The Prince of Asexual Darkness

by saza7gi

Summary:

Hwoarang tries to roast Jin. Accidentally unlocks the final boss of emotional trauma.
Warning: Not an epic fantasy novel.

Notes:

One thing I forgot to mention: in this world, World War III never came to pass.

As this was translated from Japanese, there may be some odd or unnatural phrasing.

Chapter 1

The training gym in the fighters' dormitory was dimly lit, steeped in the sharp cocktail of sweat, cheap plastic mats, and a faint trace of chlorine that clung like bad memories.

On the north side, Hwoarang was violently hammering away at a sagging sandbag, as if trying to punch the universe back into shape.

On the south, Jin Kazama brooded in his usual emo-black hoodie, fists clenched in some imagined storm, earbuds in, probably listening to Bring Me the Horizon or whatever depressing nonsense he liked—though that last part was, admittedly, Hwoarang’s own bias.

They hadn’t spoken in 43 minutes.

Not that they were exactly fighting. Fighting required eye contact, posturing, and a kind of feral social flair.

No—this was something quieter, deadlier. This was a game of chicken. A slow-burning contest in passive-aggressive stamina.

Who would break first?

Who would pretend to have something better to do?

Honestly, maybe neither of them had anything better to do.

Finally, Hwoarang snapped. He ripped off his soaked T-shirt and flung it to the floor.

“Kazama Jin!”

No response. Jin remained turned away, methodically squeezing a hand gripper like he was torturing a tiny, invisible enemy.

“You planning to rot in that corner forever, or are you trying to filter something out of the air? Plankton, maybe?”

Naturally, silence.

Hwoarang grinned, that infuriating smirk curling up like smoke from a firecracker.

“You ever talk to people like a normal human being? I mean just for fun—banter, small talk, y’know? Anything that's not a terrifying impersonation of a refrigerator with dominance issues. Try meowing, or something. Or are you still clinging to that Mishima family motto—‘Pain is the ultimate workout’?”

Silence.

Jin didn’t so much as flinch. His back was still turned, posture locked in place like a wrathful temple guardian carved from stone. Not a twitch betrayed his thoughts.

Hwoarang scoffed.

“Jesus. Talking to you is like talking to a wall. Except even a wall groans if you hit it hard enough.”

He bounced on his heels a few times, circling a sandbag like a restless boxer about to switch targets, swatting at it with lazy mock punches.

“Don’t you ever get tired of pretending you're above it all?” he asked, voice low now, needling.

Still nothing. Jin remained statue-still, the silence between them tightening like a noose.

“Come on,” Hwoarang muttered, irritated now. His grin flickered, then returned, strained and crooked.

“You had a rebellious phase, right? Snuck out at night, broke a rule or two, had a wild night—hell, maybe even kissed someone once? Or are you seriously out here living some kind of virtuous monk fantasy for the sake of inner peace?”

No answer. Not even a blink. Jin could’ve been a corpse—except corpses sometimes twitched.

Hwoarang tilted his head, thinking. Then his eyes lit up with something dangerous.

“Wait—don’t tell me. You handle... urges with meditation or something? Sexual tension? Deep breathing and... aligning your cursed urethra with the universe or whatever?”

That struck a nerve.

There was a sound like bone grinding on bone as Jin’s knuckles cracked—deliberate, slow. He turned his head, sharp as a guillotine, and fixed Hwoarang with a look that could cut through titanium.

Hwoarang lit up like a retriever catching a frisbee.
“No way. Don’t pretend you've never jerked off in your life, man. That’s just—come on.”

“I don’t,” Jin said. “And I never will.”

His voice had the grim finality of a man chiseling his own epitaph into stone.

Hwoarang blinked. “You’re kidding. Because it’s... unclean? What are you, a monk? No, wait. The Prince of Asexual Darkness?”

“No.” Jin’s reply was breathless. “Because I can’t get it up.”

“Can’t get it up?” Hwoarang froze mid-thought. “Wait—no, don’t tell me. You—did something happen? Is it an injury? Some tragic backstory? Shit, it wouldn’t even be surprising, considering the kind of martial arts crap you’ve been through. And with Heihachi freaking Mishima training you like a goddamn warhound... Damn, I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

“Goddamn it, Hwoarang!” Jin’s voice cracked like a thunderclap. Outside the room, two front-desk staff dropped their protein shakes in terror.

“You want the truth?” Jin said, pointing a trembling finger at him, stepping forward like a storm gathering mass. “Fine. Here it is. I’m not like you. I wasn’t born like you.”

There was no fury in his eyes—only a raw, seething despair that made Hwoarang forget to breathe.

“I look like a man,” Jin said. “But I’m not. I’m… both. Or neither. I don’t even know anymore. So next time you want to crack some locker-room joke you think is clever, remember—it doesn’t apply to me. Go on, laugh. You win. You’re normal.”

The silence that followed was massive. Crushing. Unbearable.

Hwoarang didn’t laugh.
But his brain was visibl buffering.

“...Wait. Are you saying… you’ve got everything? Like, both? I mean—what? Is it a Devil Gene thing? Some weird mutation or...?”

The way Jin glared at him could’ve qualified as a federal offense.

“I’m leaving,” he muttered.

He hadn’t taken a single step when Hwoarang reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Hey. Hold on.”

His grip was firm. No hesitation. No mockery.

“I didn’t laugh, alright? I just... damn, we could’ve talked about anything else. I should’ve guessed you were a vampire or something.”

“I wish I were a vampire,” Jin murmured. “At least nobody asks vampires what’s in their underwear.”

They stared at each other.

Then Hwoarang let out a half-laugh, half-sigh and looked away.

“Yeah. This is awkward as hell. But you’re still you. Complicated, brooding-as-fuck Kazama Jin-.”

He pulled out his phone and started tapping. Then jerked his chin toward the exit.
“Come on. There’s a bar attached to this place, right? I bet it’s free if I show up with the great Commander Kazama. Wait, what the hell—‘R.I.P. Heihachi Martini'? Who the hell names a cocktail that? Was this your idea?”

Jin gave a reluctant smirk, only for his expression to flatten out again as he opened his mouth to object. But Hwoarang had already started dragging him toward the door.

“Hey,” Hwoarang added over his shoulder.
“Just so you know—if anyone gives you shit about this, I’ll break their nose. You’re mine to mess with.”

Jin said nothing.

But he didn’t resist.

“I’m not running,” he mumbled. “Let go. You’re about to make me drop everything.”

The door swung shut behind them, leaving the gym completely silent.

 

 

---

 

 

By 1 a.m., they were sipping cocktails at the bar.
After that, they migrated to Hwoarang’s dorm room in the facility.

The next battle? Who would get to the shower first.

Once they'd finally settled, the real party began: a mess of cheap convenience store soju, Strong cans, Premium Malts, Doritos, energy drinks, and a token bottle of turmeric extract that claimed to “protect your liver”—all laid out across the beds.

Fortunately, the room came with two beds, so sacrificing one to snack carnage wasn’t a tragedy.

Jin sat cross-legged, brow twitching slightly as if resisting the alcohol like it was a demon trying to possess him.
His usually gravity-defying hair was damp and clinging to his forehead like wet paper.

Hwoarang had tied back his slick red hair in a shiny topknot, sprawled half-sideways across the bed with a bottle in one hand and no shirt in sight, radiating unshakable confidence.

“No matter what anyone says, this thigh—” he slapped it hard through his sweatpants with pride, “—is a national treasure of Korea.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Jin said, eyeing him dryly. “Although I think mine might be thicker.”

“Bigger isn’t better. Speed matters too. Wouldn’t you rather kick someone five times in a row than once?
Think of how much more inflated your ego gets when their ass flies in five different directions.”

He swept a damp fringe behind his ear, mock indignation flashing in his eyes.

“C’mon,” Hwoarang said, flexing deliberately to make the muscle pop under the fabric. “Admit it. You’re jealous. Touch the treasure.”

“No,” Jin snapped, spitting the word like poison.

“Coward,” Hwoarang hissed, slamming back a swig of soju straight from the bottle.

“Fine, fine,” Jin finally said, pointing a finger as if it were a warning shot.
“Your thighs are impressive. Happy? But my back—”

“—looks exactly like Kazuya’s.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that comes just before a glass bottle gets thrown.

Jin’s lashes trembled above stormy eyes, and his voice lowered to a deadly calm.

“Did you seriously just say that?”

“Hey, no need to go orbital death cannon on me.” Hwoarang backpedaled, hands up like he was defusing a bomb. “It was a compliment. Genetically speaking—”

“Say ‘genetically’ again,” Jin growled, “and I’ll headlock you straight back to the psych ward.”

“Heh. Try me.”

They leaned in, foreheads nearly touching, breath laced with booze and bravado.
Both of them were drunk, on alcohol and tension.

Then came another silence. Heavier this time.
The elephant in the room had returned—dragging with it an awkwardly oversized pair of metaphorical balls, casting a long, unresolved shadow between them.

“So…” Hwoarang started, uncharacteristically hesitant.
“About that… situation.”

“You mean the cursed, anatomically confusing relic I’m forced to call a body?”

“Yeah. That.”

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Jin stood slowly, the way only a man who has spent his life avoiding this exact moment could stand. He rose from the bed like a reluctant deity summoned for judgment. His head nearly scraped the ceiling.

“You really wanna know?” he said, voice low.

“For scientific purposes,” Hwoarang replied, eyes wide and shamelessly curious—his whole face a confession of superficial intent.

With a long, suffering sigh, Jin untied the drawstring of his sweatpants. He looked like a warrior preparing to surrender his sword at the gates of Hell.

The pants dropped.

The room blinked.

So did Hwoarang. Twice.

He might’ve ducked for a better look. Just a little.

“What the actual…” Hwoarang murmured. “You've got both. Perfectly formed, too… though, yeah—no balls.”

“Yeah,” Jin muttered. “Welcome to my own personal Silent Hill.”

“…It’s kind of beautiful.”

“…What?”

“I mean—not gross, alright? Relax,”
Hwoarang said quickly, licking his lips like the words were too slick to hold.

“It’s… delicate. Surprising. You know that feeling when you see a poisonous frog—psychedelic and kinda freaky, but also cute as hell? That. Like, if it jumps at you, you’d scream, but part of you would still wanna pet it.”

“You absolute idiot.”

Jin yanked his pants back up in one angry motion. His face was burning, his pride shattered into unrecognizable shards, and his spirit began to gently detach itself from his body.

“You think I wanted to hear that?” he said, voice hoarse. “You think I’ve been hiding this since I was fifteen—ever since I left Yakushima—just so one day, my rival could look me in the eyes and say it’s ‘psychedelic and cute’ like some goddamn modern art piece?”

“I didn’t say you had warning colors or weird spots. You’re as pale as ever. And hey—the pink? Be proud of it.”

“THANKS A FREAKIN’ LOT!” Jin shouted.

“Hey—calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!”

“Okay, okay, fine—look!”

Hwoarang sprang to his feet, hands raised in mock surrender. “Let’s do it.”

“…Do what?”

“You know. Sex. For science.”

“…”

“Come on! Don’t waste this chance! I’m one of the very few primates on Earth you can actually hold a conversation with. You probably get fewer mating opportunities than a lanternfish stuck at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.”

“You are clinically insane.”

“Maybe,” Hwoarang shrugged. “But I’m curious.”

Jin gave him a glare so sharp, so ancient in its generational repression, it could have been passed down through bloodline scrolls. His eyes rolled skyward as if searching the heavens for patience.

“…Fine.”

“Wait—seriously?” Hwoarang’s fox-like eyes twitched with a flicker of genuine panic.

“Yeah. But if you do anything weird, I’ll kill you.”

“Define ‘weird.’”

 

 

 

Thirty minutes later, their clothes were a scattered memory, their regrets had reached critical mass, and what began as sexual tension had morphed into a tangible, bodily pain.

“OW. JESUS. FUCKING—YOU SON OF A—GET OFF ME!”

Jin shouted, slapping the redhead-man sprawled against him. Hard.

Hwoarang blinked, stunned. “Did you just slap me? During sex?!”

“Pain reflex! I warned you—this body wasn’t built for your idiocy!”

“You could’ve said you were a virgin!”

“I THOUGHT IT WAS OBVIOUS.”

Like two buffaloes in heat and denial, they crashed together again—foreheads colliding, breaths ragged, sweat and confusion steaming off their skin as they pounded the mattress into submission.

And somewhere between all that chaos, Jin’s groans broke—just once or twice—into something unexpectedly high-pitched.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

The Next Morning

 

Sunlight poured in mercilessly through the gaping curtains,
as if ultraviolet radiation had taken it upon itself to disinfect the room of its excessive sensuality.

Jin lay facedown,
his skin glowing with the pale hue of goat’s milk.
His brain felt pulverized,
his body wrecked by a pain far beyond the grasp of reason.

"This was a mistake,"
he muttered into the pillow, voice low and cracked.
"I should’ve become a monk."

Hwoarang, his famously long red hair now a tangled mess,
grinned like a satisfied octopus and wrapped an arm around Jin’s waist.

"That was the strangest night of my life."

Jin groaned like a dying old man who knew he wouldn't be missed.

"Glad you enjoyed my collapse."

"Oh? Need a little Green Day to complete the emo self-loathing mood? I can queue it up," Hwoarang teased with infuriating cheer.
"Seriously though, watching you drown in regret? Kinda hot."

"Touch me again and I’ll dislocate your jaw."

Still chuckling, Hwoarang pulled the white blanket gently over Jin’s bare shoulders.

"Jinnaa~ Come on, you're not even moving. That says a lot."

The Korean-style nickname made Jin mentally roll his eyes as he buried his face deeper into the pillow.

He didn’t reply.

 

Mostly because he couldn’t.

 

 

---

 

 

Despite the King of Iron Fist tournament having wrapped up three days ago, the Mishima Zaibatsu–funded athlete residence remained fully operational.

It had gradually morphed into a hybrid between a luxury dorm and a martial artist boot camp.

Some international fighters still lingered—sightseeing, training on machines their home countries hadn’t yet imported, or simply indulging in the 24-hour dining hall known for its perfectly balanced meals.

It was always occupied by a handful of stragglers.

 

 

Asuka Kazama sat in one corner of the cafeteria, suffering in silence as she spooned omelet rice into her mouth.

The intense blend of Emilie de Rochefort’s Dior perfume and the ketchup aroma was nauseating, but Asuka knew better than to complain.

Lili, perched just five millimeters too close, wasn’t going anywhere.

 

Across the room, Paul Phoenix had begun hollering a battle anecdote at Xiaoyu and Steve,
sounding less like a mentor and more like an unhinged dad at a barbecue.

Right as he reached the part where he claimed to have broken four ribs and a cement wall with the same punch, the glass doors groaned open.

 

Jin entered.

Or tried to.

 

He moved like a man who’d been thrown off a horse and trampled afterward—cautious, slow, but still somehow dignified.

Every step screamed:
Don’t ask. Let me die.

Paul squinted at him.
"Hey… Jin, you okay? You’re walking like someone stabbed you. Or like you got a katana stuck up—"

"Kazama’s fine," came a voice behind him.

A second later, Hwoarang strolled in.

The dark sunglasses only highlighted the swollen red welt on one cheek. His shirt was undone just enough to reveal a set of claw marks,
proudly displayed like war trophies.

He wore the unmistakable smile of a man who knew exactly what he’d done.

 

The cafeteria went still.
Too still.

 

Even the staff member replenishing the teriyaki chicken froze mid-tongs.

 

Jin clicked his tongue and eyed a plastic chair like it was sentient and potentially homicidal. Then, with the grace of someone who’d lost all dignity, he slowly lowered himself into it.

Lili rose from Asuka’s side with a click of heels and glided toward him, sitting at a polite distance.

She tilted her head, all polite concern and aristocratic curiosity. "Kazama-san… forgive my bluntness, but did you injure your spine during your last match?"

"...No."

"Leg day, huh?" Paul chimed in from another table.
"Went too hard? Got that muscle burn?"

"...No."

"Private yoga session, maybe?" asked Lee Chaolan from across the hall.

"No," Jin said, his voice flat.

Hwoarang let out a wheezing cough that almost disguised a laugh.
"He’s just… a little sore."

Asuka frowned.
"Sore where—"

"I said I’m fine!" Jin snapped—

―but it was a poor decision.
A dull, grinding ache pulsed through him from below—
one so deep and foreign it made him flinch visibly.

His thighs tensed.
Another regret added to the growing pile.

A beat of silence passed.

Then, Xiaoyu leaned over the table like she was about to uncover a family scandal.
"Wait… are you two dating?"

 

Silence.
So intense, even the air-conditioning hesitated and dropped the temperature in shock.

 

Hwoarang opened his mouth to respond―

but before he could say a word, Paul slammed both fists onto the table with the force of a landslide.

"HA! I told Law! I told him! I said those two were either gonna kill each other or end up making out hard.

He said I was nuts! Who’s nuts now?! That’s three hundred bucks in my pocket, baby!"

"I had five hundred on them," Steve said quietly,
slicing dry chicken breast with unnecessary precision.

Lili blinked her icy blue eyes.
"…I’ll have questions later."

"You won’t," Jin replied, 
tightening his jaw like he was physically holding back a scream.

 

 

 

Chapter 4

 

The next day, Jin went into hiding.

 

Not in a dramatic, vanishing-into-the-wilderness kind of way—no, he simply relocated to one of the lesser-used lounges in the sprawling Mishima Zaibatsu estate,
the one rumored to be haunted, as if even the ghosts might understand his need to be left alone.

He sat there quietly, nursing a cup of green tea, carefully regulating his breathing so it wouldn’t hitch or betray him. Certain parts of his anatomy were still screaming, but that wasn’t even the worst of it.

No.

the worst of it came in a cardboard box.

 

“This is it!” Paul beamed like an eccentric uncle at a wedding, brandishing the box as if it contained the Holy Grail. 

“Ordered it on Amazon last night—premium silicone lube! NASA-grade, my friend. Astronauts probably use this stuff in space. And check this out—it dropped three days ago and already has 1,005 reviews. 4.5 stars! That many people can’t be wrong. No need to thank me.”

He was already scrolling through his phone, eyes gleaming.

“Top review’s from someone called... Takashi Sushi. That’s Japanese, right? Sounds legit. Let’s see here…”

He cleared his throat dramatically.

“Smoothness is arriving like sunset on hot desert. I use with my partner (he/she not expect surprise!). Once entering the gates of my private zone, it feel like silk dragon dancing in rainbow tunnel. No burn. Only paradise. Highly recommendation!!—Takashi Sushi”

Paul nodded, visibly impressed.
“Dude, a silk dragon. That’s poetic as hell.”

Jin let out a long, defeated sigh.

Apparently, the Zaibatsu mansion had become more accessible than a public restroom at rush hour. People just kept coming in. “I didn’t ask for any of this…” he muttered.

“Don’t be shy, Kazama Jin!”
Asuka barged in, waving her iPhone like she was presenting evidence in court.

“We’re cousins, right? That means support! I even found you a YouTube channel. Okay, well, actually Lili found it—her English is way better than mine. It’s called Butt Stuff for Bros. Hosted by two ex–Navy SEALs and a chiropractor fella or something. Look! Educational as hell, don’t you think?”

Before he could react, Asuka threw an arm around Jin’s shoulders like they were old drinking buddies.
Lili stood beside her, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger and nodding silently in solemn agreement.

“I’m jumping out the window,” Jin announced, planting both hands on the table.

“Not a great idea,” Steve muttered without looking up from his phone. “You already walk like a wounded deer.”

Just then, the door—already damaged from too many dramatic entrances—flew open with a loud bang, and Xiaoyu burst in with a stormy expression.

“I don’t get why everyone’s freaking out. Like—seriously? Do we even know they actually slept together? For all we know, Jin’s just got some kind of unexplained stomach pain or something. I mean, that happens, right? Everyone’s overreacting.
And anyway, I’m not believing a single word until I hear it from Jin himself. Because I trust him.”

For a moment, silence fell over the room—even Jin couldn’t muster a retort.

“Right, then!” Asuka broke the quiet with a chipper voice. “I also ordered this book for you: The Gentleman’s Guide to Anal Recovery. Great reviews. Comes with diagrams—oh! And a progress-tracking sheet!”

“...I hate every single one of you,” Jin whispered, his voice double-layered, as if something darker inside him had begun to stir.

That was when Hwoarang appeared in the doorway, holding a convenience store bag like it was the most normal day in the world.
Inside were four rice balls, two sandwiches, and a carton of Lipton lemon tea.

“Did you tell them yet?” he asked.

“Tell them what?” Jin snapped.

“That you’re just a delicate peach blossom who needs rest and a nice foot massage.”

 

A collective gasp filled the room.

 

Without a word, Xiaoyu hurled a packet of traditional Chinese worm-expelling herbs at Jin’s head and stormed out.

Jin shot to his feet, instantly regretting it.

A sharp pulse throbbed between his legs, and his spine let out a sound like a cursed door hinge.

But worse than the physical pain was the wave of pity in everyone’s eyes—like mourners at a funeral silently offering condolences.

A love triangle straight from hell.

(...No. Xiaoyu's just a friend. That’s all…)

Swatting away Hwoarang’s attempt to steady him, Jin bolted down the hallway, desperate for an exit that didn’t involve public humiliation or another Amazon delivery.

 

 

---

 

 

The early summer air was cool and crystalline, laced with the scent of green leaves and something fleeting.
For a brief moment, Jin almost managed to pretend he was normal.
Almost.
But beneath that fragile stillness, the bitter truth churned inside him like smoke in a sealed room.

“I don’t need silicone. I don’t need a Navy SEAL tutorial or a massage chart for my ass,” he muttered. “What I need right now is a goddamn-OB-GYN…”

The wind stirred the branches above, and for a moment, everything fell quiet. Then, even that silence began to slip away.

 

 

Chapter 5

Somewhere in Tokyo, in the lavender light of early evening, nestled between a flickering halal butcher sign and a faded calligraphy school, stood the Crescent Moon Clinic.

 

Jin barely made his 6:00 p.m. appointment.

But this wasn’t some half-hearted Google search—he had been meticulous. The requirements were non-negotiable: no men allowed inside (trans men excluded), an all-female staff, and private waiting rooms for every patient.

He would not, under any circumstances—not even for husbands of pregnant wives or hopeful men undergoing fertility treatments—risk sitting on a gynecology clinic bench next to another man.
His pride couldn’t take it.

 

Inhale. Exhale. Deep breaths.

 

The clinic interior was sterile white—new enough to smell like printer toner, warm in a way that felt unsettlingly placid.
If he stayed too long, he was sure he’d lose his mind.

Hood pulled low, Jin moved quickly toward the front desk, where a woman was busy with paperwork.
He slid his insurance card across the counter with as much discretion as possible.

The receptionist flinched at first, startled by the sheer size of the shadow looming in front of her.
Slowly, she looked up and eyed Jin with suspicion.
With two fingers—like she feared bacteria—she pinched the card and read the details through narrow glasses.

“…Male, correct?”

Of course. The card still reflected his legal gender.

“…Yes,” Jin said, his voice slightly faltering.
In an attempt to recover, he cast a casual glance toward a rainbow-painted bench on the back of the desk calendar and discreetly wetted his dry lips.
“On paper.”

“Ah—ahh, I see,” the receptionist nodded, suddenly understanding.
“You’ve recently changed your legal gender to male.”
Her tone softened, and she clipped a form to a clipboard before handing it to him with a pen.
“This is your first visit? Please fill out this intake questionnaire.”

Jin took the clipboard in silence.
A sour feeling twisted in his stomach.
He hadn’t really lied—but he hadn’t exactly told the truth, either.

He wasn’t transgender in the conventional sense.
Nor was he intersex, not exactly.
What he was… was something else entirely.

Some supernatural anatomical joke.
A Baphomet nightmare in human skin.

 

---

He slumped into the cushioned chair inside the private waiting room, clutching the clipboard like a lifeline, and began to fill out the form.

Reason for visit?

He hesitated.

“I’m a science experiment, and I had unprotected sex with a Korean gang member...”

Could he write that?

Instead, he scribbled:

“Routine gynecological” check-up

Menstrual cycle?

“Once every six months”

---

 

He returned the clipboard to the front desk and retreated again into the solitude of his personal chamber, sinking deep into the chair like it might protect him from the absurdity of his reality.

His heart was pounding.
Anxious, he pinched the bridge of his nose and reached for something—anything—on the bookshelf to distract himself.
Maybe an outdoor magazine.

But the cover greeted him with a comic strip featuring talking ovaries and a cheerful Madame Uterus in pearls.

Tears prickled in his eyes.

All of this—all of this—and the world still thought his only problem was a sore ass.

(Someone, just kill me already.)

 

 

 

Right now—right this second—if Devil Kazuya were to crash through the gynecologist’s ceiling in a blaze of hellfire and send a speculum flying with a roundhouse kick, Jin would gladly take the mercy kill.
He might even look him in the eye and whisper,
“Thanks, Dad.”

Why—why—was there no fabled little curtain here, the one people said clinics used to offer as a thin illusion of dignity?
Jin lay exposed from the waist down, given nothing but a crinkly piece of translucent paper as a token gesture toward modesty.

“Go ahead and place your feet in the stirrups,”

chirped the young female doctor, in the same cheery tone one might use to offer salad bar options.

Jin bit down on his lower lip until it bled, summoning every ounce of courage into his trembling thighs.
As he complied with awkward stiffness, he regretted every life choice that had led him to this moment—including, perhaps, the decision to be born.

The doctor—petite, wearing bootleg anime-print scrubs and clutching a notepad titled Let’s Play with Uteruses!—peered between his legs. Her brow immediately furrowed.

“Hmm… okay…”

she blinked rapidly, tilting her head like a curious bird inching closer to an unusually shaped snack.

“This is… not quite standard.”

Jin froze.

She leaned back, cleared her throat, and asked the single most dreaded question in the known universe:

“So, uh… what exactly is going on down here?”

Jin sat upright on the examination table, the crackling paper beneath him tearing audibly.

“Excuse me?”

“Anatomically speaking, I mean. Like… was this surgically constructed? Is it genetic? Are you part of a study? A prank, maybe? Because, wow, this is… extraordinary.”

For the first time in his life, Jin considered unleashing the Devil Gene voluntarily.
Setting the entire clinic—hell, the entire planet—on fire suddenly seemed like a reasonable plan.
He could feel that familiar tingle at the sides of his head, right where the horns would sprout.

But divine wrath was interrupted by the rustle of cloth and the firm stomp of approaching heels.

A tall, commanding woman in a deep navy-blue niqab swept into the room, clipboard in hand, with the presence of a queen storming the battlefield.
She took one look at the scene—frozen patient, flustered intern—and raised her voice like a thunderclap.

“Nadia. Out.”

The young doctor yelped and scrambled from the room.

“I sincerely apologize, Kazama-san,”

said the older woman in flawless, ice-smooth Japanese.
Her tone was calm, powerful, final.

“She is a medical student. I assure you she will receive fifty lashes for this transgression.”

Jin stared at her, wide-eyed, and managed a silent nod.

“My name is Dr. Farida. Twenty years in obstetrics. Five in war zones.” She smiled faintly. “Now, let’s have a look, shall we?”

“I… really don’t want anyone to see me like this,” Jin murmured.

“Oh, darling.” Her voice softened. She reached out and gave his clenched hand a reassuring tap. “You’re perfectly safe with me.”

 

 

Jin was still lying on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling like a prisoner.
The adrenaline had finally worn off, leaving him dazed and slightly drunk on its absence.

Dr. Farida removed her gloves with the precision of a surgeon and the solemn grace of a priest delivering final rites.

“I see,”

she said.
Her voice was gentle—soothing, even—but with an unsettling, motherly calm, like a late-night ER doctor who had just pulled a spray can from someone’s colon. “Let’s move on to the verbal portion of the consultation.”

Verbal portion?
God, was she really expecting him to talk about this?

Jin slowly sat up, avoiding her gaze. 

Dr. Farida sat across from him, clipboard in hand.

“Well then,”

she began evenly,
“internally, everything appears structurally sound—just atypical in form. No signs of rupture or deep tissue trauma.
That’s good news.”

Jin nodded and crossed his arms over his hoodie.

“But,”

she continued with gentle concern,
“there are abrasions and light bruising along the vestibular margin.
It’s possible that... your recent activity exceeded what your current anatomy is able to tolerate.”

I know, I know, Jin groaned inwardly. Of course it exceeded my limits—having sex with the clumsiest man in South Korea was never going to end well. It was like mating with a deep-sea anglerfish.

But then a thought sparked, and his eyes narrowed, suspicious.

“Wait a second. Are you saying I’m the fragile one here?”

(I am the one terrified I’ll accidentally destroy the planet, and you’re telling me I’m delicate?)

Dr. Farida regarded him for a long moment,
hawk-eyed and unreadable.
Then she tapped her pen gently against the clipboard.

“Kazama-san, I’m saying your vaginal canal is underdeveloped by standard anatomical definitions,”
she said in the tone of a schoolteacher casually commenting on a morning glory’s slow growth.
“It’s a bit narrow.”

Jin blinked.

“Narrow?”

“Narrow. Given the size and tissue composition, until we can verify greater elasticity, I’d recommend refraining from any particularly aggressive penetration.
Oh, not forever—just for a little while,” she added reassuringly.

“Rest first. Then maybe—ideally—with a limited number of partners...”

“I didn’t have a drunken orgy with the entire Tokyo Metropolitan Area,” Jin snapped.
“It was one guy. One night. And the clingy bastard latched on like a goddamn barnacle.”

Dr. Farida raised an eyebrow like a diplomat trying to defuse an international crisis.

“A barnacle?”

“Conceptually,” Jin muttered, nostrils flaring.

There was a pause.
She turned the page on her clipboard with the gravity of someone flipping to a new chapter in a spy thriller.

“For your safety,”

she said, her voice now softened by a professional veneer,
“I need to ask—was this encounter fully consensual?”

“…What?”

“If there was any chance this act occurred under pressure, manipulation, intoxication… we can help.
You’re not alone. We have rape kits, trained counselors, and if necessary, we can report it to the authorities—”

“No!”

The word exploded out of him like a detonation.

Dr. Farida flinched.
So did Jin.

He coughed and tried again, lowering his voice.

“No. No report. No kit. No tests. None of that.”
His voice cracked with the strain.
“Nothing… like that happened. He’s just… he’s just a friend. Kind of.”

Maybe.

“Are you sure?”

she asked gently, studying him.

Then she gave a slow, understanding nod.

“All right.
To be honest… from the condition you're in, I’d say he was being quite considerate.
Given your narrowness, someone reckless could have caused far worse damage.”

Jin pulled up his hoodie and shrank into it, eyes locked on some invisible spot in the room.
The walls suddenly felt too bright.
His sharp cheekbones were flushed with heat, and his fists clenched until the knuckles throbbed.
The silence stretched on, filled with words neither of them dared to say.

Finally, Dr. Farida scribbled something on her clipboard.

“Would you like a topical ointment?”
she asked.
“It might help ease the discomfort.”

Jin nodded stiffly,
like a marionette whose strings had been tugged by someone else.

 

 

By the reception desk, a mother waited to settle her bill while her child rolled on the floor, busy twisting colorful plastic bead bracelets around her wrists.

The girl flipped upside down, caught Jin’s eye, and grinned before waving at him with a tiny hand.

Startled, Jin glanced around in panic, then, realizing he couldn’t just ignore her, gave a hesitant flick of his fingers from behind the nearest corner—barely a wave, but enough.

 

Chapter 6

 

Should he go back to the Mishima estate, the dorms, or just book a random hotel for the night?

Jin hesitated, torn between destinations.

 

By the time he finally made his way home, the early summer sun had fully dipped below the skyline. The faint, forlorn cries of insects along the riverbank filled the air with a melancholy rhythm.

He pressed open the door to his dorm room with one shoulder, and was instantly hit by an unnatural brightness.

Someone was inside.

 

"Yo."

 

Perfect.

 

Hwoarang was sprawled out on Jin’s bed like he owned the place—like he paid rent or something. The pose was almost feline, reminiscent of a spoiled cat lounging in a sunbeam, maybe a Maine Coon with attitude.

Jin didn’t reply. He slung his bag to the floor and marched straight to the closet. Peeling the black hoodie, heavy with bitter memories, from his skin, he grabbed a towel and a pair of briefs.  Internally, he prayed the man would pick up on the hint.

No such luck.

"So," Hwoarang drawled, raking a hand through his red hair as he sat up and lazily crossed his legs, "how’d your little health check go?"

Jin froze, his back still to him.

Hwoarang tilted his head, flashing a knowing grin.
"Did they give you a sticker or something? A strawberry lollipop, maybe?"

Jin turned slowly, eyes icy.
"What did you just say?"

"Hey, hey, relax, Kazama!" Hwoarang quickly raised his hands in mock surrender.
"I’m just saying—after I, uh… stormed the gates of your sacred shrine, figured I should at least know if it broke anything. Y’know, out of concern."

"I don’t recall signing up for a livestream of my bodily status. And for the record—I’m not a thing."

His jaw clenched audibly. The room seemed to drop a few degrees in temperature. Hwoarang instinctively rubbed his arms and glanced at the wall panel, unsure if the A/C had just kicked in.

“…Foolish mortal,” Jin murmured with icy detachment.
“Speak those words again, and I shall drive my knee beneath your chin, reduce your teeth to glittering shards, compel you to swallow every last fragment… and reward your insolence with a most exquisite case of hemorrhoids.”

"Okay, okay! Chill! Break time! Evil spirits be gone!" Hwoarang held up both hands again, this time more urgently, noticing Jin’s irises beginning to glow a faint crimson.
"Look—I didn’t mean it like that. I just wanted to know if you’re… okay. I mean, seriously. After what happened, is everything… intact? Like, if you need money for treatment or something—I'll cover it. All of it."

Jin’s shoulders finally relaxed, just a little.

Hwoarang busied himself inspecting the tips of his hair, feigning a search for split ends as if awaiting a verdict in court.

“There’s no need for you to take responsibility,” Jin said quietly.

“Of course there is. If we’re being honest, I was the more… invasive party.”

“I’m fine.”

The two words landed with a definitive thud.

Hwoarang looked up. Jin stood there, one hand resting near his waist, gripping a towel loosely. He refused to meet Hwoarang’s gaze.
He shifted his stance, crossed one foot over the other, then uncrossed again.

Despite everything they’d done—everything—he was suddenly and irrationally embarrassed to look Hwoarang in the eye.

Ridiculous.

Jin shook his head sharply, as if willing that thought away.

“The doctor said I just need some rest. No internal damage.”

“I see,” Hwoarang said, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth.
“So, technically… a rematch is still on the table?”

Jin’s eyes darkened.
“Were you even listening to anything I just said?”

“Uh—” Hwoarang flinched, caught, then for some reason chuckled to himself as though the whole thing were a private joke. His tone stayed deliberately light, refusing to match Jin’s grim expression. 

“I mean, yeah, okay, it got a little… chaotic. But it was hot, right? Toward the end, I think you were starting to enjoy yourself. Just a little. If you ever wanted to explore that again—”

“I barely survived a humiliating medical exam,” Jin cut in, voice flat and ice-cold.
“At this moment, there is a No Entry sign posted in seven languages at the gates of my narrow vagina. And no, we will not be doing that again. It was a mistake.”

He let out a long, weary sigh and looked directly at the redhead man.

Hwoarang’s expression changed—suddenly and completely.
The cocky smirk wavered, then disappeared, like a ship slipping quietly beneath the waves.

“…Ah.”

Jin blinked.
“What?”

“Nothing,” Hwoarang said quickly, almost too quickly.

Even Jin, emotionally tone-deaf as he could be, sensed it.
The air had shifted.
The usual restless swagger in Hwoarang’s movements was replaced with something else—something subdued. That loud, stupid bravado he wore like armor… was gone.

And in its place, of all things—was that hurt?

“…Wait,” Jin said slowly, cautiously. “Are you sulking?”

“What? No,” Hwoarang muttered, fiddling with a loose thread on the bedsheet, avoiding Jin’s eyes.
“I just thought… I don’t know. I thought when you said okay that night, maybe it meant something.”

“You were the one who called it a science experiment.”

“Yeah, well—maybe I just didn’t want to look like some overexcited dog that got too hyped about finally getting to sleep with Kazama.”

Jin thought he must’ve misheard him. He stood there, speechless.

The space between them thickened, warped into something neither of them could quite look at head-on. It no longer felt like a joke, or even an argument.
It felt raw. Unformed. Dangerous in its vulnerability.

“…Hwoarang,” Jin began, unsure why he suddenly felt the urge to repair something he couldn’t name.

But Hwoarang only shrugged, stiffly. “Don’t worry about it. Forget it.”

He stood without looking at Jin and walked past him.

Jin turned to watch him go, but for once in his life, had no idea how to stop him.

 

After Hwoarang left, the room fell into absolute silence.

Jin could hear the pulse of his own blood throbbing in his temples, as if his body were reminding him he was still alive, for better or worse.

 

 

---

 

 

Jin filled the bathtub with hot water and a generous splash of lemongrass-scented bath oil. As the steam wrapped around him like a second skin, he finally felt like he could breathe again.

He sank deep into the scalding water, letting the heat soak into his skin until it almost burned.

The fogged-up mirror on the opposite wall reflected his outline, blurred and wavering like a ghost. He stared at himself in the glass, hoping for clarity, but the gaze that met him was razor-sharp and accusatory.

With a quiet sigh, he slicked his damp bangs back with one hand.

His lips trembled. His expression was, frankly, severe—his brows drawn tight, the bridge of his nose strong, and his mouth always set too firm, as if clenched around words that were either awkward, unfunny, or outright cold.

What the hell was it that made Hwoarang curious about this awkward, flawed mess of a body?

….

Hwoarang’s curiosity?

“…”

wait.

 

A wave of unease hit him square in the gut, like a sucker punch he hadn’t seen coming.

Maybe—just maybe—he’d been pinning too much of this on Hwoarang. Acting like he was some innocent casualty in a one-man war.

He buried his face in his hands.

His soaked black hair clung to his cheeks like regret.

The ugly truth was: he’d been curious too. Painfully curious. That’s how all of this started. It wasn’t just Hwoarang’s fault. It wasn’t just the alcohol.

It began with him.

“Shit…”

Shame crawled up his neck like a rash.

He remembered everything far too clearly—the oppressive silence, the electric tension, the cocky heat in Hwoarang’s eyes—and the maddening desire to break that smirk.

And what had he said?

"Then look. If you want it that badly."

And then, like a goddamn lunatic, he'd pulled down his own pants like some exhibitionist freak on a dare.

Now, sitting in the aftermath of his own brilliantly stupid choices, he almost felt like he should livestream this entire spiral of humiliation. It’d probably get better ratings than the Tekken tournament.

He let out a low groan, half-laughing at himself, staring up at the bathroom ceiling like it owed him absolution.

 

It was hilarious, really.

Too funny.

What kind of man just offers himself up like that, knowing exactly what would happen?

 

He had always known what Hwoarang was—bold, wild, an alpha type you could prod and steer with the right pressure. Of course Hwoarang responded. Of course he got excited.
That was biology.

And Jin? Jin had pretended to be the one caught in the current.

But some cold part of his mind whispered, You just wanted to see what would happen.

The thought sat in his chest like molten lead.

Maybe it hadn’t even been about wanting sex.

Maybe he just wanted to be wanted.

To be something more than the Devil’s vessel he’d always hated. To feel desired, even in a grotesque, confusing, chaotic way—if that’s all Hwoarang could give, then maybe it was enough.

A pathetic masochist. A joke.

 

 

Chapter 7

 

He thought Hwoarang would be on the first flight back to Korea by morning.

But there he was, still at their usual training gym, stretching in that practiced, taekwondo rhythm like nothing had happened.

Jin watched him from behind for a long time.

He knew, logically, that he should say something to him.
But when Jin tried to speak, no sound came out — only a dry tightness in his throat.
A thin sheen of sweat began to gather on his skin, spreading slowly as the silence dragged on.

 

Hwoarang never once looked back.

 

 

---

 

 

That night, Jin was in his room, sulking into the pillows like a resentful bear preparing for early hibernation.

He was just fluffing his comforter with exaggerated drama when a thunderous knock rattled the door.

“Open up, Jin!”

Xiaoyu’s voice rang out with the confidence of a cheerful pirate. “I brought spoils of war!”

Jin didn’t move.

He remained sprawled on the bed, somewhere between life and death, clinging to the last shreds of dignity like a worthless man marooned at sea.

“I know you’re in there! I’m counting to ten!
Do you want me to bust this door down like it’s made of cardboard?!”

She was evolving rapidly into a lunatic debt collector, and Jin—judging his options—decided it was probably safer to let her in.

With a low groan,
he peeled himself off the mattress and shuffled toward the door like a man walking to his own execution.

The moment he twisted the knob, a hurricane in sneakers barreled into the room.
Xiaoyu marched in with the righteous authority of someone who’d just bought the building. Her arms were overflowing with bottles of organic lavender oil and a crinkling plastic bag that smelled vaguely of despair.

“Xiaoyu, there’s… something I need to tell you,”

Jin murmured, already feeling the throb of an oncoming migraine.

“Oh my gosh,”
she gasped, ignoring him with practiced grace as her obsidian eyes widened in exaggerated shock.
“Jin, you look terrible. Is it pain? Swelling? Social trauma?”

Jin groaned and ran a hand over his face to shield himself. “It’s not that…”

“Don’t worry, I’ve decided that your happiness is now my number one priority,” she announced with the kind of sincerity.
“Step one: health. I was a horrible friend for not being gentle with you when you were clearly unwell!”

She violently ripped open one of the plastic bags—needlessly, it seemed—and began unloading its contents like an overexcited field medic.

“I brought suppositories. Also a discreet donut cushion. Great for healing anal trauma or surviving long Mishima Zaibatsu board meetings.
Oh! And this—this is the crown jewel. Premium lubricant infused with twenty-four types of traditional Chinese herbs. I got it on Shein. Supposedly, it’s a reconstructed formula used by eunuchs who were favored by ancient emperors. Harvard scientists recreated it.”

“Xiaoyu.”

“Also, it glows in the dark. With glitter. Ten out of ten gay monks recommend it.” She flung a shimmering gold bottle into his lap like it was a sacred artifact.

“Xiaoyu,” Jin exhaled, sounding as old as the Mishima Zaibatsu itself. “You can stop. I don’t need any of this.”

She blinked, her enthusiasm pausing mid-flight. “So… you’re saying it wasn’t rough sex?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m saying… it wasn’t the kind of sex you’re imagining.”

 

 

Well, Jin talked.
In broad strokes, at least.
Somehow, swallowing his pride, he managed to explain the gist of what had happened.

“I can’t believe it, Jin… but you wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

Xiaoyu looked at him with an expression that had gone soft and distant, as if she were mourning something she’d been carrying quietly for years. Jin sat hunched in one of the kitchen chairs, trying to fold his entire existence into the smallest space possible.

She noticed the mug of instant coffee he had placed for her and took a tentative sip.

“So... you’re both a man and a woman?”

“I even went to the gynecologist,” Jin replied, as if recalling a dream too strange to dispute. “They didn’t kick me out... So yeah. I guess I’m shaped that way.”

Xiaoyu stirred the dark liquid in her cup, eyes lowered, letting the silence stretch before finally aiming straight for the center of the storm.

“I didn’t ask earlier, but… was it really—really—with Hwoarang?”

Jin nodded with the look of someone swallowing a live insect. “It was. Yeah... it was.”

“I see...” Her obsidian eyes shimmered with a sudden glaze of moisture. “You know, I always wondered... if maybe you liked me.”

Jin didn’t answer right away. He ran his tongue over his dry bottom lip, taking a breath as he sorted through the right combination of words. Then, finally:

“I tried,” he said quietly. “I think I tried to like you. I was trying to be… normal.”

Xiaoyu wiped her nose with the back of her hand and gave several brisk, bobbing nods, her twin tails swaying like a metronome of acceptance.

“It’s okay. I’ve always known you were kind of… weird.”

Jin let out a faint snort through his nose—not quite offended, but not quite amused either.

Adjusting the donut cushion under her with a dramatic wiggle, Xiaoyu lifted her chin with a mischievous gleam. “To be honest, I’ve always thought Hwoarang was a delinquent who didn’t deserve you.”

She grinned. “But if there ever came a day when you broke down your walls… I figured he’d be the one lurking closest to the wreckage.”

Jin gave a small, bitter smile.
“Yeah… but I think I treated him like crap.”

“What? You broke up already?” she gasped, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“We weren’t... dating,” Jin muttered, rubbing his arm with a vague look of embarrassment.

“Oh, come on!” Xiaoyu shrieked.
“Do you enjoy walking into complex situations just to wallow in them? Clean it up before it festers into something even worse! You’ve reached the point where shame is a luxury you can no longer afford!”

It hit him like a slap—and it stung.

 

 

---

 

 

The time may have arrived, sooner and more suddenly than he’d expected, for him to face what he'd been avoiding all along.

 

They stood facing each other like two stray cats who’d fought behind a dumpster—no one quite sure who had won, only that something primal had been shared. Technically, it wasn’t a back alley, but the corner of a training gym, and it wasn’t a dumpster, but a pair of titanium dumbbells—each weighing twenty kilos—that they had both reached for at the same time. Their faces drew close, so close their noses nearly touched as they crouched over the same weight. 

“…Seems like everything’s still functioning,” Hwoarang said, eyeing Jin from head to toe like he was running a system diagnostic.

Surprisingly, his expression was neat, almost disarmingly composed—no sarcasm, no forced politeness. Just that usual, neutral kind of beauty he carried so effortlessly. Which, in its own way, only made it feel more unnatural.

Jin knew it was petty of him to feel irritated by that. And yet, for some reason, it bothered him.

Before he could stop himself, his hand shot out and gripped Hwoarang’s wrist tightly. His voice came out stiff, almost brittle.
"I'm sorry," he muttered.

He didn’t want to waste the chance. Not this time.

“…Wait, for real?” Hwoarang blinked, glancing down at Jin’s hand on his wrist.
He didn’t shake it off. “Is that—like, are you trying to say goodbye forever but in a poetic, Kazama kind of way…?”

Jin held his gaze. “It’s not anything weird. I just… realized I crossed a line last time. I was too harsh. I shouldn’t have been.”

“Whoa… Nah, don’t sweat it. Honestly, that’s part of your twisted charm,” Hwoarang smirked. “And hey, you were in the middle of your lost-virgin crisis phase. Classic Bastard Jin.”

Jin glared at him. He was already regretting this. Every damn time—he always ruined things this way. “Are you really going to keep going with that?”

“I’m not messing around. I just got flustered!” Hwoarang said quickly, stepping closer and straightening up. “Sorry. You being that straightforward—it’s kind of terrifying. I thought… maybe you were trying to settle things, hit the reset button, go back to being rivals…”

It was a lifeline, a way out—but to Jin, it also felt like a carefully laid trap.

“Ah… I…”

If he said yes, everything would go back to how it was. Or at least, it would look that way. Like normalcy could just be slotted back into place.

But that wasn’t how things worked anymore. Something had already broken, and whatever they had now… it wasn’t what they’d had before. It had become something else.

He inhaled deeply. Hwoarang smelled faintly of menthol and hot water—Jin remembered that from that night. He didn’t have much of a body odor. Strange the things you remember.

“…That’s going too far,” Jin said at last.

Hwoarang squinted slightly, his head tilted just enough to glance up at him from beneath his lashes.

Jin looked back at him, dead-on. “If you can still stand me… if you haven’t completely given up on me. If there’s even a chance you want… more.”

“Oh. So that’s… wow. That’s what this is.”

Color rose to Hwoarang’s cheeks. He shifted his gaze awkwardly from side to side, his lips twitching as if trying to form words—but he never looked away from Jin.

“Hwoarang, I’m not trying to pressure you…”

“Come here,” he said suddenly, pressing his thumb to the center of his chest like bracing himself.

“…What if we started over? Not from zero, but… from a place of understanding. As friends. As equals.” Jin’s voice was calm, solemn, like he was giving weight to each word by sheer will.

Hwoarang threw his head back dramatically, spreading his palms over his chest like he was trying to catch droplets of burning oil. He looked like a man fighting off emotional whiplash.

Jin narrowed his eyes, uneasy. “Did I mess it up again?”

“No, no—it’s okay, Kazama―Jin,” Hwoarang said, peeking at him with one eye open and a face full of complicated pity. “You’ve got so much emotional repression, your feelings have compound fractures. I get it.”

Jin bristled. He couldn’t even deny that one—it was too accurate. Still…

“This isn’t a downgrade to just friends,” Jin said, exhaling as if steadying himself.
“I remember everything that happened. What I want now is to build trust—with the understanding that, eventually, we’ll move forward. I want to take care of you. Take things slow. I’m not looking for something fleeting or reckless. That’s… well, that’s where I stand. Unless you—"
He faltered.
"—unless you feel differently.”

“Oh my god,” Hwoarang breathed, like someone who had just been pulled back from the brink. The corners of his mouth twitched, his eyes narrowing, visibly fighting back laughter he could barely contain.

“No, I like that. Honestly… it sounds more like us, you know?”

Jin let himself relax, just a little, and smiled—small, faint, but unmistakably real.

“Whoa…” Hwoarang blinked, slightly dazed, as if seeing something rare and precious.
“Hey, Jin. You just smiled, didn’t you? That was… actually kind of beautiful.”

His voice softened, almost reverent, but in that familiar, teasing way that only made Jin’s ears burn.

“So… under this new ‘slow and careful’ arrangement, are even little kisses off-limits? Like, do we have to wait for rice harvesting season in Korea and Japan for permission?”

“You… want to kiss me?” Jin asked, genuinely thrown, as if the thought had blindsided him.

“Well, yeah. Obviously.” Hwoarang frowned, as though Jin had just asked whether the sky was blue.

“I see…” Jin’s brows drew together, his expression shifting back toward serious calculation.
“The deadline seems to be approaching faster than I anticipated.” He folded his arms, breathing deeply, his chest expanding with the weight of deliberation.
“There’s no strict rule against it, but... mouth-to-mouth contact still feels a bit too intimate. Too soon.”

Hwoarang let out a strained, rasped breath, his voice tighter than he intended.
“…Yeah… you’re right,” He finally managed, forcing his voice into something that sounded casual.

“…Cheeks are permitted,” Jin announced, his tone grave and oddly formal, as though declaring official policy.

“Wow. How scandalous,” Hwoarang grinned, eyes sparkling.

Without missing a beat, he stepped in, slipped his arms around Jin, and pressed his lips firmly against his sharp cheekbone.

Jin let out a quiet, unexpected chuckle—low, soft, almost boyish. Emboldened, Jin carefully placed a tentative hand on Hwoarang’s waist, and in return, brushed his lips, －just barely against Hwoarang’s cheek.

Warm.