Chapter Text
The room was dim—lit only by the flickering orange glow of a cigarette tip and the neon buzz leaking through the stained-glass windows of the underground jazz club. In-ho sat at the far end of a private booth, tailored in sleek black, the lapel of his coat still dusted with rain. He didn’t bother shaking it off. He never did.
His clients arrived late, which didn’t surprise him. They were rich, overconfident, and believed that hiring the infamous Hwang In-ho meant they could take their sweet time.
A man in a pale grey suit finally slid into the seat across from him, followed by a woman with sharp red nails and a sharper smile. She set a thin folder on the table and gave In-ho a once-over, like she was trying to decide if the rumors matched the man.
“I thought you’d be older,” she said, tilting her head.
“I thought you’d be smarter,” he replied flatly, taking the folder and flipping it open.
Inside were glossy photographs. The target was laughing in most of them—careless, dazzling. He was all cheekbones and limbs, draped in designer silks and surrounded by flashing lights. But what caught In-ho’s attention wasn’t the beauty or the fame.
It was the eyes.
Soft, warm… and somehow guarded. Like he’d learned how to smile for cameras, not people.
“Seong Gi-hun,” the man said, sliding an envelope forward. “He’s becoming a problem. Knows things he shouldn’t. Getting too close to people he shouldn’t. You take him out quietly, and there’s a bonus if it looks like an accident.”
In-ho leaned back, letting the name roll around in his head like a bullet waiting in the chamber.
“You want me to kill Seong Gi-hun,” he repeated, closing the folder. “The Seong Gi-hun? Supermodel. Humanitarian. South Korea’s golden boy?”
The woman lit another cigarette, her lipstick staining the filter.
“Behind every golden boy is a secret he’s dying to keep,” she said, exhaling smoke through a smile. “We just can’t let him keep it.”
In-ho didn’t answer right away.
He just looked at the photo again—at the elegant neck, the careless pose, the quiet defiance in those brown eyes—and for the first time in a long time, he hesitated.
“Alright,” he murmured, tucking the folder into his coat. “But I pick the time and the place.”
The man and woman exchanged a glance, and then the envelope disappeared into In-ho’s inner pocket.
As they left, In-ho stayed seated, the picture of Seong Gi-hun still flashing behind his eyes like a camera shutter gone mad. He wasn’t sure why he said yes.
But something told him this kill was going to be different. Very different.
——
Downtown.
A few days later, In-ho sat in the back of a sleek black sedan, tinted windows up, engine humming low. He wasn’t driving—he never did when he was working. Instead, his attention was fixed through the high-powered lens of a camera balanced on his knee, trained on the pristine marble steps of an art museum downtown.
Gi-hun had just arrived.
Not alone, of course. Flanked by a pair of assistants and trailed by a security detail, the supermodel looked exactly like he did in the photographs—only worse.
Worse, because in real life, he was mesmerizing.
In-ho watched him laugh at something someone said, the kind of laugh that made people around him forget they were supposed to be working. His long coat fluttered around him like he’d walked off the cover of a magazine, and his dark hair, just slightly tousled, gave him the look of someone who woke up beautiful without trying.
He was effortless.
And he was completely unaware that he was being watched.
In-ho had been tailing him for days now. He knew Gi-hun’s schedule better than his own—morning shoots, afternoon press, late-night drives alone through the city like he was searching for something he never found. He was always surrounded, yet somehow always alone.
It made the job easy. It made it hard.
Click. The shutter caught another moment—Gi-hun squinting up into the sun, hand raised to his brow, lips parted slightly. Like he was posing even when he wasn’t.
In-ho narrowed his eyes. “Who are you, really?” he muttered.
Because something didn’t add up. This wasn’t just about silencing a celebrity with loose lips. Someone wanted Gi-hun dead, but they hadn’t told him why. That bothered him more than it should have.
The passenger door opened suddenly, and a man slid in next to him—Min-seok, his tech guy and closest thing to a friend in this life.
“Got something,” Min-seok said, handing him a phone with a paused video on the screen. “Gi-hun met with someone two nights ago. Unmarked location. No press, no security. We tracked the plates. Belongs to a former intelligence asset. Off-the-record type.”
In-ho didn’t look away from Gi-hun. “So he is involved in something.”
“Looks like it,” Min-seok said. Then, hesitating, “You’re not… getting soft, are you?”
“No,” In-ho said sharply. “I’m getting curious.”
Down below, Gi-hun turned his head—just for a second—and looked straight at the car. Right through the tint.
In-ho didn’t move. But something in his chest flickered.
Then Gi-hun smiled. Just faintly. Just enough to make it feel like he knew.
And then he was gone, ushered inside by his team.
In-ho lowered the camera slowly. Rain slid down the windshield in soft lines, streaking the world outside into a blur of headlights and designer umbrellas. In-ho sat still, parked across the street from the museum, eyes fixed where Gi-hun had disappeared minutes ago.
Min-seok sat beside him, typing something fast into his tablet, the soft click of keys filling the silence.
“What else is he doing?” In-ho asked suddenly, voice low.
Min-seok didn’t look up. “Gi-hun?”
“No, the President,” In-ho snapped, turning his head. “Of course Gi-hun. I want everything—off-book deals, private meetings, anything that doesn’t show up on his press schedule.”
Min-seok paused, letting the sarcasm roll off. “Alright, alright. I’ve been scraping some of his encrypted comms—barely touched by the usual surveillance teams. He’s smart. Uses temporary devices. Location hops every few days.”
In-ho’s jaw tensed. “And?”
“He’s been in contact with someone under the alias ‘Y.J.’ No photo, no metadata. Just encrypted messages and coordinates.”
In-ho leaned back into the seat, drumming his fingers on his thigh. “Could be a broker. Handler. Someone feeding him intel.”
Min-seok gave a small nod. “Or someone he’s protecting. Either way, the messages started about six months ago—same time his name started surfacing in low-tier chatter on the dark net.”
In-ho’s eyes narrowed. “Chatter about what?”
Min-seok exhaled. “About a list. Supposedly Gi-hun has access to names. Politicians. CEOs. Foreign investors. All dirty. People who’d kill to stay off that list.”
In-ho let that settle.
“So it’s blackmail.”
“Or leverage. Depends what he’s planning.”
A long silence stretched between them. The soft hum of the rain, the distant throb of bass from a club down the street. In-ho’s hand drifted to the inside of his coat, brushing the edge of the photo again.
“This job’s not clean,” he muttered. “Someone wants him gone fast. Not exposed. Not questioned.”
Min-seok nodded slowly. “Makes you wonder who’s really scared of him.”
In-ho’s jaw clenched.
“I want every message between him and ‘Y.J.’ decrypted. Every burner he’s touched.”
Min-seok opened his mouth like he might argue—but one look from In-ho shut it.
“Got it,” he said instead. “I’ll get you everything.”
In-ho turned back toward the museum. The flashes of cameras had stopped, and the night had gone still. If Gi-hun was playing a game behind the curtain, it was bigger than anyone knew. And In-ho was starting to think he’d just stepped right into the center of it.
In-ho sighed, leaning his head against the cool glass of the car window. The rain outside had slowed to a mist, blurring the city lights into pale streaks of white and red. The photo still burned in his coat pocket, but it was the eyes that lingered in his mind—calm, unreadable, like Gi-hun knew more than he let on.
Min-seok finally broke the silence.
“Why don’t you just go for the kill?” he asked, not accusatory—just curious. “Like how you always do. Clean, fast. No questions. Why all this extra info?”
In-ho didn’t answer right away. He watched a couple walk by under a shared umbrella, laughing about something neither of them would remember tomorrow.
“Because this one’s different,” he said finally, his voice low, even. “The job’s messy. Rushed. They’re scared of something—scared of him.”
Min-seok shifted in his seat. “So? You’ve killed people like that before. High-value, high-risk. Never stopped you.”
“No,” In-ho murmured. “But they didn’t look me in the eye like they already knew I was coming.”
Min-seok blinked.
“Wait—he saw you?”
“He looked at me,” In-ho said. “Through this fucking tinted window.”
Min-seok sat back, arms crossed. “Maybe he’s just cocky.”
“Maybe,” In-ho echoed, his breath fogging a faint circle on the glass. “Or maybe he’s not the target they say he is.”
There was something off. In-ho felt it in his gut—the same gut that had kept him alive through setups, double-crosses, and more corpses than he cared to count. His instincts were sharp. And they were screaming now.
Min-seok let the silence settle again before muttering, “You’re not getting soft, are you?”
In-ho didn’t even glance at him. “No. I’m getting careful.” And in his line of work, that was usually the last warning before something exploded.
——
In-ho’s apartment.
The city was alive beneath him—its lights blinking like restless eyes, its streets murmuring with late-night traffic and dreams going nowhere fast.
In-ho sat on his balcony, legs crossed at the ankle, cigarette hanging between his fingers. The smoke curled upward, soft and lazy, disappearing into the dark. He exhaled long and deep, not because he needed to, but because he had nothing else to do. He was bored.
Absolutely, soul-crushingly bored.
Stalking Gi-hun was supposed to be a job. A clean hit. An easy check. But no. It had become a routine. A ritual. Morning schedules. Tail patterns. Surveillance updates from Min-seok. Watching the golden boy charm the entire country while In-ho sat in the shadows, waiting for a moment that never came.
Gi-hun didn’t make mistakes. He didn’t fall into traps. He didn’t even hide. He lived his life like no one could touch him—cheerful, loved, untouchable.
In-ho flicked ash over the railing and muttered to himself, “Tired of this shit.”
The stalking wasn’t working. And honestly, it was starting to feel beneath him. So maybe it was time to change the approach. He dragged one more inhale from the cigarette, then stubbed it out on the edge of the ashtray. If he couldn’t corner Gi-hun in the dark… He’d walk right into the light. Smile. Laugh. Shake hands. Charm him right back. Befriend him. Get close. Gain his trust.
In-ho stepped back into his apartment, phone already in hand, the cigarette scent still clinging to him. He didn’t waste time scrolling—just called.
Min-seok picked up halfway through the first ring, voice groggy but unsurprised.
“You calling means you’re either about to kill someone, or you’re trying to do something stupid.”
In-ho didn’t answer the jab.
“Where is he tonight?” he asked instead.
“Gi-hun?”
“No,” In-ho said dryly. “The Pope.”
Min-seok sighed. “You know, I had a feeling your little obsession would turn weird eventually.”
“Just answer the question.”
A few clicks of a keyboard sounded on the other end, then a pause.
“He was at a gallery opening earlier—some rooftop thing in Itaewon. Big PR crowd. He left about twenty minutes ago.”
“Alone?”
“Driver picked him up. No entourage. He’s not headed home yet, though.”
“Where’s he going?”
Another few keystrokes. Then:
“…Looks like a club. ‘Velour.’ Low lighting, high-end, velvet ropes, the usual influencer nonsense. Not exactly your scene.”
In-ho was already pulling open his closet, eyes scanning for something less assassin and more irresistibly forgettable.
“Send me the location.”
“You’re seriously going clubbing to get closer to this guy?”
“Just enough to be memorable.”
Min-seok snorted. “He’s going to eat you alive.”
In-ho hung up. Because honestly? He wasn’t entirely sure if that wasn’t part of the plan.
——
Velour.
The club pulsed with low bass and high-end gloss—soft gold lighting, polished black floors, and the kind of crowd that wore money like perfume. It was quieter than most Seoul clubs—exclusive, tightly curated, and soaked in enough secrecy to keep headlines away.
In-ho stepped through the velvet rope without a word. A nod to the bouncer, a casual flash of a forged invite on his phone—Min-seok’s work, clean as always—and he was inside.
Gone was the all-black assassin’s uniform.
Tonight, In-ho wore tailored dark slacks, a crisp charcoal button-up with the top two undone, sleeves rolled to the forearm. Not overdressed. Not flashy. Just sharp enough to fit in and disappear at the same time. The room smelled like designer cologne, expensive liquor, and soft lies. He made his way through the crowd slowly, eyes scanning—assessing. And then he saw him.
Seong Gi-hun.
In the corner booth, tucked half into a crescent of friends and brand reps, head tipped back in laughter. One hand curled around a glass, the other resting lazily on the back of the booth. His hair was styled just a little messy, his shirt silk, his grin effortless.
He was glowing.
God, he really was impossibly charming. Even from across the room, Gi-hun lit the place up without trying. People leaned in when he spoke. He smiled at everyone like they were an old friend.
He didn’t even notice In-ho.
Yet.
In-ho made his way to the bar and ordered something minimal—no alcohol. He needed clarity tonight. His eyes never left Gi-hun.
Not when he turned to whisper something to the woman beside him. Not when he clinked glasses in a toast. Not when his laugh broke out again, too genuine for someone with secrets buried deep. In-ho’s grip tightened on his glass. He couldn’t get too close too fast. That wasn’t how you baited someone like Gi-hun. You had to make them curious. So he waited. Eyes like a loaded gun, smile just forming. If Gi-hun was South Korea’s golden boy… Then In-ho was the slow shadow curling toward him. And tonight, he’d make damn sure he was seen.
In-ho stayed at the bar, untouched drink in front of him, the beat of the music dull against his ribs.
Gi-hun hadn’t looked his way yet.
Too busy playing the room—talking, laughing, radiating whatever it was that made people believe he was harmless. Untouchable. The golden boy wrapped in silk and stardom. But In-ho knew better now. And if he wanted to get close—really close—he couldn’t just walk up and flash a smile. Gi-hun had a thousand people trying to get his attention every day. Actors, influencers, strangers pretending they weren’t starstruck. The direct approach would go in one ear and out the other.
No. He needed to stand out.
Or better yet—He needed to pull Gi-hun to him.
In-ho scanned the room again.
The group around Gi-hun was loud, but not large. Most were industry—PR types, a designer or two, one guy clearly trying to flirt with no success. Gi-hun was polite, but barely engaged.
Good.
In-ho reached into his pocket and pulled out a card—sleek black, anonymous. A cover identity Min-seok had prepared months ago for a different job. Investor. Low profile. But with the right kind of mystery.
He motioned to the bartender. “See that guy over there?” he said quietly, sliding the card across the counter. “Silk shirt. Laugh like he owns the room?”
The bartender didn’t even glance before nodding. “Gi-hun?”
“Yeah. Send him a drink. Whatever he’s having.”
The bartender raised a brow. “Name?”
“No name,” In-ho said, leaning back with a ghost of a smile. “Just tell him someone’s interested.”
The bartender gave a small shrug, took the card, and moved.
In-ho didn’t watch the drink go over. He kept his eyes forward, posture relaxed. Just enough aloof to be interesting. Just enough shadow to make someone like Gi-hun curious. And sure enough—A moment later, he felt it.
The unmistakable sensation of being watched. He took a slow sip from his untouched glass and turned slightly—Just enough to catch Gi-hun staring at him. Eyes narrowed slightly. Lips curled in amusement. Curious. Not threatened. In-ho didn’t smile. He just held the gaze. Cool. Still. Controlled. And Gi-hun? He tilted his head. And stood.
In-ho felt the shift in the air before he even turned. A flicker of perfume—expensive, faint. The sound of footsteps breaking from the crowd. A presence moving in, light and easy like wind.
And then—Gi-hun slid onto the barstool next to him, one leg crossed, one elbow on the counter. He turned his body ever so slightly toward In-ho, like the rest of the club didn’t matter anymore.
He smiled.
Bright. Effortless. Disarming.
Jesus.
He really was a supermodel.
Not just in face—though, god, that face. Flawless skin, cheekbones carved out of rumor, warm brown eyes framed with the kind of lashes people paid for. But it was the way he carried it—unbothered, loose-limbed, comfortable in his beauty like it wasn’t even worth mentioning.
He was dressed in something expensive. Silky black button-up tucked into slim designer trousers, fitted close around that thin waist—so thin, In-ho noted absently, he could probably wrap a hand around it without his fingers even stretching.
Gi-hun leaned in just enough to be playful.
“Caught you staring!” he said with a grin, voice bright over the music. He tilted his head. “You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”
In-ho blinked once. Collected. Calm on the outside. But inside, something twisted. Not in fear. Not guilt. Surprise.
Gi-hun wasn’t supposed to approach strangers. Not alone. Not this directly. Not when half the room would’ve sold their soul for a selfie.
And yet, here he was.
Eyes flashing. Smile perfect.
Why?
In-ho almost asked.
But he didn’t have to.
Gi-hun was still looking at him. Really looking at him. That familiar, searching gaze—the way people sometimes looked at art they didn’t quite understand but couldn’t stop admiring. Maybe it was the sharp lines of In-ho’s jaw. Or the way he held himself—controlled, untouchable, quietly dangerous. He knew what he looked like. He wasn’t modest. Maybe Gi-hun liked that.
In-ho lifted his glass, eyes calm. “You approached me.”
Gi-hun shrugged, taking it as an invitation. “You sent me a drink.”
“And you came over.”
“Curiosity’s a hell of a thing,” he said, smiling with just a hint of mischief. “You’re not like the usual types here.”
“And what kind is that?”
“The kind that try.”
In-ho allowed the smallest curl of a smirk to form at the corner of his mouth. Just enough to feed the moment.
“You don’t know me,” he said.
Gi-hun leaned in, chin resting in his palm. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”
God.
He really was something else.
And now he was right here.
Easy target.
Perfect opening. So why did In-ho feel like he was the one being hunted?
The bartender returned, barely needing a cue—Gi-hun just lifted a finger and smiled. That smile could’ve broken a camera lens, and the poor guy looked like he forgot how to breathe as he nodded and moved to make the drink. In-ho watched all of it—cool and composed, though inside, he was already recalculating. He’d come here to get close. Gi-hun was making it easy.
A fresh glass was set down in front of him—dark, strong, and nothing like the untouched drink from before.
Gi-hun beamed. “There. Now it’s a real conversation.”
In-ho raised an eyebrow. “Buying me a drink now?”
Gi-hun tilted his head. “You bought mine. Fair’s fair.”
He took a slow sip of his own, eyes never leaving In-ho’s face.
“I’ve never seen you before,” he added, voice softening just enough to feel personal. “You like those… famous… CEOs? Ehhh… I don’t know.” He wrinkled his nose in thought. “You look like someone with boring meetings and ten phones.”
In-ho let a breath of amusement slip through his nose. “You think I’m a CEO?”
Gi-hun smiled sheepishly. “Or a hitman. But like… a sexy one.”
In-ho choked slightly on his drink, covering it with a quiet cough.
Gi-hun grinned wider. “You do have the ‘I’ve killed someone and didn’t blink’ vibe.”
God. He was sharp. Maybe not in a calculated way, but in that warm, unpredictable chaos that wrapped itself around people without trying.
In-ho leaned on the bar with one arm, matching his posture, eyes narrowed slightly in mock-thought. “So which is it? Suit-and-tie corporate shark, or contract killer?”
Gi-hun shrugged, playful. “Why not both?”
He sipped again, licking a drop of liquor from his lip. And damn it if In-ho didn’t feel that twist in his stomach again. He was supposed to be getting close to make the kill. But with every second Gi-hun looked at him like that—open, trusting, genuinely curious—the whole job was starting to feel like it had a fuse.
Gi-hun took another sip of his drink, eyes sparkling as he swirled the glass lightly in his hand. “To be fair,” he said, leaning in just enough to close the space between them, “I only came over here ‘cause you’re actually handsome.”
In-ho didn’t blink.
Gi-hun, undeterred, grinned wider. “Seriously. Literally everyone that’s come up to me tonight has been, like… a 3 out of 10 at most.” He held up three fingers dramatically, then gestured between the two of them. “You? You walked in like you’d rather set the place on fire than talk to anyone, and I thought—God, finally.”
In-ho stared at him. He couldn’t help it. This man. This job. This target. Who should’ve been arrogant. Should’ve been fake. Should’ve been guarded.
But instead, he was here, giving out compliments like candy. Just… handing over his trust. Like it cost him nothing.
“You’ve got that face,” Gi-hun continued, sipping again and nodding to himself. “Like, sharp. A little mean. Not in a bad way! Just in a—‘I’ve got secrets and I might ruin your life, but you’ll thank me after’ kind of way.”
In-ho blinked. Slowly. “That’s… oddly specific.”
“I have good instincts,” Gi-hun said proudly, pointing at himself. “And you’ve got good bone structure. That’s my professional opinion.”
God. It wasn’t just getting harder. It was getting impossible. This was supposed to be simple. Get close. Earn the trust. Kill him.
But now Gi-hun was smiling at him like they were best friends, like he hadn’t just met a man who’d been actively planning his death.
And In-ho couldn’t stop the thoughts that came uninvited:
Why was someone trying to kill this man?
Why was he trying to?
Why did he feel like the knife was twisting in his chest every time Gi-hun laughed?
He took a slow breath. Neutral face. Steady voice. “You flatter easily,” In-ho said.
Gi-hun gave a dramatic shrug. “I’m drunk and you’re hot. Let me live.”
In-ho looked away. He didn’t want to smile. He didn’t want to like this man. But God help him—He already did.
Gi-hun spun his glass slowly on the bar, then looked up at In-ho with that same open, unfiltered curiosity. “You know,” he said, “if I’m gonna keep complimenting you, I should probably know your name.”
There it was. The moment.
The line he wasn’t supposed to cross.
In-ho had a dozen aliases he could give without blinking. Cold, practiced names that didn’t belong to anyone real. But when Gi-hun looked at him like that—like he was just another stranger in a room full of people, like he wasn’t a ghost wrapped in a mission—something slipped.
“My name’s In-ho.”
Gi-hun smiled, like it settled perfectly into place in his head. “In-ho,” he repeated, testing it on his tongue. “That fits you.”
In-ho swallowed once, barely. He wasn’t supposed to do that. That was his real name. That was him. Not a cover, not a persona. Him.
Stupid.
Stupid.
He needed to end this. Get what he needed. Just a number. Just a way in. Find out where Gi-hun lived. What his habits were. Who he met when the press wasn’t looking. Just—Kill him. Tomorrow. Fast. Clean. Get it over with.
In-ho forced his voice steady. “What about you?”
Gi-hun gave him a look, mock-offended. “You don’t know me?”
“I don’t follow celebrities.”
Gi-hun chuckled. “Seong Gi-hun,” he said, offering his hand with a small smirk. “Model. Professional hot person. Has a weird addiction to strawberry milk and lives in a constant state of emotional instability.”
In-ho stared at the hand.
Then shook it.
It was warm. Soft.
God.
He was losing it.
“You’ve got a phone, right?” Gi-hun said, reaching for his own. “Here. Give me your number. I’m texting you tomorrow.”
In-ho didn’t protest. Didn’t fake a name.
He gave him the real number.
Gi-hun saved it with a flourish. “Under ‘mysterious stranger with weird energy.’”
In-ho almost laughed. Almost.
Gi-hun leaned in again, smiling softly this time. “Don’t ghost me, okay?”
He was too close. In-ho felt his breath catch in his throat, every plan unraveling in the space between them.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I won’t.”
He would kill him tomorrow.
He had to.
Right?