Chapter Text
SEUNGMIN.
I hope wherever you are, you're still alive. Happy birthday, HHJ.
I hit "tweet" before I could rethink posting, but on stan twitter no one cared how desperate you seemed. That's why we were all there. Crying in circles, screenshotting crumbs and praying to the algorithms that someone, somewhere, knew where he was.
HHJ Missing.
One year, seven months, sixteen days. But who's counting?
I was.
Me and probably the few fans that hadn't moved on.
My fingers hovered over the screen, resisting the urge to delete the tweet. The likes rolled in almost immediately—mutuals, fan accounts, bots. One account replied in under a minute.
@honeyvenom:
I miss him so bad today it hurts. do you think he's really gone?
I stared at it. Swallowed.
@ snakebitebaby (me):
Still can't believe someone that bright could just vanish.
Another comment chimed in.
@ hhjsrightthings
Someone said they saw him in thailand but it was probs fake :( stay safe HHJ we love you)
I liked the reply but didn't answer. Rumors were useless. HHJ had vanished like smoke in the rain—one night he was on stage in Jakarta with that cut-glass stare, long black hair tied at his nape, body wrapped in ropes for the concept performance.
Then... nothing. No press release. No updates. His company pretended he never existed.
They only released a statement about having nothing to do with his disappearance and how the last information they knew about him was that he'd lost a family member very dear to him.
I tapped open my saved media folder instead—clips, fancams, edits—anything with HHJ in it. It was all I had left of him.
Just pixels.
But what pixels they were.
HHJ was the kind of idol who didn't just exist on stage he was the stage. Dancing, singing , Rapping he maxed them all
He wasn't even part of the original lineup of his group. That's what made it worse. He came later. A secret addition. Introduced during a live stage without warning. Just a caption: "Introducing: HHJ." No last name. No real name.
Just three letters and a performance that stole the breath from everyone's lungs.
He stood out among his members. His voice immaculate, rap lines were clean with just the right rasp, notes never slipping even once. But it was his dancing that made the world shut up. Fluid, animal, charged with something unholy. Choreographers were probably scared of him.
And his eyes...
Those eyes.
Snake-like gleaming with dark intensity, like they weren't meant to be seen under stage lights. Add to that his slit brows and that ridiculously long black hair—always half-tied, he was seen like some ancient god who came back to life to rewrite his ink written story all over again but this time he was the writer.
The way people talked about him , made it seem like we knew him fully but the truth was, No one had ever seen his full face. Ever. He wore either a regular face mask or maxed face decor at every public appearance—mesh masks, layered makeup, jewelry chains, lenses and fans still went wild for him proving that he didn't need looks, he was talent.
People assumed he wasn't human, probably a cult member, part of the illuminati, he definitely sold his soul to be able to move like that, shapeshifter, alien.
Couldn't blame those comments.
No one knew anything about him so they made up conspiracy theories to justify the fact that they can't be him.
And now?
Now he was gone.
The comments got worse.
'His time is probably up.'
'He's dead.'
'I knew he wasn't human that's why he didn't last long in the industry.'
'The illuminati probably claimed his soul.'
There were countless unimaginable assumption about his disappearance on those news site, except the fact that he might actually be alive and living among us but we don't know that because we didn't know what he looked like.
Or maybe he was kidnapped and killed brutally to the extent that his body couldn't be recognized.
People stopped talking about it after a few months.
The fansites and fandom.
Everyone moved on.
Almost.
If he was walking around right now in Seoul with a different haircut and a different name—I'd know. I'd feel it in my bones.
You can't unsee a god once you've looked directly to him.
That's what HHJ was.
My god.
My phone buzzed, it was another comment but from a fan who had moved on.
@ Ilikekpopduh: I don't know why these insufferable solo stans still praise HHJ after he abandoned his group members to join a cult. Proud to say I never liked him. So happy he's gone so rhe other members can shine.
@ snakebitebaby (me): Don't spread misinformations on my page.
Blocked.
Cult or not
None of that mattered. Not to me.
What mattered was that the world had lost him, and no one knew how.
My eyes burned. I rubbed at them with the heel of my palm, suddenly too aware of the stiff world around me.
Then, my phone lit up. The name on the screen made my stomach drop.
CHAN Hyung calling...
My thumb trembled as I answered.
"Hyung?"
"I'm coming tonight," he said, no hello. No warmth.
I knew what that meant. What coming meant.
"Okay. I'll get ready."
"Be clean," he said. Then the line went dead.
I lowered the phone and stared at my reflection in the black phone screen for a moment then I stood up from the bed that I've been rotting on since Chan was gone.
I felt tension rise in my spine like a leash being tugged.
Be clean.
I walked to the bathroom. I peeled off my hoodie and boxers, tossed them to the marble floor, and stepped into the rainfall shower.
The water was hot enough to scald. I didn't care. I lathered every part of myself like I was scrubbing the sudden built up tension off layer by layer. Between my legs, behind my ears, every inch that he might tell me to touch.
I shaved smooth. Smeared oil over my skin until it glowed, then I knelt on the bath mat and pressed the silicone bulb of the douche bottle against me, cleaning myself out.
No music.
Just the sound of water and my breath.
Chan liked me clean and loose. Silent unless spoken to. And I gave him what he wanted and he gave me a room in his mansion that was like an apartment in exchange—a gorgeous one-room space high above, with floor-to-ceiling windows to see city view, I wasn't allowed to open it though.
I wasn't allowed to do almost anything.
It was boring but i had it all. A velvet bed. Books I didn't ask for. Designer clothes, uninterrupted internet and no kitchen.
That was always taken care of. I didn't cook. I didn't go out. I didn't feed myself unless it came through the locked delivery hatch in the wall that was given to me through his men
The world was too dangerous for someone like me.
Wrapped in a towel, I stepped back into the room.
The lights tinted gold. I opened the dresser drawer and chose something black and soft—a mesh lace set I knew he liked. The bralette hugged tight over my ribs. The panties were nothing but air and suggestion.
All of these were Chan's preferences not mine.
I spritzed perfume over my neck and inner thighs then covered it all up with a robe.
Another performance.
I sat down on the velvet stool by the mirror, eyes catching the reflection of a silver frame on the shelf behind me.
HHJ.
It was one of the last fansite photos before his disappearance. His hair was swept back and his body drenched in sweat after his wild solo performance.
"You'd never let yourself be caged, would you?" I brushed my hand on the photo before covering it with a cloth.
Chan must not see.
I laid back on the bed, bare arms against the cold sheets, phone loose in one hand. The screen's still on, glowing a little too bright in the dusky light filtering through the window.
I tap the edge of the phone against my chest, just below the collarbone, and exhale slowly. The air smells faintly of lavender still—leftover from the soap I used earlier. I'd taken my time showering. I always do, even if there's no one to see me.
There actually isn't.
Chan's the only one who comes in. No one else. Just him. Always him.
I hear names sometimes—shouted through the hallway, clipped orders in a low, gravelly voice. "Jae, move the crate." "Minho, back door." I hear them. I know their names. But not their faces.
I've never seen their faces.
In Two years, I've never stepped out past the threshold. There could be an entire lake out there and I wouldn't know.
Just this room.
This bed. This window. That bookshelf with the crooked second shelf. The tiny corner desk, still scratched from when I dropped a fork on it.
I shift on the bed, roll over just enough to see out the window. Not much of a view—just some gray sky, the top of a tree swaying and little view from the get if you stretched you neck well enough.
My last encounter with Chan he said he had to "meet with some business partners ." Never tells me who they are or why he was going but I knew it was never good.
I pull my knees up, rest my chin on them, and hold my phone up like I'm checking something—but I'm not. Just staring and scrolling my thumb slowly up and down the lock screen.
Maybe I should do something for him.
Something nice.
Maybe I could... cook? No, stupid—food's taken care of. Chan has that chef. What's her name again? I don't know if I ever knew. She's not here, just... sends it. Somehow. It just shows up. On time. Always the same white containers with the black seals. Always still warm.
Maybe I could draw something.
I snort.
What would he even do with a drawing?
I don't know what he likes. Besides keeping me here.
I lay back again, arms spread out across the bed like I'm trying to measure it. My eyes start to drift. Phone still in hand, the edge pressing into my ribs. The sun's dimming now, shadows stretch across the floor like someone spilled ink.
It's quiet again.
So quiet—
BANG.
I bolt upright.
Was that a dream?
Hearing gunshots around the vicinity wasn't alien to me
BANG BANG.
The phone slides off my chest and hits the floor with a thud.
I froze.
There's a long, ringing silence after that.
Then—another burst.
My hands, cold and clammy, as I shoved myself toward the window .
Then I saw the guard at the front gate. The one with the thick neck, he was on the ground. Facedown. A slow red pool creeping out beneath him.
He was shot dead.
No
My heart kicked hard in my chest. I stumbled backward, bumping into the edge of the bed. I pressed my palm against the wall to steady myself.
Someone had gotten past him in the house.
Then I heard it.
Voices. Muffled. Fast. Down the hall.
"In here! In here!"
"Wait—wait—I think it's this one!"
"This one?"
My heart was beating so fast and loud I could barely process anything to do in that moment.
I nearly slipped as I ran straight to the closet. Pulled the door open, stepped in, closed it behind me, dropped to my knees between piles of folded hoodies and the shoeboxes.
I fumbled for my phone, nearly dropped it, and stabbed at the screen until I saw the contact list.
Chan hyung.
I hit call.
Ring.
Ring.
"Pick up, pick up, please—pick up—"
Ring.
Nothing.
Again. Again.
Still nothing.
I was shaking. My thumb trembled so hard I could barely hit redial. My knee bounced against the closet floor. I was whispering "Please" over and over without even meaning to.
Then I heard screeching tires.
Loud. Several.
I jumped up, nearly slammed my head into the closet shelf, and ran back to the window, just in time to see three black SUVs slam to a stop outside the front gate.
Doors flew open.
Chan.
He was already halfway out of the car, jacket whipping behind him like a cape. He didn't wait. Just ran—straight into the house with a gun.
Two others followed—then more.
One of them stopped, dropped to one knee beside the dead guard. Touched his neck. Shouted something back to Chan, who was already disappearing through the main doors.
I turned my head, eyes wide.
The footsteps I'd heard downstairs—those weren't downstairs anymore.
They were up here now.
I could hear boots thudding against the wood. Doors slamming open. Splintering. Crashing. Someone shouting and grunting.
They were breaking through doors.
And the crashing got nearer.
Chan once said. "No one gets through without my say," but from the way other door were brought down so easily, I panicked.
I could feel the floorboards quiver beneath me.
I ran to the dresser. Yanked open every drawer—socks, papers, useless cords. I shoved everything out, hand burrowing toward the back of the last one
My fingers closed around metal.
I pulled out a gun.
There was a note taped to the bottom of the drawer—scratched in Chan's writing:
"Only if you have to. I'll come for you."
I looked around again. Then grabbed the kitchen knife I'd left on the desk from lunch and stuffed it into the waistband of my pants.
I backed up when the doorknob rattled once.
Then—
BOOM.
Someone kicked it.
A second kick. Louder. Wood splintering.
Third.
They were breaking it down.
The lock gave out with a scream of metal.
The door slammed open, bursting off its frame, and the two masked men charged inside like hounds let off a leash.
I raised the gun—tried to—but my hands were shaking so hard it felt like the barrel would snap off.
Not again.
Not again.
Please, not again.
I'd seen this before. The shadows bursting in. The noise. The yelling. The gun. I didn't remember where, but I remembered the fear. The exact, perfect shape of it.
I couldn't breathe.
They weren't expecting someone else to be in here but as they saw I was armed, and it made them angrier.
One of them barked "GET HIM!"
I didn't pull the trigger. I couldn't. My body refused to obey. Using a gun wasn't strange to me but somehow my fingers clutched the gun like it was a foreign object dead in my hands.
One swift movement then they were on me.
I hit the ground hard, shoulder-first. The air cracked out of my lungs. One of them pinned my wrist, the other kicked me—right in the ribs. Once. Twice.
"Tell me where did they keep him!"
I screamed. I don't know what I said. Maybe I didn't say anything. My mouth was open but my mind was collapsing inward like a dying star.
They grabbed the gun, ripped it from my grip.
Another kick.
"WHERE IS HE?!"
"I don't—I don't know what you're talking about!" I choked out.
"Don't play dumb, you little shit!"
One of them slammed the butt of the pistol against my shoulder. My arm went numb.
"Where did they keep Soo hyuk , tell us now!"
"I don't think he knows," the second guy muttered. "He looks like he's also a prisoner here."
"No that bastard wouldn't keep a prisoner here with his own gun."
"Then let's take him with us," one of them said. "Leverage."
No.
No not again.
"Good idea."
"For him to be in here like this? He's gotta be someone special."
"His boyfriend or something?"
Another presence rushed into the room—
My eyes caught the boots first, my hope that it was Chan but as I lifted up my head it was someone else.
He stood in the doorway. His face was hidden behind a black mask, matte and seamless. He wore all black leather.
His head was shaved down close, but the little bit of hair he had was bleached blonde.
He raised his gun. "Let him go."
The two men froze.
"You move," he growled, "and we kill him."
The tall man didn't flinch. But his voice lowered even more. "Drop your weapons or I'll shoot."
"Do it and we'll shoot him right now."
"On your Knees now." He shouted.
"It's two of us and one of you, how about you put your weapon down and we'll leave the body."
A long pause.
Then the man gave me a quick glance before he dropped his gun.
"Let's go."
They shoved me down onto the floor and raised their guns at the masked man as they backed toward the hall.
He watched stepping aside slowly so they'd leave.
As they stepped into the doorway and turned to run, he bent down to retrieve his weapon.
And for a second, his eyes met mine.
Those eyes—I know those eyes.
I knew him
I whispered it without even thinking.
"H-H-J..."
He immediately froze, his eyes looked straight at me, caught off guard.
I stared at him, confused watching his whole demeanor change in that moment
Then—
"YOU LET THEM ESCAPE?!" Chan voice roared like thunder from the hall.
The masked man flinched, almost dropped his weapon, then took off—running after Chan, disappearing down the corridor.
Leaving me there.
I didn't get up right away.
I couldn't.
My hands were trembling so badly they didn't feel like mine. My ribs ached.
HHJ.
I whispered it again under my breath, like saying it softer would make it less insane.
No
HHJ.
That was him.
Even through his mask, even under adrenaline, even after being kicked and screamed at and nearly shot—my brain still snapped to him like a magnet pulled from deep water.
Just... those eyes.
He used to look into cameras with that same gaze.
I've stared at those eyes for years.
Watched every fancam. Every blurry backstage video.
Screenshotted them. Zoomed in. Enhanced. Saved.
I knew them better than my own reflection.
And when I said his name he flinch and was in shock like a like someone who was caught.
He was terrified of being recognized.
So... what does that mean?
My breathing sped up again.
What does that mean?
Why is HHJ in this house?
What happened to his hair?
Why is he slimmer?
Why is he with Chan?
With Chan's men?
With—them?
The idea spun like a sick carousel in my head.
He vanished from the public eye almost two years ago.
I pressed my back against the wall and forced myself up. My legs wobbled, but I gritted my teeth and stood anyway.
Gunshots still rang out in the distance—downstairs, maybe outside. It echoed strangely now, muffled behind panic.
I stumbled toward the door. Or what was left of it.
Splinters littered the floor. The hinge hung sideways.
I dropped to one knee, shoved my shoulder under the top edge, and lifted the broken slab upright as best I could—leaning it back into place, just enough to cover the doorway. I braced it with the nightstand. Slid my chair in front of it. It wouldn't hold.
But it was something.
I slumped back down, knees pulled to my chest, hands still trembling.
And I just sat there. Listening.
Bang Chan's voice boomed from somewhere below.
"YOU LET THEM ESCAPE?!"
"YOU STUPID FUCKK AGHK!"
"...YOU HAD ONE JOB. ONE!!"
Another voice echoed something back.
Then—
"HOW MANY—HOW MANY OF OUR GUYS?!"
No answer I could hear. Just footsteps and scrambling.
They were still fighting.
Still counting the bodies.
And all I could do...
was sit there...
with his eyes still burned into the back of my mind.
Forgotten.
No one came to check up on me till dark, I took care of myself. I wasn't special. A wet cloth pressed to my split lip. My ribs ached every time I moved. I tried not to look at the bruises forming on my arm—purple.
I dabbed gently, holding my breath.
Then I heard the footsteps.
The door, still only half-attached, creaked as it opened further.
Chan.
He stepped inside. Black boots, dark slacks, white shirt speckled with something I didn't want to identify. No jacket. His sleeves were rolled up.
I sat up straighter.
"Hyung..." I said, my voice scratchy.
He didn't respond. Just looked at me.
Walked toward me slowly till he stopped in front of me.
I sat there stiff, trying to figure out what version of him had come back with those footsteps.
He tilted his head just a little. Then—
"Did they hurt you?"
I nodded slightly. "My ribs and here." I pointed to all the places that hurt. "I can barely move."
He reached out and put a hand under my chin, tilting my face upward, examining me like something he'd dropped.
His thumb brushed a smear of blood near my jaw. He didn't flinch at the sight of it.
Then he said, almost gently:
"Get in the bed."
I blinked.
"—what?"
"Get. In the bed."
My stomach dropped. I knew what it meant.
"I don't... I don't feel like it," I hesitated.
His eyes narrowed—not angry, just calculating.
"You don't feel like it?"
He scoffed once, turned away, walked toward the broken door, then slowly back again. His boots echoed.
He stopped in front of me. His head tilted to the side like he was considering how best to respond.
Then he closed his eyes.
When he opened them, they were colder.
"You owe me your life," he said flatly. "Did you forget that?"
My mouth opened, but I didn't know what to say.
He reached into his waistband and pulled out a small, matte-black pistol.
Before I could react, he pressed it under my chin.
I stopped breathing.
"Do I need to remind you?" he asked.
"I'm—I'm just not in the right headspace," I stammered. "I'm having so much anxiety right now, I—Chan, I was beaten, I'm trying to just—."
"I don't care about the beatings, you had a gun but you were too much of a pussy to use it. So I don't care about the beating or how you feel you caused that upon yourself."
"I don't think I can do it with this much pain. "
"You know how much I hate people going against my orders."
"I'm not—" my voice cracked. "I'm just... I'm not ready."
He pressed the gun harder under my jaw and I could feel my heartbeat in my ears.
"Please." I swallowed hard. My throat burned. "I'm not telling you no," I whispered. "I'm just saying —"
"Who am I to you?" he asked.
I hesitated. I knew what he wanted.
"You're... my savior."
He nodded.
"If your savior needed something, what would you do?"
I gulped.
"Anything,"
"I didn't hear you."
"I'd do anything." I said louder.
He smiled—not warmly. Just... satisfied.
"Good."
Then he nodded toward the bed.
"Get in."
And I did.
Not because I wanted to.
But because saying no wasn't an option and I knew exactly how far his patience extended.