you're with Takama—everything else just sort of fades into background noise, like static on an old TV. For a moment, you can almost pretend this is normal. Just two friends catching up, no blood money or body counts between you.

Almost.

"So," Takama says, rolling his beer can between his palms; something careful in the way he watches you, like he's choosing his next words. "How're you settling in? Must be a hell of an adjustment."

You snort, glancing vaguely at the chaos around you.

"Oh, you mean going from regular civilian to..." You watch as someone—definitely Eunchae this time—attempts a backflip off a table. "Whatever the fuck this is? Yeah, it's been a trip."

The past few months flash through your mind like a fever dream.

Blood and bullets and board meetings, learning which knives work best for what, figuring out how to walk the line between seduction and survival.

"Starting to get my feet under me though," you add, and you're surprised to find it's true.

"Speaking of feet—" Takama grins, nudging your ankle with his. "That injury had me worried for a minute. But you bounced back fast."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling.

"Well, someone wouldn't let me slack off during recovery."

The training sessions with Takama had been brutal, but effective. He'd pushed you just hard enough without breaking you completely.

He ducks his head at the praise, and god—sometimes it's easy to forget he's one of Kkangpae's most lethal assets.

Right now he just looks young, almost bashful.

"Heard the latest mission went well," he says quickly, changing the subject. "You and Jeon seem to work well together. Been seeing a lot of him lately."

Your spine stiffens before you can stop it. Shit.

"He's my mentor," you say, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. "Kind of comes with the territory."

You take a long sip of your drink, praying he doesn't notice how your fingers tighten around the can.

If Takama picks up on the tension, he doesn't show it. His expression stays open, friendly—but there's something that looks like caution there.

"Just... watch yourself with him, yeah?" His voice goes soft, almost lost under the music. "Jeon can be complicated."

You raise an eyebrow, pulse picking up slightly. "Complicated how?"

He hesitates, teeth worrying at his lower lip.

"He's got a lot of weight on his shoulders as Chief. And he's been through..." Takama trails off, like he's hit a wall he can't cross. "Let's just say it's easy to misread him sometimes."

The words settle heavy in your stomach. Before you can push—before you can ask what the fuck that's supposed to mean—Takama's already shifting gears, launching into a story about some rookie who accidentally triggered the fire alarm during training.

But his warning echoes in your head, mixing with thoughts of hurricane auras and stolen moments in dark corridors.

You take another drink, longer this time.

And suddenly, the opening notes hit you like a punch to the chest.

Holy shit.

You know this song. Used to blast it in your car, windows down, back when the scariest thing in your life was getting caught sneaking out after curfew.

The familiar melody wraps around you like an old friend, and suddenly you're itching to move.

"I love this song," you say before you can stop yourself, the words coming out softer than intended.

You're on your feet before you realize it, body already swaying slightly to the beat.

"Come on, Takama. Don't let it go to waste."

He looks up at you, caught in the swirling lights like a deer in technicolor headlights.

The hesitation is written all over his face—Takama's always been more comfortable with headphones than dance moves.

But something in your expression must convince him because he stands, albeit with visible reluctance.

"Fine," he sighs, but there's a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "But you're taking point on this suicide mission."

The dance floor is packed, bodies moving in various states of rhythm (and sobriety).

You drag Takama through the crowd by his wrist, finding a spot that's not too cramped but not totally exposed either. The beat pulses through the floorboards, up through your feet, and fuck it—you start moving.

For a minute, Takama just stands there looking lost, shifting awkwardly like he's forgotten how his limbs work.

But then you catch his eye and make an absolutely ridiculous face, and something in him seems to crack. A real smile breaks through, small but genuine.

He starts moving—tentatively at first, like he's testing waters he's not sure won't drown him. But the more you dance, letting yourself get stupid with it, the more he loosens up. His shoulders relax, his movements become more natural, and when you shimmy at him dramatically, he actually laughs.

The bridge hits and suddenly his hand catches yours, spinning you in a move that definitely wasn't cleared by gang protocol. You yelp in surprise, the sound dissolving into laughter as he pulls you back, both of you grinning like idiots.

The song builds to its final chorus, and when you look at Takama, his eyes are bright with something that looks a lot like joy.

It hits you then—how young he looks when he's not being Jeon's deputy. How much lighter everything feels when you're both just... being.

The music shifts, transitioning into something more upbeat, but the spell's already breaking. You both drift off the dance floor, slightly breathless, trading grins like contraband.

"See?" You bump his shoulder with yours as you walk. "Didn't even die a little bit."

"I had..." He pauses, like he's surprised by his own words. "Fun, actually. Thanks for making me do that. Wouldn't have without you pushing."

You smile, warm and genuine. "What are friends for?"

The word 'friends' settles between you, comfortable and true.

In a world where everything's complicated—where relationships are weapons and trust is currency—maybe this simple thing is worth holding onto.

Even if it's just for tonight.

You sink back into the couch, the leather cool against your heated skin.

Dancing's left you buzzing, loose and happy in a way that makes everything feel a bit softer around the edges. Takama drops down beside you, looking more relaxed than you've seen him in weeks, more relaxed, perhaps warmer too.

The conversation picks up where it left off, easy as breathing.

You're in the middle of telling him about the time you accidentally set off AD's security protocols (and lived to tell about it) when movement catches your eye.

Oh god.

V appears like some sort of chaos demon summoned by the party gods themselves, with Yunjin practically plastered to his side. They're both clearly fucked up—all glassy eyes and loose limbs, stumbling through the crowd like gravity's more of a suggestion than a law.

"Well, well," V drawls, his words just slightly blurred at the edges, eyes sparking with that particular brand of trouble that always means someone's about to have a really good time or a really bad day. "What's this cozy little setup?"

Yunjin straight up giggles, face pressed into V's shoulder like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard. His arm tightens around her waist, steadying her, and there's something almost fond in the way he looks down at her.

"What kind of chaos are you two spreading tonight?" Takama asks, but he's fighting a smile.

V's eyebrows do this ridiculous wiggle that should look stupid but somehow doesn't.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He nudges Yunjin, grinning like the cat that got the cream. "Should we tell them? Promise not to snitch to the boss man?"

More giggles spill from Yunjin as she sways into him.

Her eyes are bright when they meet yours, sparkling. "V was just telling me about our... earlier activities."

"That's right, butterfly." V plants a sloppy kiss on her temple, and she absolutely melts. "Our little secret though, yeah?"

You can't help the way your eyebrow shoots up.

You've noticed them dancing around each other lately—subtle touches, lingering looks, the way V's eyes follow her across rooms.

But this? This is new.

"Oh?" You lean forward, intrigued despite yourself. "Do share with the class."

"Supply closet got pretty interesting," V says with an exaggerated wink that somehow manages to be both ridiculous and charming. "Didn't it, gorgeous?"

Yunjin's face flushes pink, but she's grinning as she swats at his chest.

"You're the worst," she whines, but she's not exactly moving away from where he's got her tucked against him.

"Jesus," Takama mutters, but he's smiling. "You two are gonna get yourselves in trouble. RM finds out about this..."

That just sets them off again, both dissolving into another fit of giggles like teenagers caught behind the bleachers. You can't help but smile—there's something infectious about their joy, even if it is chemically enhanced.

For a minute, everything feels almost normal. The music's good, the vibe's right, and watching V and Yunjin act like lovestruck teenagers is honestly kind of adorable. You're just starting to really relax when—

"V said if we doubled the dose it'd feel better," Yunjin says, words slurring together like watercolors. "He was right!"

Your blood goes cold.

Beside you, Takama's whole body tenses for a split second before he forces himself to relax.

But you see it. You both caught it.

Your eyes snap to V, and suddenly his casual sprawl against the wall looks a lot less charming.

He meets your gaze steadily, that fucking self-satisfied smirk still plastered on his face like he's so proud of himself. Like he hasn't just crossed a line that shouldn't be crossed.

You have to look away before you do something stupid. Like punch him. In his perfect fucking teeth.

Instead, you focus on Yunjin. She's still pressed against V's side, swaying slightly to music only she can hear.

Her pupils are blown wide, dark pools that nearly swallow the brown of her irises. The sparkle in her eyes that you thought was joy earlier looks different now.

Chemical. Artificial.

"Yun," you say, keeping your voice gentle. You've dealt with enough high people to know better than to startle them. "Maybe we should get some water in you? Clear your head a bit?"

She pouts—actually pouts—shaking her head like a kid refusing bedtime.

"Nooo, I'm good! Everything feels amazing." She giggles, pressing closer to V. "He said it would, and it does!"

You can taste copper in your mouth from where you're biting your cheek.

V's still watching, still smirking, like this is all some grand fucking joke to him. Like he hasn't just given your best friend enough drugs to make her forget her own name.

"I bet it does, sweetie," you say, carefully neutral. Your eyes find Takama's, and thank fuck—he gets it immediately. "But how about we move this party somewhere quieter? You can tell me all about your adventures."

"Ugh, fine." She rolls her eyes so hard it looks painful. "You're such a mom friend sometimes."

You rise slowly, deliberately, before reaching for her.

The moment your arm loops around her waist, you're pulling her away from V, maybe a bit rougher than necessary.

But you can't bring yourself to care, not when she's this fucked up.

You can feel V's eyes boring into your back as you guide Yunjin through the crowd. Part of you wants to turn around, wants to see if he's still wearing that smug little smile. Wants to wipe it off his face with your fist.

But Yunjin stumbles slightly against you, giggling at nothing, and your priorities snap back into focus.

She needs you right now. Everything else—V, the party, the anger burning in your chest—can wait.

You tighten your grip on her waist and keep walking.

V's time will come later.

Getting Yunjin through the crowd is like herding a drunk butterfly. She keeps trying to drift away, drawn to every flash of light and burst of sound, giggling at things only she can see. Your arm around her waist is probably the only thing keeping her vertical at this point.

The kitchen's quieter at least, the music muffled enough that you can actually hear yourself think. Moon's behind the counter, doing his thing with bottles and mixers like some high-end bartender who accidentally joined a gang. His hands never stop moving, even as his eyes flick up to assess the situation.

You watch his expression shift—subtle, but you catch it. The slight raise of his eyebrows, the way his mouth tightens just a fraction. But because he's Moon, he doesn't say a word about Yunjin's clearly fucked-up state. Just reaches into the fancy-ass industrial fridge and pulls out a water bottle.

"Here," he says, voice gentle in that way that always makes you wonder how someone so kind ended up in this life. You could kiss him right now, honestly.

"Thanks." You twist the cap off, pressing the bottle into Yunjin's hands. "Come on, Yun. Drink up."

She makes a face like you're trying to poison her, but takes a sip when you give her your best don't-test-me look.

The water probably tastes like nothing to her right now, but at least it's something.

Moon keeps mixing drinks, glass bottles creating their own little melody as he works. But you notice how he stays close, how his movements keep him within reaching distance.

Ready to help if needed.

You sigh, suddenly feeling about ten years older.

"V got creative with the party favors," you explain quietly, though from Moon's expression, it's not exactly news. "Apparently doubling the dose seemed like a good idea."

"Ah." Moon's hands never stop moving, but his voice carries that particular tone of why-am-I-not-surprised. "V does tend to take... liberties with recommended dosages."

That's putting it mildly. You've seen V's idea of 'creative chemistry' before. Usually ends with someone puking their guts out or seeing dragons in the hallways.

Yunjin mumbles something that might be words in another dimension, slumping harder against your side. Your arm tightens around her automatically, keeping her upright.

"Should probably get her back to our room," you say, already dreading the journey. "Let her ride this out somewhere safe."

Moon nods, setting down a finished drink. "Of course. Need any help?"

The offer is genuine, and something in your chest aches a little at his kindness. Because honestly? This night's been a fucking journey. The mission was a shitshow, that thing with Fervio still has your hands shaking if you think about it too hard, then the fight with Jeon, and J-Hope vanishing into thin air...

And now this.

"We'll manage," you say, even though you're not entirely sure that's true. "But thanks. Really."

He gives you that look—the one that says he sees right through your bullshit but respects your need to handle it alone.

"Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all."

You nod, adjusting your grip on Yunjin as she starts swaying to music only she can hear.

At least someone in this gang has their shit together.

Thank fuck it's Yunjin. Anyone else and you'd be ready to throw hands , but Yun? She's got this way about her that makes it impossible to stay mad. Even now, high as a kite and talking to invisible butterflies, she's still somehow endearing.

But V? Oh, you're definitely mad at V.

The thing about V is that he's smart. Like, terrifyingly smart. He reads people like they're children's books, picks apart their tells and fears and desires like it's nothing. But sometimes you wonder if he actually understands any of it. If he gets that people aren't just puzzles to solve or toys to play with.

He moves through life like it's all some grand experiment, pushing buttons just to see what happens. Like a kid pulling wings off flies, too fascinated by the result to care about the damage.

You've seen him do it—watched him learn exactly what makes someone tick just so he can take them apart later.

But right now isn't the time for unpacking V's particular brand of fucked up.

Right now is about getting Yunjin somewhere safe.

The party noise fades as you guide her through the halls, replaced by the castle's nighttime silence.

She's muttering something about clouds having faces, her weight heavy against your side as she stumbles along.

"Almost there," you promise, adjusting your grip when she starts listing to the left.

Getting to your room is a journey and a half, but finally—finally—you're through the door. Yunjin immediately face-plants onto her bed like a very drunk starfish, letting out the most dramatic sigh you've ever heard.

"Yun?" You perch on the edge of her bed, watching her attempt to become one with the mattress. "How you holding up?"

She makes a noise that's half giggle, half groan.

"Everything's spinning."'Her hand waves through the air like she's trying to catch invisible stars. "Was it always spinning? That's new. I like it. Wait—no. Maybe I don't."

"Yeah, that's the drugs talking." You brush her hair back from her face, chest aching at how young she looks right now. "Deep breaths, okay?"

She takes one comically deep breath, then dissolves into giggles. Even absolutely blasted, she's still herself—still that bright, bubbly energy that somehow survived joining a gang.

"Okay, bedtime for you." You manage to wrangle her under the covers despite her best octopus impression. "Before you start seeing sound or whatever the fuck V gave you kicks in properly."

"Mmmkay," she mumbles, already going soft and pliant. "'Night night."

You tuck an extra blanket around her because she always gets cold, smoothing it down with probably too much care.

She looks small like this, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest hurt.

Whatever technicolor wonderland she's floating through right now, you hope it's at least peaceful.

Dragging a chair over, you settle in for what's probably going to be a long night. The steady rise and fall of her breathing is oddly soothing, a reminder that she's okay. That you got her somewhere safe.

Tomorrow you can deal with V. Tomorrow you can be angry about his casual disregard for basic human decency. Tomorrow you can figure out how to make him understand that Yunjin isn't just another one of his experiments.

But tonight? Tonight you just watch your best friend breathe, and try not to think about how easily this could have gone wrong.

The problem is, your list of people to call for help is depressingly short right now.

J-Hope's out of the question after... whatever the fuck happened earlier. That whole situation is its own special kind of mess you're not ready to deal with.

And Chaewon? Last you saw her, she was doing body shots off someone who might've been Jae (but honestly could've been anyone at this point).

Your thumb hovers over Jeon's contact for way too long.

But after that... thing in the hallway, calling him feels weird. Wrong, maybe. Like mixing two chemicals that shouldn't touch.

AD's chat sits there, tempting you. He'd seemed weirdly steady tonight, especially with how he handled J-Hope's situation. Plus, the man's basically a walking encyclopedia of chemical compounds—if anyone knows what V might've given Yun, it's him.

Fuck it.

You type out a quick message, trying to sound casual but probably failing miserably.

The soft beep of the door scanner minutes later makes you jump.

AD slouches in like a grumpy cat, drowning in one of his signature oversized hoodies. His default scowl is firmly in place as his eyes sweep the room, landing on Yunjin's passed-out form.

"What happened?" His voice is rough, like he's been gargling gravel, but there's something almost soft in how he asks it.

You give him the cliff notes version—the party, V's 'special' drinks, finding Yun high as balls and bringing her back here.

AD listens with his arms crossed, face unreadable except for this tiny muscle ticking in his jaw.

When you finish, he lets out this long breath through his nose that somehow manages to sound both annoyed and concerned.

"Let me check on her."

He moves with this weird grace that shouldn't be possible for someone who looks like they learned posture from a question mark. Drops to one knee by the bed, fingers finding Yun's pulse point like he's done this a thousand times before.

You watch him work, something tight in your chest loosening at how careful he is. The way he checks her pupils, monitors her breathing.

When he pulls the blanket back up over her, his movements are weirdly gentle for someone who looks like he hates life.

"Vitals are good," he says, voice pitched low like he's worried about waking her. "Just needs to sleep it off."

The relief hits you harder than expected, even though you figured she wasn't in real danger.

Something must show on your face because AD's scowl softens just a fraction.

"V's an idiot," he adds, like he's offering comfort in the only way he knows how. "But he knows his limits with this shit. Usually."

"I'm sorry for dragging you into this," you say after a moment, because the silence feels too heavy. "Didn't really know who else to call."

AD's shoulders lift in what might be a shrug.

"Made the right choice." His voice is still gruff, it sounds like he's trying to be reassuring but forgot how halfway through.

You watch, slightly baffled, as he starts rummaging through Yunjin's dresser like he owns the place.

He emerges with a hair tie and—weirdly specific—a small trash bin.

Before you can ask what he's doing, he's back at the bed, gathering Yunjin's cotton-candy pink hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck.

"In case she gets sick," he explains, positioning the bin within easy reach.

The movement makes it look like he's done this a hundred times before.

And maybe he has.

You keep forgetting that AD's been in this life longer than most of you. That before he was the tech genius who keeps Kkangpae running, he was someone else.

This probably isn't his first rodeo with bad trips and worse decisions.

The chair creaks when he drops into it beside you, all gangly limbs and oversized hoodie.

He leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on Yunjin like he's monitoring vital signs you can't see.

You can't help studying him in the dim light—blonde hair falling in his eyes again, partially hiding the scar that cuts through his left eyebrow like a lightning bolt. Even at rest, he's got this energy about him—like a compressed spring or a loaded gun.

The thought hits you suddenly: how many nights has he spent like this? How many bedside vigils over people who took too much, drank too much, bled too much?

There's a story in the way he handles this so smoothly, in how he knew exactly what to do without being told.

He shifts, and you realize you've been staring. Heat creeps up your neck as you look away.

"Thanks," you mumble, just to break the tension. "For coming. For helping her."

He makes this noise in his throat that might be acknowledgment. "S'fine."

The quiet settles back in, comfortable this time.

Your eyes feel heavy, the adrenaline crash hitting you like a truck. You try to stifle a yawn and fail miserably.

AD catches your failed attempt at staying awake.

"Get some sleep," he says, voice rough but not unkind. "I got this."

You glance between him and Yun's passed-out form, chewing your lip. "I can stay up..."

The snort he gives you is pure AD. "And be completely useless tomorrow? Yeah, great plan."

"Please, I've worked on less sleep," you mumble, propping your chin on your hand to hide another yawn.

Your eyes feel like they're filled with sand, but you're nothing if not stubborn.

"Don't you have training with V tomorrow?" There's something almost smug in the way he asks it, like he already knows he's won. "Cross-division thing?"

You blink. Once. Twice.

Fuck. You do.

"Oh," is all you manage, because yeah—training with V tomorrow is going to be an absolute shitshow on a good day.

Sleep-deprived? You might actually die.

The corner of AD's mouth twitches, like he's fighting back something that might be a smile.

But then he turns back to Yun, his expression settling into something softer than his usual scowl but still distinctly AD-flavored.

"Seriously, go to bed," he says, quieter now. "I've done this before."

There's... a lot packed into those four words. Years of experience, probably. Nights spent watching over people.

You study his profile, but his face gives nothing away, those dark eyes fixed on Yun like she's a particularly complex piece of code he needs to debug.

Fighting him on this is pointless—you know that look.

It's the same one he gets when Aera questions his security protocols or suggests maybe he doesn't need a seventh monitor for his setup.

Your bed creaks as you flop onto it, not bothering to change.

The blanket's cool against your skin, and god, you hadn't realized how tired you were until you got horizontal.

"Try anything weird and I'll gut you," you mumble into your pillow, already feeling sleep creeping in at the edges.

He makes this noise that might be a laugh. "Right. I'll steal your precious water bottle while you sleep."

You snort, but it comes out more like a sleepy exhale.

Yunjin's steady breathing fills the room like white noise, and somehow knowing AD's there makes everything feel... safer.

Like maybe it's okay to let your guard down, just for tonight.

The last thing you see before your eyes close is AD's silhouette against the window, moonlight catching on his blonde hair like a halo; sitting perfectly still, like some kind of grumpy guardian statue.

Your last coherent thought is that maybe he's not so bad after all.

Then sleep pulls you under, and everything else fades away.

 

Chapter 23: 22 | knives fly

Summary:

"When care turns clumsy, it draws blood—not from the skin, but from the bonds that hold you together."

Notes:

Okay so: insomnia texts at 2AM are basically the literary equivalent of “you up?” but make it trauma. Jeon didn’t need to say anything else—just “sleep?”—and it already screamed “I don’t know how to ask for help so I’ll weaponize minimalism.” Classic Jeon. And Y/N spirals because she knows the truth: it wasn’t a booty call, it was vulnerability, and that’s scarier. Then we get AD, king of sitting in a chair all night pretending it’s no big deal. His whole arc is “grumpy cat on the outside, IKEA cinnamon bun on the inside.” He will literally break his spine keeping vigil but god forbid anyone thank him. Contrast that with Jeon who asks for help sideways—two different forms of care, neither of them healthy, both of them real.

Yun vs. Y/N? That wasn’t about V at all—it was about hypocrisy. Y/N doesn’t trust Yun’s choices but defends her own messy entanglement with Jeon. Ouch. Friendship fights cut deeper than knives (and we had actual knives this chapter). Which brings us to V, the psycho theater kid who said “what if we solved trust issues by almost killing each other?” He thrives on spectacle and chaos. Yun stepping up there... that’s friendship in Kkangpae language. The knife trial wasn’t about skill—we know Y/N can throw. It was about proving loyalty under pressure, in public, with stakes. That’s how V plays: he takes private wounds and drags them center stage. And the hoodie, uggggh. Smell, fabric, memory. And then cafeteria Jeon. Bro cannot experience one single meal without turning it into a dominance game. It’s ridiculous. It’s also exactly how they show intimacy: through escalation, not tenderness. For them, affection is war.

So yeah—this chapter is about how everyone cares, they’re just catastrophically bad at it. And the cost is always blood.

Anyway! Be feral in the comments. Jeon deserves to be bullied for “Netflix and chill??” energy. Yun deserves to be yelled at for trusting V. And I deserve kudos and comments for letting V monologue like a sadistic drama teacher. Now go scream.

The message sits there, stupidly simple, glaring at you from your screen like it's your fault.

"𝚂𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙?"

You stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen like the word might suddenly rearrange itself into something less... loaded. Less accusing.

It doesn't.

It just sits there, timestamped at 2AM, carrying the weight of someone else's insomnia.

It's the second message that gets you, though.

"𝙶𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝."

That one came in at 5:32AM.

By then, you were already dead to the world, passed out in the safety of your room while Jeon was—what? Pacing the halls? Chain-smoking out by the trees? Picking fights with ghosts?

And now it's 8AM, and you're sitting on your bed, staring at his words like they're some complex code you need to crack. Like there's a right answer hidden in there somewhere, a perfect response that won't make everything worse.

Because Jeon? He's not asleep. You know that for a fact.

Maybe he's already in the cafeteria, trying to drown his restless night in coffee so strong it could strip paint. Or maybe he's still wandering the castle, waiting for some part of his brain to shut the fuck up and let him breathe.

You chew the inside of your cheek, eyes flicking between the messages and the clock.

It's not like you owe him anything. You don't. Sleeping with Jeon—literally sleeping, body against body, his breathing evening out against your back—that's not part of whatever... thing you two have. You're not his emotional support animal.

And yet.

You can't stop the twist in your chest, the one that feels suspiciously like guilt.

Because yeah, you don't owe him shit, but you also know something most people don't: Jeon's insomnia is brutal. It sinks claws into him and doesn't let go, dragging him into nights spent battling demons he won't name.

You know because you've seen his arsenal of pills. They speak of someone to whom sleep doesn't come easily.

He reached out to you last night—you.

And you weren't there.

You could've been.

But you weren't.

It's not pity that's making your stomach do backflips. God no, Jeon would rather eat his own gun than be pitied.

It's... guilt? Maybe? Because he trusted you with this little piece of himself—this vulnerability he keeps locked away behind steel walls and sharp edges—and you weren't there.

It shouldn't be a big deal. He'll probably shrug it off, act like it never happened. Because you don't owe each other anything beyond orgasms and plausible deniability.

But.

But he apologized to you last time, didn't he? When he was being an absolute dick in the council room. When he said those things that cut a little too deep. He swallowed his pride and said sorry.

Should you apologize for this? Is that what he's expecting?

But it's different, right? Because last time he was an absolute asshole. This time you've just... not read his messages. Until now. And not purposefully.

And what would you even say? Sorry I didn't come cuddle you to sleep? My bad for not being your human security blanket? Everything sounds stupid in your head, too intimate or not intimate enough.

Plus, after how he reacted last time you tried anything resembling emotional closeness... You're lucky if he doesn't decide to solve this problem by having you transferred to Antarctica. Or just straight-up murder you and make it look like an accident.

Maybe it's better to leave it. He's survived worse nights without you. He doesn't need you.

You sigh, phone still clutched in your hand like it holds the answers to life's greatest mysteries. The screen goes dark, but his words are still burned into your retinas.

"𝙶𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝."

Maybe you'll respond. Maybe you won't.

For now, you toss the phone onto the bed, pinching the bridge of your nose as if that'll somehow clear the fog in your brain.

Because yeah. Maybe it's better if you just let it go.

The sheets tangle around your waist as you sit up, rubbing crusty sleep from your eyes. AD's still in the same chair by Yun's bed, hunched over his phone like it holds the secrets of the universe.

"AD?"

He actually jumps, phone nearly becoming a very expensive projectile before he catches it.

When he looks at you, his eyes are wide behind his messy bangs, like he forgot other people existed for a minute there.

It's kind of adorable, honestly. Like catching a very grumpy cat doing something embarrassing.

"You've been here all night?" You gesture at Yunjin, who's still dead to the world, snoring softly into her pillow.

His eyes dart between you and Yunjin before he gives this tiny nod, like he's admitting to something shameful.

"Yeah," he mutters, hand coming up to scratch at his neck. "She's been out cold."

Now that you're more awake, you can see how rough he looks. The shadows under his eyes are deeper than usual, his face having that particular glazed look that comes from pulling an all-nighter.

He must be running on fumes by now.

"That's... really sweet of you," you say, because it is. "Have you slept at all?"

The shrug he gives you is pure AD—dismissive and slightly aggressive. "Usually up this late anyway. No big deal."

But the way he has to stifle a yawn mid-sentence kind of ruins the effect.

For someone who tries so hard to be intimidating, he's doing a pretty shit job of it right now.

"Still," you press, because sometimes AD needs to hear that he's not fooling anyone with his tough guy act. "Thanks. Yunjin's gonna appreciate it when she wakes up."

He shifts in his chair like your gratitude is physically uncomfortable for him.

"Yeah, well." He waves a hand vaguely. "Just... keep her hydrated and stuff. When she wakes up."

The dismissive gesture would work better if he didn't look like he was about to face-plant into the nearest horizontal surface.

But at least he's not scowling, which for AD is basically the equivalent of a sunny disposition.

"Go get some sleep," you tell him, fighting back a smile. "You've more than earned it."

He stands with a series of concerning joint-cracks, running a hand through his hair in what you think is supposed to be fixing it but really just makes him look more like an electrocuted hedgehog.

He stretches, bones popping, and heads for the door.

But then he pauses, turning back with this awkward little shuffle.

"Let me know if..." He trails off, gesturing vaguely at the walking cotton candy. "You know. Whatever."

Your smile widens. "I will. Thanks, AD."

He gives one last jerky nod before slipping out, like he's worried you might try to hug him if he stays any longer.

You watch the door close behind him, feeling weirdly warm inside.

For all his prickly exterior and permanent scowl, AD's got a soft center that he tries really hard to pretend doesn't exist.

You settle back against your pillows, watching the sunrise paint stripes across the floor.

Yun's still passed out, but she's breathing steady thanks to AD's all-night vigil.

It's weirdly comforting, knowing there are still people in this fucked-up world who care enough to lose sleep over someone else.

Suddenly, Yun starts stirring. You're at her bedside before she even gets her eyes fully open, watching her face scrunch up as consciousness hits her like a truck.

"Ugh," she groans, hand coming up to shield her eyes. "Who let an elephant tap dance in my skull?"

"Morning, sunshine," you say, keeping your voice soft. "How's the comedown treating you?"

"Like absolute shit." She squints at you through her fingers. "What even happened last night?"

You chew your lip, debating how to phrase this. "Well... you and V decided to go on a little acid adventure. Ring any bells?"

Her forehead wrinkles as she thinks. "I remember... dancing? And everything was really colorful..." She trails off, then her eyes snap to yours. "Did we take too much? Is that why I feel like death warmed over?"

"Yeah," you sigh, because there's no point sugar-coating it. "V wasn't exactly careful with the dosage. You were pretty far gone when I found you."

"Oh, come on," Yun waves her hand like she's brushing away your concern. "It's V. You know how he is—just wants everyone to have a good time."

You stare at her, because what the actual fuck.

Like yeah, everyone needs to blow off steam sometimes when you live in a world where death is basically an occupational hazard.

But there's a difference between having fun and whatever the hell last night was.

"Yeah, it's V," you echo, trying to make her understand. "The same V who kills people for breakfast? The Chief of Stealth who treats murder like it's an art form? That V?"

"Isn't that what makes him interesting though?" Yun counters, and jesus—when did your wavelengths get so out of sync? "He's like, the only one who doesn't get hung up on all the rules and politics."

You push to your feet, running a hand through your hair in frustration. "Yun, fucking him is one thing—I'm not judging that. But letting him drug you into next week? That's a whole other level of stupid."

"God, you're being dramatic." She rolls her eyes so hard it looks painful. "I'm not getting carried away. You worry too much. Besides, what's the big deal? The no-attachments rule is about dating, not friendship. Look at us. Or J-Hope and AD. V and I can totally be friends."

You study her face, trying to figure out when she got so... naive?

Because yeah, technically she's right.

RM's whole 'no attachments' thing is specifically about romance. The gang basically runs on friendship and loyalty—you need that trust between members or everything falls apart. Friend drama usually sorts itself out, but romantic fallout? That shit can tear organizations apart.

But there's friends, and then there's friends.

And V? V's the kind of friend who'll push you off a cliff just to see if you bounce.

Something in you snaps. "You could have died, Yun."

"But I didn't," she fires back, voice sharp. "So can you quit the lecture?"

"He's fucking dangerous!" The words burst out before you can stop them. "The man's got the moral compass of a broken GPS. Either he doesn't care how his shit affects people, or he's too fucked in the head to notice. Either way, you shouldn't—"

"That's rich," she scoffs, turning away. "Coming from you."

You blink. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe take your own advice?" Her laugh is bitter, empty. "About not mingling with dangerous people?"

"What are you—"

"You and Jeon." She whips around to face you, eyes blazing. "He's a fucking traitor, Y/N. People talk, you know."

The accusation hits you like a bucket of ice water.

Jeon? A traitor?

That's... that's fucking impossible. He'd be dead if that were true. The gang doesn't exactly do second chances when it comes to loyalty.

"That's bullshit," you say, arms crossing over your chest. "Let me guess—V told you that? The same V who'd rather eat glass than say anything nice about Jeon? That V?"

"Or maybe he's right and you just don't want to hear it." Her voice drips with accusation. "How's that for hypocrisy?"

Your mouth falls open, because what the actual fuck.

"Are you seriously comparing Jeon's supposed 'betrayal'—which, by the way, is complete horseshit—to V being an actual fucking psychopath?"

"Maybe what's horseshit is you acting all high and mighty!" Her voice rises with each word. "Everyone here's got their demons, Y/N. You don't get to pick which ones are acceptable!"

"Yeah, let's talk about that when you're fucking dead!"

"I'm a grown-ass woman!" She's full-on screaming now, face flushed with anger. "I can make my own choices! If you don't like them, that's your fucking problem!"

"Fine!" You throw your hands up, fury burning in your chest. "Go be besties with the resident sociopath! See if I care!"

You're moving before you finish speaking, storming toward the door like it personally offended you. Your hand's on the handle when her voice cuts through the air behind you:

"Maybe I fucking will!"

The door slams behind you with a satisfying bang, but it doesn't drown out the storm of thoughts in your head.

Because what the fuck just happened? When did your best friend turn into someone who'd defend V's bullshit? When did she start believing rumors about Jeon?

And why does that particular accusation make your stomach twist like this?

The air in the training room has that heavy, suffocating quality to it, like the tension from your earlier argument with Yun somehow followed you here and decided to camp out in your chest.

You lean against the cool wall, arms folded, trying to will the frustration out of your body. But it's not working.

Every time her words replay in your head—"I'm a grown-ass woman, Y/N!"—you feel your teeth clench all over again.

Across the room, Yun's laughter echoes, bright and carefree like nothing ever happened. She's chatting with Sakura, eyes sparkling like she wasn't just screaming at you an hour ago.

It makes the knot in your chest tighten, even though you try your best to ignore it.

You're halfway to convincing yourself that you don't care when the doors sweep open, and V strides in like he owns the training room.

Which for today's exercise, he does.

He's dressed in all black, his high-tech assassin gear hugging him like a second skin, and his demeanor practically screams 'look at me.'

It works.

Your jaw tightens as his eyes scan the room, sharp and calculating. When his gaze lands on you, his lips curl into the kind of smirk you want to slap off his face.

One eyebrow quirks, daring you to rise to whatever challenge he's silently throwing your way.

You don't bite. Not visibly, at least.

But your narrowed eyes and the subtle flex of your jaw probably say more than you'd like.

V's smirk deepens, but he doesn't stop to engage.

He saunters to the center of the room like he's stepping onto a stage, the weight of his presence drawing everyone's eyes.

Even Yun and Sakura stop talking, their heads turning toward him.

"Alright, my devious darlings," he announces, voice light and playful but tinged with just enough darkness to keep everyone on edge. "Today's exercise is all about trust. And precision. But mostly trust."

A knife appears in his hand like magic, the blade gleaming dangerously. He flips it lazily in his palm, catching it with an ease that makes your stomach churn.

"You're going to throw these lovely little things," he continues, spinning the knife again, "at your partner. Well, if we get specific, at the bullseye directly behind your partner." He makes a point to let the room simmer in silence for a beat before adding, "Hit the mark. Spare the life. Should be easy, right?"

The unease in the room is shared. People shift on their feet, exchanging glances that range from skeptical to mildly horrified.

Then Chaewon steps forward.

Her arms are crossed, her expression firm in a way you've only ever seen when she's about to throw an iron-fisted 'no.'

"I'm not putting my people in harm's way for one of your twisted little games, V."

Everyone turns to look at her.

The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.

V's still smiling, but it's different now—less playful, edge sharpening it. His whole attitude shifts from 'chaotic theater kid' to 'serial killer who thinks murder is performance art.'

"My realm, my rules, sweetheart," he says, voice light but loaded with enough venom to kill a horse.

V scans the room like he's picking out his next meal, hazel eyes glinting.

The cinnamon scent that always follows him around feels too sweet, like poison wrapped in candy—the kind of smell that warns about monsters, not delicacies.

"But what if—" Eunchae latches onto Kazuha like a very dramatic koala, voice wobbling. "What if someone slips?"

What if is right. In your line of work, what if is usually followed by and then they died. Throwing knives at each other sounds exactly like the kind of shit that ends with someone in J-Hope's infirmary—or worse, in a body bag.

V's laugh cuts through the tension like one of his beloved knives. "We're not running a fucking bakery here, princess. Risk is literally in the job description."

His presence eats up all the oxygen in the room.

You catch a glimpse of that tattoo behind his ear—the one that peeks out when he moves just right. It's weirdly fitting, that hidden mark. Like everything else about V, it's both an art piece and a warning sign.

His eyes find yours again, that infuriating smirk back in full force. "Unless some of you are too chicken?" He tilts his head, all false concern. "It's okay to admit you're scared."

The taunt hits exactly where he meant it to.

Before you can stop yourself, you're pushing off the wall, squaring up.

"Scared?" You load the word with as much contempt as possible. "Of what? A man treating his knives as personal fidget toys?"

A ripple of laughter moves through the room, and something flickers in V's eyes—might be respect, might be murder, honestly hard to tell with him.

Either way, he's already moving, tossing a knife your way without warning.

You snatch it out of the air before your brain catches up with your hand.

The handle feels dangerous.

"Then show me," V practically purrs, carrying to every corner of the room.

You think now would be the perfect opportunity to flip him off.

But also, you're not stupid. And you can't really back down when poking fun at a Chief—and when said Chief is looking at you like that, like you don't have a choice.

"Okay." You match his smirk with one of your own, all teeth and false confidence.

Because fuck him and his mind games and his stupid dramatic ass.

If he wants to dance, you're going to fucking dance.

V's smirk stretches wider, and your stomach drops before he even opens his mouth.

You know that look. That's his I'm-about-to-have-so-much-fun look.

"Oh no, sweetie," he chuckles. "Not me."

His arm sweeps out in this dramatic fucking arc—because god forbid V do anything without making it a whole production—and your eyes follow it against your will.

His finger lands on its target with full-on theatricality.

"Her."

Your blood goes cold when you see where he's pointing.

Yunjin.

"Absolutely fucking not."

Because this? This is exactly the kind of manipulative bullshit V lives for.

Taking your fight from this morning, the tension still crackling between you and Yun, and turning it into his own personal entertainment.

Using it to make you both dance like puppets on his strings.

But then Yun steps forward, and something in your chest twists. She looks... calm. Way too calm for someone who's volunteering to let knives get thrown at her.

Her eyes meet yours, steady and sure.

"It's okay," she says, soft but certain. "I trust you, Y/N."

You swallow thickly, staring at her.

Is this about V? Is she trying to prove something? Or does she actually mean it?

But looking at her face—at the open, honest way she's watching you—you know.

She means it.

After everything that happened this morning, after all the shit you said to each other, she still trusts you with her life.

Something warm blooms in your chest, right next to where the anger was sitting.

Because this? This isn't the kind of trust you throw around in Kkangpae. This is the real deal. The kind that gets you killed if you're wrong about it.

A laugh bubbles up your throat, not quite humor but not quite hysteria either.

Because of course. Of fucking course this is how your morning's going. Fighting with your best friend, then having to prove you won't accidentally murder her in front of an audience.

But when you meet her eyes again, you know you're going to do it.

Not because V wants you to, not because you have something to prove, but because Yun believes in you.

Even when you're being an ass, even when you're fighting, she still thinks you've got her back.

"Alright," you say, quiet enough that maybe only she can hear it. "I've got you."

And you do. You really fucking do.

V can take his mind games and shove them up his ass.

The room goes dead quiet as Yun walks to the bullseye, her steps echoing like gunshots in the silence.

You can practically taste the tension—everyone holding their breath, waiting to see if this is going to end in triumph or tragedy.

"Better tie up that hair, sweetheart," V drawls, because apparently he physically can't shut up for more than thirty seconds. "Wouldn't want any accidents—though my aim is never that sloppy."

You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper.

The way he's looking at Yun makes your skin crawl—like she's just another toy for him to play with.

She pulls her hair back into a low ponytail, and something in your chest tightens at how young she looks suddenly.

Your turn now. The cross marked on the floor might as well be a fucking execution spot for how heavy it feels when you step onto it. V hands you three knives, and they're cold in your palm, like little strips of winter.

Everyone's eyes are on you now, the weight of their stares making your shoulders itch.

The first throw is supposed to go past Yun's right hand. Easy enough in theory—you've done this a thousand times in practice.

But this is Yun. This is your best friend, standing there trusting you not to accidentally maim her.

You take a breath. Let it out slow.

The room goes so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat, loud as war drums in your ears. When you release, the blade makes this soft whisper as it cuts through air.

Thud.

Perfect placement, inches from Yun's hand. The collective exhale from the room almost makes you smile. Almost.

Second target: left cheek. This one's trickier—one wrong move and you'll be explaining to J-Hope why your roommate needs facial reconstruction. Your arm's starting to shake from the tension, but you can't afford to rush this.

The knife flies true, embedding itself an inch from Yun's face. She doesn't even flinch.

Last one. Above her head. The final knife feels more dangerous somehow, like it knows what's at stake.

"A calm, collected mind can mean the difference between life and death."

You inhale deep, exhale slowly.

For once, you're grateful for Jeon's cryptic assassin wisdom.

When you release, it's like time slows down—the blade spinning through air in a perfect line until—

Thunk.

Dead center above her head.

The room explodes into noise—cheers and whistles and probably a few sighs of relief.

Yun steps away from the wall unscathed, looking like she just got off a roller coaster—terrified but exhilarated.

You're still rooted to your spot, hands tingling from adrenaline, when V turns to you with that insufferable grin of his.

The knife embedded is still vibrating slightly, a physical reminder of how close that could have gone wrong.

All you want to do is punch that smug look off his face.

But you didn't miss. Not even close.

And that? That feels better than any violence could.

"Well, well!" V claps. "The power of friendship truly is wonderful."

You're about two seconds away from testing how well V can dodge a punch when Yun appears beside you. Her fingers slip between yours, squeezing gently, and just like that, the urge to commit violence drops from an eleven to maybe a seven.

When you look at her, her eyes are soft but complicated. There's guilt there, maybe, or something close to it. Like she's finally seeing the mess she's caught between—you and V, loyalty and whatever the fuck he offers her.

Her hand tightens on yours, a silent 'I'm sorry' or maybe just 'I get it.'

You squeeze back, because what else can you do? She's still your best friend, even when she's making choices that make you want to scream.

The moment breaks when V starts calling out partners for the next round.

Because of course this isn't over. Of fucking course.

"Y/N with Dongho!"

Your jaw clenches so hard your teeth creak. Because V's second-in-command? That's just perfect. That's just exactly what you needed today.

Dongho approaches like the world's grumpiest person—all coiled muscle and barely contained violence. He's built like someone ordered a tank and got a person instead, with a face that looks like it's never met a smile it liked. His eyes, when they settle on you, hold all the warmth of a shark's.

"Let's get this over with," he growls, voice like gravel in a blender.

You meet his glare head-on, because fuck all of V's team and their intimidation tactics. "Ready when you are, sunbeam."

His lip curls at your tone, which is exactly what you were going for.

He stalks over to the throwing line like an offended cat, snatching knives from V's outstretched hand.

You plant your feet at the target, shoulders squared.

"Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Control your body, control your mind."

The room fades away until it's just you and Dongho and the glint of steel in his hands. You can practically feel V watching, waiting for someone to flinch or fuck up or bleed.

Well. He's going to be waiting a while. Because you might be scared (you're not an idiot), but you'll die before you let either of them see it.

The first blade comes at you like a silver streak, close enough that you feel it disturb the air by your cheek. Your heart tries to jump out of your chest, but you lock your muscles down.

Stay still. Stay fucking still.

You don't even have time to process before the second knife is flying, whistling past your right arm. The thunk as it hits the wall behind you seems louder than a gunshot. Your fingers twitch but you force them still.

Dongho's face twists when you don't react—like your composure is personally offending him. The third throw has more force behind it, the blade embedding itself inches from your throat. You can practically feel the metal singing through the air, but you don't move. Can't move.

Four comes in hot, slamming into the wall beside your head hard enough to make your skull vibrate. Sweat trickles down your spine but you might as well be carved from stone. Your heart's doing the cha-cha in your chest but externally? Nothing.

The last knife comes slicing through like death with better aim. You track it almost in slow motion, watching it pass so close to your thigh that—

Fuck.

Fire blooms across your leg as the blade clatters to the floor. Blood trickles warm down your skin where metal kissed flesh, leaving a thin line of red in its wake.

But you don't move. Don't even look down.

The room goes dead silent. Everyone's staring at you, at the knife on the floor, at the red slowly spreading across your leg. The cut burns like a motherfucker but you keep your stance, your eyes finding Dongho's.

"Enough."

Chaewon steps between you, all five feet nothing of pure fury.

"She's proven herself," she says, voice colder than arctic ice. "Try that shit again and the next knife goes through your fucking skull."

Dongho grunts—actually grunts, like some cave-dwelling neanderthal—before stalking off. V lets out this dramatic sigh, like we're all ruining his fun, but he doesn't push it.

The room collectively remembers how to breathe.

Your leg throbs in time with your heartbeat as you turn to face V. His eyebrows shoot up before his mouth curves into that infuriating grin—like you've just done exactly what he wanted.

Like this was all part of his plan.

He tips his head at you, a gesture that might be respect if it came from literally anyone else, before sweeping out of the room like the dramatic bitch he is.

You don't move until he's gone. Can't give him the satisfaction of seeing you wobble.

Even if your leg feels like it's on fire and your muscles are screaming from being locked so long.

You stare at your phone screen like it might bite you, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

Jeon's messages from last night are still there, making your stomach do weird flips every time you look at them.

You should text him. Probably.

Maybe.

You start typing, then immediately hate everything about it:

"𝙷𝚎𝚢, 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎."

Delete. Why are you apologizing? You're not dating. This isn't a relationship. He's your... boss? Chief? Well, not yours directly, but technically, he's above you.

I̶n̶ ̶m̶o̶r̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶y̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶n̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶

You try again:

"𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝."

Delete. Jesus, clingy much?

"𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎."

Delete delete delete. Why is this so fucking hard? It's not rocket science. You're just offering to help him sleep. That's it. That's all.

Keep it simple, stupid.

"𝚕𝚖𝚔 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝"

You hit send before you can overthink it more, flopping back on your bed with a groan.

Why does everything with Jeon feel like defusing a bomb while blindfolded?

Your phone pings almost immediately.

"𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕?''

You can practically see his eyebrow going up. Asshole probably thinks he's being smooth.

"𝚢𝚎𝚊, 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕. 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜."

His reply is instant:

"𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜, 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚜. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗?"

"𝚍𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘, 𝙽𝚎𝚝𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚡?"

The pause before his next message feels loaded.

"𝚂𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝙽𝚎𝚝𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚡 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕?"

Heat floods your face even as you fight back a smile. You didn't even mean it like that, but trust Jeon to take the most direct route through any conversation.

Subtle as a brick through a window, that one.

But that's kind of his whole thing, isn't it? Direct, confident, just cocky enough to be annoying but not enough to make you want to punch him. Usually.

"𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎. 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛?''

"𝚆𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐.''

"𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚎''

You toss your phone aside and flop back onto your pillows, trying to ignore the way your heart's doing its best impression of a drum solo. Your stomach feels like it's hosting its own private butterfly collection, and you're not sure if it's anticipation or anxiety or some weird combo of both.

A night with Jeon usually goes one of two ways: either you end up thoroughly fucked or thoroughly frustrated. Given how cocky he's being over text, you're betting on option one.

Not that you're complaining—the tension between you has been building since that thing in the hallway, and you could use the release.

Your mind helpfully supplies images from last time—his hands everywhere at once, mouth hot against your skin, the way he'd—

Nope. Not going there. Not yet anyway.

But god, there's just something about him that pulls you in like a black hole. It's probably stupid, definitely dangerous, absolutely going to end badly—but you can't seem to stop yourself from falling into his orbit again and again.

So yeah, you'd bet good money the TV's not even going to get turned on.

Not that you mind. A night tangled in Jeon's sheets sounds exactly like what you need right now.

Your eyes drift to your closet, then catch on the black zip-up hoodie thrown across Yun's bed. It's the one you've stolen approximately eight million times, soft from wear and perfect for going to the cafeteria to grab a bite.

Your hand reaches for it automatically before freezing mid-air.

Shit.

After this morning's fight, borrowing her clothes feels... wrong somehow. Like crossing a line that wasn't there before. You've never had to think twice about it—that's just how your friendship works. What's yours is hers, what's hers is yours.

But now? Now everything feels complicated. Messy. Like even touching her stuff is some kind of betrayal.

Sure, you'll patch things up with Yun eventually—this fight was stupid, born more from worry than actual anger. The kind of argument that happens when you care too much and show it all wrong.

But it's still your first real fight since joining Kkangpae. Your first crack in the foundation of what's probably your closest friendship in this whole fucked-up world.

Your hand hovers in the air like you're playing the world's most indecisive game of chicken.

It's just a hoodie, right? Yun's never cared before. You've basically had joint custody of half her wardrobe since day one.

But taking her stuff now, before you've cleared the air? Feels wrong. Like adding insult to injury.

"Fuck," you mutter, dropping your hand.

You're definitely overthinking this.

But the doubt's already there, whispering that maybe some conversations need to happen first.

Your eyes catch on something else—the grey hoodie, still folded neat in its plastic bag from that night.

RM's celebration, that stupid dare to swap clothes.

Jeon in your oversized hoodie, looking somehow softer despite still being built like a brick wall.

You in his jacket, swimming in leather that smelled like pine and wood and him.

That was the first time you felt it—this thing between you. This gravity that keeps pulling you into him no matter how hard you try to maintain distance.

You still don't understand it, if you're being honest. Still can't put a name to whatever the fuck this is.

It's not love.

You know love—the butterflies, the stupid grins, the way everything looks better through rose-tinted glasses.

This isn't that.

It's a contradiction wrapped in a riddle wearing a leather jacket.

He's someone who makes your blood sing even while your instincts scream danger. Someone who can take you apart with his hands but won't let you see behind his walls.

You don't have words for it. All you know is that when you're with him, everything else just... fades away.

You shake your head, trying to derail that particular train of thought before it goes somewhere you're not ready for.

The grey hoodie's still sitting there in its plastic bag.

Fuck it.

You grab the bag and dump it out, watching the hoodie fall onto your bed in a soft grey heap.

Without thinking, you bring it to your face and—oh.

It still smells like him. Faint now, after all these weeks, but unmistakable. Pine and wood, definitely tinged with the smoke of the cigarettes he always smokes.

Because seriously, who gave him the right to smell this good? It should be illegal.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you pull the hoodie on. The fabric settles around you like a memory, soft and oversized and carrying ghosts of that night in every fiber.

You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into it for just a moment.

So much has changed since then. You and Jeon have become... Better? Worse? You're not sure there's a word for what's shifted between you.

But this—this feels the same. Constant. Real.

The mirror catches your eye when you look up. It looks... right somehow. Like you've been missing this piece of yourself without realizing it. Or maybe it's not yourself you've been missing, but a piece of him.

Because that's the thing about Jeon—he's good at making you forget shit.

He's an asshole most of the time, sure, but he's a fun asshole. The kind that makes your days better even while he's driving you crazy.

And okay, yeah, the sex is pretty fucking fantastic too.

There's nothing wrong with being drawn to someone like that, right? It's natural. Like gravity or magnetism or whatever scientific bullshit explains why you keep ending up in his bed.

Maybe... maybe that's what Yun feels with V. Maybe you've been too quick to judge.

She is an adult—not your kid sister or your responsibility. She gets to make her own choices, even if those choices make you want to tear your hair out.

Maybe she'll regret it, maybe she won't. That's her call to make.

And hell, maybe there's more to V than the psychotic theatre kid routine. Maybe—

You stop that thought dead in its tracks because nope. Not going there. One emotional crisis at a time, thanks.

After the brief contemplation, you grab your digital card and head for the door, stomach rumbling already.

The walk to the cafeteria feels weird without Yun's constant chatter beside you.

Your lonely footsteps make the silence feel even bigger.

No squealing laughter, no dramatic retellings of her day, no elbows bumping as she gestures wildly about whatever gossip she's collected—just you and the hollow sound of your own steps.

When you get there, the cafeteria smells amazing. The familiar mix of spices and steam hits you as soon as you push through the doors, and your stomach reminds you that emotional turmoil is no excuse for skipping meals.

You scan the crowd automatically, looking for a friendly face to fill the Yun-shaped void at your side.

The food line's loaded today—bulgogi that makes your mouth water just looking at it, japchae noodles glistening with sesame oil, kimchi fried rice steaming in its metal tray. You pile it all on, adding some spicy braised potatoes for good measure.

"Careful with those spuds," a voice says behind you as you reach for chopsticks. "They're nuclear today."

You turn to find J-Hope grinning at you, though the smile doesn't quite hide how tired he looks. The gang's Chief Medical Officer looks like he hasn't slept in about three days, eye bags under his eyelids.

But his eyes still have that warmth to them, that gentle spark that makes him so good at his job.

"What's wrong, doc?" You can't help teasing—he looks like he could use it. "Can't handle a little heat?"

His laugh brings out warmth within your chest. "Please. I eat ghost peppers for breakfast."

He starts loading his own tray, chattering about some new medical technique he's studying and how the training regimens need updating.

It's... nice. Normal. Like maybe today isn't completely fucked after all.

"Mind if I join you?" he asks as you both turn to face the sea of tables. "Food's always better with company."

You hesitate for a split second, the empty space beside you feeling heavier suddenly.

But eating alone sounds about as appealing as another round with Dongho's knives.

"Yeah," you say, managing a real smile. "I'd like that."

The way his face lights up makes you think maybe he needed the company just as much as you did.

You're following J-Hope through the cafeteria when he suddenly stops, his face lighting up like he's just had the best (or worst) idea ever.

"Change of plans," he says, and something in his tone makes your stomach drop. "Think I found someone else who needs company."

You follow his gaze and—fuck. Of course. Because your day wasn't complicated enough already.

Jeon's at his usual corner table, alone and methodically destroying his food like it personally offended him.

Before you can come up with an excuse (any excuse), J-Hope's already heading over there like a very determined doctor.

You trail after him because what choice do you have?

Jeon looks up when J-Hope drops his tray, his scowl deepening to new and impressive depths.

"This seat taken?" J-Hope asks with the cheerful confidence of someone who regularly deals with people trying to murder him. When Jeon just grunts—which could mean anything from "fuck off" to "whatever"—J-Hope takes it as an invitation and sits.

You hover awkwardly, trying to decide if eating alone is actually that bad, when J-Hope pats the seat next to him.

"Come on," he grins. "I promise he doesn't bite."

('Yes he does', your brain helpfully supplies, followed by some very unhelpful memories.)

With a mental sigh, you slide onto the bench across from Jeon. His eyes meet yours for a split second before dropping back to his food, but that's enough to make your pulse skip. You focus very intently on your own plate, pretending the air between you isn't thick enough to cut.

J-Hope, bless his oblivious heart, fills the silence with endless chatter about hospital protocols and training schedules. You and Jeon contribute the occasional "mm-hmm" or nod, letting him carry the conversation.

And then—oh.

Something nudges your foot under the table.

Your brain loops on itself when you realize it's Jeon, who's apparently abandoned his bunny slippers for the express purpose of torturing you.

The contact sends electricity up your leg even through his sock, and you absolutely refuse to look at him.

The worst part? Jeon's just sitting there eating his food like nothing's happening, the picture of innocence. But every time his eyes catch yours through those stupidly long lashes, they're dark with promises.

You shift in your seat, trying to ease the ache that's been steadily building thanks to the absolute menace sitting across from you.

Jeon notices, of course he does, because what doesn't he notice?

The barely-there smirk tugging at his lips is proof enough that he's clocked every single tell on your face. Bastard.

Determined not to give him an ounce of satisfaction, you turn your attention to J-Hope, who's still talking animatedly about... something. Medical procedures? Suturing techniques? Honestly, you have no idea because Jeon's foot is still dragging along your ankle, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

Your breath catches, heat licking along your skin, and you swear under your breath. Damn him. Damn his stupid foot, his stupid smirk, the stupid way your body reacts to him even when you're telling it to calm the fuck down.

With a scowl sharp enough to cut, you shove his foot away under the table. Hard. It's a clear fuck off, but Jeon being Jeon? He doesn't miss a single beat.

Instead of backing off, he doubles down, sliding higher to tease along your calf.

He's not just ignoring the message—he's sending one of his own. Loud and clear.

You bite the inside of your cheek, scrunching your napkin into a ball in your lap like it's his stupid cocky head.

Meanwhile, Jeon just keeps eating like nothing's happening, throwing in the occasional comment to J-Hope as if his foot isn't actively driving you mad.

Fucker.

Fucker. Fucker. Fucker.

Your grip tightens on the napkin, and you seriously consider throwing it at his face. He's infuriating—too handsome for his own good and way too aware of how much he gets under your skin.

The heat pooling low in your belly spreads as his foot inches higher, brushing the back of your knee.

That's it. Enough.

You set your jaw and lash out with your sneaker, catching him square in the shin. The solid thud is immensely satisfying, followed by his grunt of pain as he jerks back.

"Something wrong?" J-Hope pauses mid-sentence, looking between the two of you with confusion.

"Fine," Jeon bites out, voice flat but eyes burning into yours like molten steel. "Just a leg cramp."

You raise an eyebrow, lips twitching in triumph. Let him stew on that. But the look he shoots you isn't annoyance—it's a fucking threat.

So great. You've just started a war.

You grab your water and take a long swig, willing your pulse to stop doing its best impression of a jackhammer.

But Jeon? Oh no, he's not done. Not even close.

Under the guise of stretching—because of course he needs to stretch in the middle of dinner, the absolute dick—his foot finds yours again. This time there's nothing teasing about it. His touch is firm, almost possessive as he drags up your calf. Your thighs clench reflexively as he strokes higher, and higher, and—

Fuck this.

You are so done with his games. If he wants to play footsies in the middle of the cafeteria? Fine. Let's see how he likes it when the tables turn.

Decision made, you kick off your sneaker under the table.

Jeon's still talking to J-Hope, all casual nonchalance like he isn't currently trying to feel you up with his foot. He even takes a deliberate sip of water, eyes never leaving J-Hope as his tongue darts out to catch a stray droplet on his pierced lip.

The action's innocent enough, but you know better. It's for you. All of it—the tongue, the piercing, the way his throat works as he swallows.

Too bad for him, you've got other plans.

You don't hesitate. The ball of your foot finds his crotch through his sweatpants, pressing firmly.

The reaction is instant—Jeon inhales sharply, eyes going wide as saucers as his gaze snaps to you. He chokes on his water, completely blindsided by your sudden boldness.

You arch an eyebrow in a silent 'fuck you' as you start massaging him through the fabric.

Holy shit, you can actually feel him getting harder under your touch, his cock throbbing against your foot like it has a mind of its own.

His hand shoots under the table faster than you can blink, fingers wrapping around your ankle in a grip that's just shy of painful.

Jeon's jaw ticks, a muscle jumping as he clenches his teeth—face slightly flushed, eyes dark with what you bet is a mix of arousal and anger.

He's pissed, 100%.

And you can't lie, you're a bit turned on by the heady rush of power that comes from getting Jeon in this state in public.

Revenge, as it turns out, feels pretty fucking fantastic.

Especially when it comes to Jeon.

You meet Jeon's gaze across the table, refusing to back down even as his eyes promise evisceration (or maybe just really rough sex), and you can literally feel how the air becomes more dense between your gazes.

This is definitely crossing several lines, but the recklessness of it all just makes everything feel more intense.

You move your foot slightly again, grinding the ball of your foot against his cock. In response, his fingers dig into your ankle hard enough to leave marks.

His nostrils flare, thighs tensing under the table, and fuck—watching him try to keep his composure while you tease him in the cafeteria is doing things to your brain.

He looks absolutely livid now, which serves him right.

Clearly, he wasn't expecting you to go straight for his dick when he was just playing footsie with your legs.

But what did he think would happen? He was being a tease, and now he's learning exactly what happens when you push back.

Maybe next time he'll think twice before starting shit he can't finish.

You're so caught up in your little power play that J-Hope's voice hits you like a bucket of ice water:

"Are you two okay? You're looking kind of... worked up."

You freeze, foot still pressed against Jeon's very obvious erection.

For one wild, hysterical moment, you consider just telling J-Hope everything. 'Oh, nothing much doc, just giving Jeon a footjob under the table because he decided to be a dick.'

The look on both their faces would almost be worth the fallout.

But no. As tempting as it is to watch Jeon spontaneously combust from embarrassment, this is between you and him.

With exaggerated casualness, you withdraw your foot and slip it back into your sneaker.

"Yeah, just... hot in here," you manage, aiming for nonchalant and probably missing by a mile.

Jeon clears his throat, and his voice comes out rougher than usual.

"Spicy food," he says, giving you a look that suggests retribution. "Always gets me worked up."

J-Hope glances between you and Jeon slowly. "So..." He draws the word out carefully. "You two are playing husband and wife for this mission?"

You tense automatically, catching Jeon's eye across the table.

Right. The fucking mission. You almost had forgotten.

"And you're supposed to be..." J-Hope waves his hand vaguely, "...convincing?"

"What, we don't look madly in love?" The sarcasm drips from your voice like honey-covered poison. "I'm hurt."

"You look like you're plotting each other's murders," J-Hope says bluntly. "Which, you know, might be a problem when you're supposed to be newlyweds."

Jeon makes this noise in his throat—something between a scoff and a growl. "We can handle it."

But the way he rolls his eyes suggests he'd rather handle a live grenade.

You resist the urge to kick him again. Barely.

"What my beloved husband means," you say, sugar-sweet and razor-sharp, "is that we're both very good at pretending we don't want to strangle each other."

"Anything for the family, honey." The endearment sounds like a threat in his mouth.

"Right..." J-Hope's eyes bounce between you like he's watching a bomb about to go off. "Maybe work on... not looking like you're mentally calculating how to dispose of each other's bodies?"

"We'll manage." Your smile feels brittle enough to crack your face.

"It's not our first fucking rodeo," Jeon snaps, voice rough with lingering tension that has nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with what just happened under the table.

J-Hope's shoulders hunch slightly as the air between you and Jeon practically crackles with... something. Anger? Sexual tension? Murder vibes?

Probably all three.

"You know what?" He grabs his tray, already backing away. "I just remembered I have... things. Medical things. Very urgent." He gives you both a look that's half concern, half 'what the actual fuck.' "You two clearly need to... sort some stuff out."

The look he gives you both is equal parts concerned and amused before he turns tail like he's expecting crossfire.

You're left alone with Jeon, the silence between you thick enough to choke on.

It’s like the fucking air around you is swirling in and seizing up your lungs, digging his anger right into your bone marrow.

Like a hurricane gaining strength. 

His eyes are drilling holes into yours, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping under his skin. The scowl etched into his features would probably send rookies running, but you're way past being intimidated by his murder face.

You meet his glare head-on, lips pressed into a thin line.

"I'm leaving," you both spit out simultaneously.

"Fuck this," you mutter, snatching up your tray.

You make a break for the drop-off window, but Jeon's right on your heels because of course he is. His stupidly large frame crowds up against your back as you reach the window first, effectively boxing you in.

He nudges your hip impatiently, nearly making you dump your leftovers all over the floor. Without thinking, you drive your elbow back into his ribs, satisfied when he lets out a grunt that's half pain, half surprise.

When you spin around, his face is thunderous. The look in his eyes is pure heat—whether it's rage or lust or some unholy combination of both, you're not sure. He looks like he's seriously debating whether to throw you against the wall or throw you out a window.

(Knowing Jeon? Probably both. In that order.)

You effectively dispose of your leftovers, then tilt your head slightly to hit him with your best 'try me, bitch' glare before shouldering past him, making sure to put some extra force into it.

Your sneakers echo off the floor as you storm towards the elevators, punctuated by the heavy thud of his footsteps right behind you.

You slam the elevator button harder than strictly necessary, running through every creative insult you can think of.

Asshole. Dick. Bastard. Insufferable prick. Walking hard-on with anger issues.

He gets under your skin like nobody else—and the worst part is, he knows it. Uses it.

Your breath comes quick and shallow, skin still buzzing everywhere he touched you. Anger and arousal war inside your brain, making you feel like a nerve exposed, crackling with energy that needs somewhere to go before you explode.

You stride in the elevator as soon as it arrives, Jeon following so close you can feel the heat rolling off him. The doors slide shut with a quiet hiss, trapping you both in this metal box.

You keep your eyes locked straight ahead, refusing to look at him even though you can feel his gaze on you. It burns across your skin, hungry and heated, making your pulse jump under your skin.

God, you want to grab him. Want to shove him against the wall or maybe down to his knees. Want to do something to break this awful tension that's making it hard to breathe.

But you stay perfectly still, hands clenched at your sides, heart trying to punch its way out of your chest.

Jeon reaches past you—close enough that you catch a whiff of pine and wood that makes your mouth water—and hits the button for the 5th floor.

When you glance over, he's got one eyebrow raised in challenge, like he's daring you to object.

You press your lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Instead, you lean back against the elevator wall, arms crossed over your chest like some kind of shield. Jeon mirrors you on the opposite side, stretching his neck in this slow, deliberate way that makes the muscles in his throat shift and flex.

Fuck.

Why does everything he does have to look like porn? It's just neck-stretching for christ's sake, it shouldn't be hot.

You tear your eyes away, but not before he catches you looking—you can feel the weight of his stare for a split second before you focus very intently on watching the floor numbers tick up.

The elevator doors slide open and Jeon's out like a shot, not even bothering to look back. You hover in the doorway, warring with yourself.

On one hand, he's being an absolute dick. On the other... you did kind of stand him up last night, even if it wasn't on purpose. And you were the one who texted first today.

Plus, he needs sleep. That was the whole point tonight, wasn't it?

Before it devolved into footsie and sexual tension and murder eyes over dinner.

Fuck it.

You step out into the hallway—your pride's already taken enough hits today, what's one more?

You trail behind him, keeping a few steps' distance like there's some invisible barrier between you. The hallway feels longer than usual, or maybe that's just the weight of everything unsaid.

When he reaches his door, Jeon glances back over his shoulder. Your steps falter as your eyes meet, and—motherfucker—there it is. That tiny smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, gone so fast you might have imagined it.

But you didn't imagine it, because that's just so Jeon.

He knows exactly what he's doing. Knows you can't stay away, knows you're drawn to him like gravity no matter how much he pisses you off. And he's enjoying it, the absolute dick, watching you follow him to his room like you're on some invisible leash.

You want to kick him. Want to sink your teeth into that plush lower lip until his smug little smirk disappears. Want to show him what you think of his insufferable smug attitude.

Instead, you watch the muscles in his back flex as he unlocks his door, betraying tension that his casual demeanor tries to hide.

He steps inside without looking back again, but you know he's waiting. Expecting you to follow.

Well. You're already here. Might as well see this through.