Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Detective, we really have to stop meeting like this.” 

The drawl of his voice, light and whiskey smooth, clashes in stark violence with the bruising smattered along his jaw, the day-old blood of his split lip. 

Jeonghan ignores him, pulling up a chair to the table, his only answer the sound of steel grating against cement.

“Choi Seungcheol. Born in Daegu, August 8, 1991. Aged 28.” His gaze flickers sharply upwards from the file open in front of him.

“Thirty-four counts of first degree murder – at least on official record.”

“Are we roleplaying now, Jeonghan-ssi? Is this the part where I ask what a man with a face like yours is doing in a place like this?” Seungcheol leans forward conspiratorially, lips curving as his handcuffs clink against the metal surface of the table. Jeonghan resists the urge to grit his teeth. “Am I going to need a safe word?” 

“Here’s an idea: let’s do a scene where you confess to murdering half a dozen known associates of the SM crime syndicate two days ago.” 

Seungcheol frowns slightly, expression tensing with ersatz consideration. In the dim light of the interrogation room, the rugged, battered state of his face only accentuates the sharply cut line of his jaw. The grainy photograph taken from security cam footage pinned up on the station’s murder board has never done him justice. 

“That’s not how this works, detective.” 

And Jeonghan’s patience snaps, just a fraction. 

“Answer the damn question. Did you, or did you not kill seven men on the twenty-seventh of March?” 

Seungcheol hums, the links of his handcuffs jangling as he laces his fingers together. In his relatively short career as a contract killer, those hands have garnered a kill count numbering in the hundreds. And it’s been climbing every day this bastard evades arrest and incarceration.  

“How’s your arm, Jeonghan-ssi?”

Jeonghan opens his mouth to bite out a vicious dismissal only to falter, momentarily caught off-guard by the abrupt turn of his deflection. He purses his lips, releasing a slow, measured exhale as he rearranges his expression into a mask of blank neutrality. 

“As with everything else to do with me,” Jeonghan answers, his voice reaching arctic temperatures of cold. “That’s none of your business.”

“For what it’s worth, I made absolutely sure to aim for somewhere non-fatal.”

Jeonghan abruptly snaps the file in his hand shut.  

“That’s a nice sentiment, coming from the city’s highest paid common thug.” 

“I prefer mercenary.” Seungcheol smirks. “And I’m not sure how I should feel about the implication that I’m easy.” 

“What else would you call selling out your murderous abilities to any third-rate criminal with some money to burn?” 

Choi falls quiet for a moment, lips pressing together as he lays his palms on the surface of the table before them, a gesture of compromise. Jeonghan’s seen men like him come out with their hands high and empty only to turn and stab someone in the back. Choi Seungcheol, for all his lazy smiles and long-lashed glances redolent with innuendo and flirtation, isn’t a stupid man. You don’t get this far in his line of business without half a brain on you and a healthy degree of ruthless survival instinct.

“You’ve got a filthy mouth on you, Detective.” 

Jeonghan’s fingers itch with the temptation to rip that smug, suggestive smile from his face. Instead, he jams the pause button on the camera recording the interrogation. 

“I’m fine, by the way, thanks for asking. You managed to avoid any major internal organs but I’ll have an impressive scar to commemorate the day.”

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” Jeonghan replies without missing a beat, voice dipping slightly into a hiss. The first, and only, real indication of rage flickering sharp in his eyes.  

“But you didn’t.”

Seungcheol leans in, his smile slipping from his face and revealing the first real glimpse of something akin to truth. “This is an interrogation, isn’t it? So, here are the facts: Yoon Jeonghan, star detective of the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency, graduated first in his class at the academy with the highest scores recorded in the last twenty years for marksmanship.”

Jeonghan feels the blood in his veins turn to ice. 

“I wouldn’t be alive right now if you didn’t deliberately miss. And that, Detective, is the one question you can’t answer.” 

No. Jeonghan thinks. No, I don’t miss.  

“I don’t miss.” Detective Yoon says, his voice low, soft as crushed velvet. Yoon Jeonghan is suppressing the urge to wrap his fingers around this man’s throat in one tightly curled fist

“Ah, was it mercy then? You hesitated.”  

In between heartbeats, he can feel fury rising hot and thick in his throat, threatening to cloud rationality and clear judgement. Jeonghan has dedicated his life to the SMPA, four years in training and six years on the force. He’s missed countless birthday parties and anniversaries, sacrificed relationships and time spent with family and friends and lovers, for his work. He’s put criminals and monsters behind bars that would make Choi Seungcheol look like an honest, upstanding member of society. Who is this — this lowly, reprehensible, glorified assassin to accuse him of — of hesitating?

“I intended for it to be fatal.”

“But it wasn’t, and here I stand breathing. All because of you. Really, I should thank y—” 

It surprises him, how swiftly his body acts without his permission, how easily it snaps forwards like tension releasing from a rubber band, lunging across the table like the physical manifestation of a snarl. His fingers are white, pale as bone, digging into Choi Seungcheol’s jaw with threadbare restraint. He grips the man’s chin like he could snap his neck clean in half — and he could. He could. 

It’s what a man like Choi Seungcheol would deserve. 

Jeonghan has been at this game for long enough to know that the criminal justice system isn’t enough for the lowest common denominator of humanity’s worst. Too many have learned to grease the wheels, to slip through the cracks, always one step ahead of the evidence, the system, the prosecution. Justice isn’t enough when there are men like him walking amongst them with that much blood on his hands. It would take retribution, divine intervention, for someone like him to get what he deserves.

Jeonghan holds this man’s face in his hand as if he can feel his fate, the balance of his life, pulsing beneath his fingers. He looks him dead in the eye, right through the anarchy of bewilderment, rage, and poorly concealed arousal seething in his expression, through him and the artifice of devil-may-care assassin without a care in the world. 

Beneath every thug, every murderer and common criminal, there’s still a man somewhere. Men become monsters because they think they have nothing to fear. 

Jeonghan has always been exceptionally adept at finding that fear, at pressing down on it like an open wound until the line between fear and cowardice blurs. In another life, he would’ve made an excellent interrogator for the nation’s intelligence service.

“I know that you don’t particularly value your life, Choi Seungcheol-ssi; we share that sentiment. But that is where our similarities begin and end.” Jeonghan lets his grip tighten a fraction, enough to draw a wince from the man. “You are a dead man walking. We both know who you work for, and what you owe them. I spared your life because you are more valuable to me alive than dead.” 

A muscle jumps beneath Jeonghan’s touch in Seungcheol’s jaw as he exhales. 

“To you, huh?” 

“To the agency.” Jeonghan’s eyes narrow. “There are several ongoing investigations surrounding your associates.” 

“Tell me something, detective.” Choi says, despite being in no position to be asking questions. Jeonghan presses his lips together, swallows down his sigh. “Do they know?”

“Know what?”  

“That you had the chance to bring me in, but didn’t.” 

Something dark and indecipherable flickers across Choi’s face, and against Jeonghan’s fingertips, he feels his pulse beating loud, urgent. There’s a high, distant ringing noise in Jeonghan’s ears, the dissonant whining of tinnitus that you’re meant to compartmentalise with the job, another part of police work that’s buried amidst the paperwork and bureaucracy. He looks at Seungcheol, the widening of his eyes right before he speaks, the air between them warping strangely as his mouth parts to speak words that Jeonghan can’t hear. 

“Because you let me go.”

Jeonghan’s vision bleeds red. And then there’s red, red red red dripping from Choi Seungcheol’s mouth, staining his lips and teeth. (Her ribbon, her ribbon was red, the little loops of the ribbon and her braid, the red staining her dress her  —) Pain blooms from his knuckles, and there’s red dripping down his fingers, too. The door slams open and Seokmin is charging forwards to tackle Jeonghan, arms coming around to lock against his chest, to keep him from swinging another punch before Jeonghan can wipe the blood from his hand. 

“Get him out of here, Jesus Christ. What a fucking mess.”

“That’s assault and battery, how could you leave that man alone in here with my client?”

“Detective Lee, get Detective Yoon out of here!”

“You’re off this case until further notice. I expect to see both of you in my office immediately after I clean up this disaster.” 

Everything blurs into noise and chaos and indiscriminate sound, an octave higher than the ringing searing through Jeonghan’s ears. 

In the eye of the storm, surrounded by the commotion of Jeonghan’s direct superiors and his own lawyer, Choi Seungcheol smiles at him and gives him a two-fingered salute right before Jeonghan is shoved out the door.  

-----

“Fancy meeting you here, Detective Yoon.” 

Jeonghan wants nothing more than to put his head through the wall, or Choi Seungcheol’s. At this point, it might be easier to focus on option number one.

“That’s a nasty habit to have for someone who’s got such a pretty face.” 

Jeonghan inhales, and pretends he can’t see or hear anything other than the smoke curling in front of his face. Even though it doesn’t have the effect on him it should anymore, the nicotine still acts like a sedative. It seeps through his shirt and his skin, into his bloodstream where the taste of ash lingers for hours afterwards.  

“Not gonna talk?” From the corner of his eye, Choi shrugs, gravel crunching underfoot as he moves to lean against the wall beside Jeonghan. 

How he has the audacity to show up at a known cop bar in Gangnam is beyond Jeonghan. But then, he’s stopped questioning the things that Choi Seungcheol does or doesn’t do.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to talk.” Choi glances skywards, at the sunset beginning to limn the tops of the skyscrapers in red-gold and violet. “I wanted to apologize actually. I heard you got kicked off your case.” 

Fuck you, Jeonghan thinks, pettiness twisting like a butterfly knife in his chest as he exhales. Fuck you and your apology. 

“I didn’t mean for what happened in the interrogation room to happen.” Choi continues. “I guess that means I’m partly at fault. So, I’m sorry.”  

Jeonghan says nothing, merely presses the cigarette to his lips again, filling his lungs as the sounds of the city fade into a soft blur of lights and traffic. He lets the smoke spill slowly from the parting of his lips, like fog rolling through the air. Choi doesn’t seem to want to take a hint, content to marinate in Jeonghan’s silence and smoke until he speaks or walks away first.  

“Why are you apologizing?” Jeonghan says, still refusing to look at him.

“Because I feel bad.” And it’s that statement, at last, that elicits a frown from Jeonghan, his head swivelling sharply to shoot Choi Seungcheol a filthy look. He’s exceptionally proficient at rendering people quiet, humiliated, fearful for the remnants of their dignity and reputation, with a single look. 

Choi Seungcheol only huffs a laugh, his eyes crinkling as he grins.  

“Don’t look at me like that, I mean it.” Choi arches his brows slightly, and Jeonghan can’t decide if he’s being facetious or fucking flirtatious. Probably both, knowing him. 

It’s this thought that makes Jeonghan stop himself short with an aborted, belated sigh. It’s too comfortable, too familiar. It’s almost vulgar, the way Choi trespasses across the boundaries of what’s right and what’s acceptable, conventional. Choi is a criminal. A hitman. Jeonghan is a detective of the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency. They shouldn’t be speaking at all, let alone trading suggestive quips and banter with an undertone of provocation. It’s dangerous. 

“What do you want from me, Choi Seungcheol?” Jeonghan says, exhaling softly around a lungful of smoke. “You should be out celebrating the fact that I was dismissed from my investigation.” 

“Now why would I want to do that? After all the time and energy you’ve clearly invested into your work?”  

The bastard isn’t getting it, is he. Jeonghan will simply have to speak in plainer terms for him to understand.

“Why are you here?”

“We’re outside a bar. I don’t see any laws against my comings and goings for wanting a drink.” Choi has his hands tucked into his pockets, slouching against the brick wall in a way that’s meant to make him seem less hostile, more harmless. Jeonghan finds his mere existence offensive nonetheless. 

“And I suppose your lawyer got you off with all charges cleared for you to be wandering around here as a free man.” 

“Oh, yes. Jihoon’s very good. Best defence lawyer in the city.” 

“Three guesses as to who’s footing the bill.”

“Nah, Jihoon and I go way back. He’s been bailing me out of the consequences of some of my stupider decisions since we were in university.” 

“Shame.” Jeonghan answers, ashing his cigarette against the wall. “A lawyer with his breadth of expertise could do a lot of good working for the supreme prosecutor’s office.”  

Choi smiles then, and Jeonghan attempts valiantly to ignore the fact that he can distinguish this as a real smile.  

“So, I keep on telling him. But he’s got his own reasons for doing what he does.” 

“We all do, Choi-ssi. It’s what separates the good people from the bad. You can say you do what you do for money, for self-gratification, for the simple joy of killing, but at the end of the day, you do what you do because you can.”  

The smile slides off Choi’s face, and Jeonghan revels in the sight of it. Here it is, the smallest of triumphs, a crack in the armour.  

“It must be easy.” Choi says slowly, his tone one of consideration. “To see the world in black and white. Good and bad, nothing in between. It makes everything easier when there’s only one of two options to take.”

“Of course, there’s a grey area,” Jeonghan snaps, voice sharp. He’s not going to be philosophised at by a criminal with a broken moral compass. “Good and bad is a spectrum. We all have it within us to do good and bad things. What matters is the choices we act on.”

By the time he’s finished speaking, his cigarette has burned itself too near to the filter to take another drag. Disgruntled at being caught off guard like that, he stubs the cigarette against the bricks behind him and flicks it off into the distance. 

“As much as I’d love to continue this debate with you over ethics and morality — neither of which you have — there are better ways of wasting my time.”

Jeonghan dusts off his lapel, fingertips brushing away at some imaginary lint — perhaps even the lingering aftertaste of interacting with someone like Choi Seungcheol — and turns on his heel to leave.

“Detective. Wait.”

Jeonghan pauses, but doesn’t turn.  

“Maybe I can’t change your mind about me, but you should know, I have my reasons, too.”

It’s distracting that Jeonghan can’t see Choi’s face as he speaks, but he isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of turning around when he’s wasted enough time here as it stands.

“Why do you think I was brought in this time around? You think I couldn’t handle a couple small-time officers trained to catch shoplifters and give out parking tickets? I let myself be caught.”

In proper interrogations — ones that don’t end in blood and accusations of harassment and undue violence — the trick lies in the waiting. It isn’t about what you ask, or how you ask your questions, the catch lies in the waiting, the quiet pressing down that compels the suspect to crack with the right answer. People innately want to be heard; it might not be a confession, or an admission of guilt, but they want their story to be heard.

What story does Choi Seungcheol want to spin? 

“I couldn’t think of any other way to contact you without you shutting me down.” Choi pauses, lets out a breath. “You have a target on your back. That’s what I wanted to say. That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to warn you.” 

Jeonghan spins, closes the distance between them on lithe, agile footsteps. His expression, however, is all tightly concealed fury. 

“Is this a threat?” 

“What? No. Not from me, anyway.” Choi answers, no sign of hesitation or immediate deceit. “This isn’t coming from me. I shouldn’t even be here.”

“That’s the first truthful thing you’ve said all day.” 

“Believe whatever you want but I’m telling the truth about this.” The widening of his eyes, the parting of his lips — all things meant to make someone believe he’s telling the truth but Jeonghan is too experienced, too professional, to fall for something this shallowly executed. “There are people who want you dead, Detective. Some of my former clients included.”

“I’m sure lots of people do. I’ve put dozens of criminals behind bars and I intend for you to be one of them.”

Choi’s expression twists, brow furrowing in outright exasperation. “Never with this kind of price on your head. That — the last time we saw each other. You walked into something you can’t even begin to understand the magnitude of.”  

“And what?” Jeonghan says, his words balanced on the edge of a razor-wire. “You’re here to collect a bounty? What am I worth to you? A few hundred thousand —” 

“Fifty million.” 

Choi looks strangely grim as he says it. Fifty million won. Enough to live comfortably for a few years in hiding, or disappear overseas via backchannels and well-connected allies. 

“Fifty fucking million. Do you understand, now, the gravity of the situation you’re in?” 

Jeonghan’s mouth has gone dry, all he can feel is his pulse thudding underneath his tongue, in the centre of his throat like a clenched fist. He might be shaking, or maybe that’s his ribcage rattling with the effort of drawing breath through stubborn, resistant lungs. 

“This city is more fucking corrupt than you know, more than you could possibly understand.” Choi says it like he means it, as if Jeonghan himself hasn’t seen the depths of depravity and inhumanity the people of this city are capable of. “How long do you think it’ll take for them to get to you when it took me less than forty-eight hours?”

“You were chained to a desk in an interrogation room, I’d hardly call that a murder attempt.”

“And now? You think I couldn’t have you dead in under a minute without a trace of my ever being here?” 

Jeonghan looks at Choi, really looks at him, beyond the passably rugged good looks and attractive cut of his jaw and the slight dimples that appear when he smirks or speaks. He looks, and sees a man who is so used to getting what he wants that the concept of jail time is no longer a deterrent. He sees a man who believes himself beyond the reach of justice, beyond punishment. And it makes him want to reach for his gun if only to even the playing field just this once.

“Am I supposed to thank you for not trying to kill me?”

“You should be thanking me for trying to save your life.” Choi snaps back, exasperation heated into molten anger now. 

“And why the fuck would I do that?” Jeonghan bites down on the inside of his cheek so hard he swears he can taste the metallic tang of blood. “Because you think warning me about your own clients putting a price on my head evens the score between us? That my mistake in letting you live made you indebted to me?”  

“You said yourself back in the interrogation room that you let me live because you needed me.”

“For my case, which I am no longer a part of no thanks to you,” Jeonghan spits, fury illuminating his face like a streak of lightning through black sky. “Whatever the fuck you think this is, it isn’t. I don’t need your help. I certainly don’t need you or your abominable, underhanded, criminal ways to get me out of this.”

Choi’s expression goes dark, bitter, and his mouth flat-lines in a way that it hasn’t in all the very brief moments they’ve known each other. 

He takes a step back, hands curling deeper into his pockets. It occurs to Jeonghan suddenly that there could easily be half a dozen weapons concealed on his person beneath that heavy black coat.  

“When you’re lying in a pool of your own blood, remember that I tried to help you.” 

Jeonghan remains silent, turning on his heel so he can be the one to leave first, so that Choi can’t see that his hands are trembling slightly as he crosses his arms over his chest.

----- 

Jeonghan’s never been a deep sleeper. He relishes in his sleep, one of his favourite things to do is to sleep. He might be able to fall asleep wherever there’s a vaguely flat surface but the one thing he’s never been able to do is stay asleep. 

There’s a restlessness to him and the way he sleeps, the way he dreams, that keeps him from falling into the depths of nothingness.

It isn’t easy in the first place to get a full night’s rest as a detective of the SMPA. It feels wrong to sleep when there’s so much more to be done, when there are cold cases languishing in the archives of their headquarters and endless leads to follow up on. Jeonghan understands the concept of a healthy work-life balance, it’s just not something he actively considers necessary for himself.

Ever since that night he nearly killed Choi Seungcheol but didn’t, he hasn’t slept without waking up at least once.

The symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder include hyper vigilance, disorder sleeping patterns, anxiety, reckless and self-destructive behaviour, memories and dreams of the event. Jeonghan has the pamphlets for it, he’s been to the mandatory workshops and seminars. He’s self-medicating with sleeping pills, he’s fine. He’s handling it. 

He dreams every night of the same thing, unfolding in different ways. Sometimes he saves her, sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes it’s him that takes the kill shot, and he doesn’t need to be psychoanalysed to know that the metaphorical gun in his hand means he blames himself. It’s not just in his subconscious, he does blame himself. Every night he dreams of the same thing and wonders over and over, ad infinitum, what would have happened if he’d just been a little faster. 

Tonight, like all the nights before it, he falls into an uneasy, agitated sleep. It’s like his body is fighting him, is just as afraid as his mind is, to fall asleep. Sleep means lack of control, lack of consciousness of his surroundings — it means surrendering to the dark things lurking in the hollows of his mind.  

It’s always this apartment building.  

No. 47D, Eungam-dong. On the outskirts of the city. A quiet, residential area. A neighbour reporting a strange disturbance earlier in the night, the call written off as nothing out of the ordinary until Jeonghan had taken it upon himself to investigate after linking the call to a small string of breaking-and-entering incidents in nearby suburbs. 

He remembers looking at the shoe case outside the door, taking note of the bottom two rows with small shoes in brightly coloured shades of yellow and pink and red.  

He remembers walking into the apartment and seeing the first body. The father face down in the corridor, two bullet-holes with exit wounds straight through his chest. He’d found the mother inside, curled around her little girl, the red of her wounds bleeding seamlessly into her daughter’s red dress. 

Jeonghan had placed his 119 call and then stumbled outside, collapsing onto his knees before throwing up the contents of his stomach. 

This wasn’t even an execution. It was clean-up duty.

They connected the triple homicide to a mercenary associated with the crime syndicate known only by the name SM. They couldn’t prove anything. No one was prosecuted.

Sometimes, he walks into the apartment and the silencer is in his hand. The father goes down without a fight, his last expression frozen in a mask of horror and shock. And then the mother screams, wrapping herself around her little girl as the blood drips and drips. 

The little girl, strangely enough, never cries.

Jeonghan always forgets what she looks like. It’s as if he can’t bear to remember, even after all the photographic evidence and the family photo albums taken from the home.

When Jeonghan opens his eyes tonight into the dream tonight, he finds her looking straight at him, points at him before the mother sees him and his blood goes cold, as if his heart has stopped beating in his chest and all he can taste is metal, copper, ice. He can’t breathe, suddenly, his lungs won’t cooperate with his head or his pulse, and he’s suffocating under this immense weight, this pressure surging through his chest and over him, pulling him down, down down down to his feet, where the blood is, his handprints streaking through the red —

Jeonghan wakes with a start. His face is wet, rivulets dripping down his face as he pulls himself up onto his elbows with a harsh exhale of staggered breath.  

He’s woken up so many early mornings crying it feels unusual now not to. 

He clutches at the glass of water on his bedside table and drinks so swiftly, clumsily, that it splashes over the rim and down his shirt, the coldness seeping straight into his clothes. He sits there, shivering despite the warmth of the blankets drawn up around his waist, for a stretch of time that he loses track of. It could be five, ten, twenty minutes. It’s not until he hears a rustling sound in the hallway of his apartment that he moves.

He isn’t so far gone yet that stray noises in the dark can make him jump and startle. But the hardwood floors of his apartment are prone to creaking given the right amount of pressure applied at certain places. Jeonghan can recognise the sound of a hushed footstep from the creaking of an old building. 

He reaches underneath his pillow for the gun he sleeps with, hand unsteady as he grips it, fingertip pressed against the safety. 

A chill skims down his spine at the thought of his hands trembling too much to make a steady shot. But that’s a problem for later. Right now, he needs to stay alive long enough to figure out who the hell is trying to kill him. 

Jeonghan slips quietly from his bed, feet landing soundlessly on the ground. He darts to his door, pressing himself up against it as it creaks open, and then when the intruder steps across the threshold to clear the room before entering, he slams the door into his face, swinging with a closed fist into the side of the man’s head. He goes down with a muffled grunt, but the impact of the door and Jeonghan’s fist isn’t going to keep him down for long. Jeonghan stops only to kick the gun out of the man’s hand under his bed and far out of reach before stumbling out from his room and whirling to face the door with both pressed hands pressed to his gun. His vision is blurry, everything gone slightly fuzzy and unfocused at the edges. He can’t think, let alone shoot.  

When the man steps out, half of his face bright red and his lip split from Jeonghan’s right hook, he’s eyeing Jeonghan like he’s already dead.

Jeonghan points the gun a little higher, ignoring the way it can’t seem to stay still.  

“That’s enough. Come any closer and I’ll shoot.” 

“Oh, you will, will you?” The man spits a mouthful of blood onto the ground. “And you think you can shoot straight enough before I get my hands on you?”

He’s big, at least a head taller and with the build of a proper thug. Jeonghan’s fast, agile, but there’s no guarantee he can win against sheer size and strength.

Jeonghan lunges first, elbow slamming into the man’s gut as he ducks and weaves around him, light on his feet like a dancer. The man growls, whirling around, slamming into Jeonghan with a punch that skims his shoulder. He reels his hand back for an uppercut, aiming low, and manages to just miss a fist to the face that lands to the left of his ribcage instead. The force against his chest and arm knocks the gun straight from his grip, and Jeonghan hits the ground, buckling onto his knees as he wheezes, gasps for breath.  

He’s too proud to crawl, or to beg, so he gets up into a crouch, struggling through the pain lancing through his chest.

He’s expecting the blow, the sharp, abrupt pressure against his head or neck — somewhere fatal, life-ending. But it never comes. 

Instead there’s the softened click of a silenced pistol, and then the sound of a six foot two man crashing to the floor in a pile of nothing more than bone and flesh now.  

“Now we’re even.” 

It’s the voice he least wanted to hear, tonight of all fucking nights.

Jeonghan looks up, and Choi Seungcheol is standing there all in black, gloved hands curled around a silencer, Jeonghan’s very own fucked-up guardian angel fallen from heaven.  

“C’mon, we’ve gotta go. They’ll send in reinforcements once they’ve realised this one hasn’t gotten the job done.”

Choi Seungcheol stretches out a hand, one that’s snugly fit into a black leather glove, the kind that professional killers and mercenaries wear so as not to get their fingerprints anywhere on the crime scene.

Jeonghan considers turning him away, considers cursing him out and telling him to go to hell, and then he glances at the fallen body now bleeding out onto the floor of his apartment that is now a crime scene for a murder. 

He takes Choi Seungcheol’s hand, his fingers curling around the soft, velveteen leather of his gloves as Seungcheol pulls him up from the ground.

----- 

“Are you going to try and bite my hand off if I touch you?” 

Jeonghan shoots Choi a dirty look, curling around himself marginally tighter from where he's perched on the bed he’s been so graciously offered for the night. They're inside Choi's safe house and everything about this godforsaken place has his hackles raised, his intuition and warning bells sounding alarm bells every time a shadow shifts and flickers in his periphery.

“I’m not an animal. My ribs are probably broken but I’ll live. Unless you’re a medical professional as well as a hitman, I don’t need you to do anything.”  

Choi gives him a long, wordless look, and then shrugs, setting the first aid kit down on the bed between them before taking a seat against the edge of it.

“Suit yourself then.” He murmurs, taking out a roll of bandages and antiseptic and lining them up on the bed. “I’m great at playing nurse, just so you know. I’ve been told I've got perfect bedside manner.”

Choi glances up just to give him a playful wink, one that Jeonghan’s sure has worked on hundreds of people before him. Jeonghan scowls, tightening his arms where they’re folded across his chest.

“Don’t you think it’s very convenient that you show up at the same time as my other would-be assassin?”

“I think I told you less than six hours ago that there would be plenty of people showing up at your doorstep trying to kill you, and yet you did exactly what I warned you not to, and went home anyway as if you were just begging to be shot.” 

“How do I know you weren’t working with that man?” Jeonghan demands, voice sharp. “How do I know you’re not secretly partners and killing him means you don’t have to share his cut of the bounty anymore?” 

“Not to sound like a walking cliché but I work alone.” Choi drawls, blunt but patient. “And really? Not even witness protection? You have a death wish, or something? Tell me now if you do so I don’t have to waste any more of my time protecting someone who clearly has no desire to live.”

Jeonghan snaps his mouth shut with a click that jars his teeth, facing abruptly away from Seungcheol. His vision is still hazy, indistinct, individual details distorting into the same fuzzy watercolour spill. It feels like he’s still dreaming, or half-awake.

“I don’t.” Jeonghan’s gaze shutters. “I don’t. Have a death wish.”

He doesn’t know what shows on his face but the next thing he hears is a rustling of the sheets as Choi edges closer to him. Jeonghan stiffens immediately, back shooting straight up against the headboard as his chin flies up.

Choi lifts his hands up, fingers splayed wide, his eyes even wider. “Hey, easy. I’m just trying to help.” 

“So you keep saying.” Jeonghan sniffs. “If you were trying to help me, you would have shot him before he tried to break my ribs.”

Choi lets out a chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Only you would have the gall to complain about someone saving your life. I couldn’t get a clear shot. Is that a good enough reason?” 

“You were following me, weren’t you?”

“If I had to tail you to find out where you live I wouldn’t be a very good mercenary.”

“You know who put the hit out on me.” Jeonghan watches him, eyes fixed on his face for the slightest indication of a slip, a mistake. Any sign that he’s lying.

Choi folds his hands on his lap instead of answering, and then sighs, shoulders slumping slightly. “If I say yes, can we stop with this line of questioning for the night?”

“No.” Jeonghan replies. “I’m not done.”

“Well, I am. I’m exhausted. It’s four in the morning. Aren’t you?” Choi tosses him a look, one that’s half-sincere and half something else that Jeonghan can’t quite put into words. It’s frustrating. He’s frustrating.

Jeonghan doesn’t know why he says it. He doesn’t know what compels him to speak the truth when it’s against his every interest to do so. 

But Choi Seungcheol looks at him like he’s expecting something more than a casual dismissal, and Jeonghan is — Jeonghan’s tired. He’s tired of acting and pretending and maintaining this carefully constructed artifice of Detective Yoon Jeonghan, infallible, untouchable.

“I don’t sleep well.”

“I don’t either.” Choi says with a simple wry tug of his mouth. “Sleep’s overrated. Usually I just game or watch movies until my eyes get too tired to stay open. What do you do when you can’t sleep?”

“I… I like listening to the radio.”

Choi gets up and moves to the bedside table where his phone is. “What channel?”

“FM 97.3.”

Choi puts it on, and the soothing sounds of piano music filter through the air from the phone speakers. His pulse is still a staccato mess, pounding against his ribs, and his ribs themselves feel like they’ve been bludgeoned, but the sound of the familiar opening washes over him like moonlight, casting everything in a softer, calmer glow.

“Huh. Claire de Lune.” Choi says. Jeonghan blinks at him, surprised.

“What? You think scum like me can’t recognise Debussy?”

Jeonghan opens his mouth, for once without a comeback or sharp remark to make. He closes it again, glancing down at the bed in chagrin.

“It’s fine. I’m just teasing.” Choi shifts up along the bed and takes one of the unused pillows to prop behind his back against the headboard. “You might not care to hear it, but I do have a life outside of what I do for work.”

“I’m not… I never said you didn’t.”

“I know. But I also know that you don’t have a very high opinion of me.”

“I —” Jeonghan can’t disagree. He furrows his brow, eyes fixed on the striped pattern of the bedsheets.

“It’s fine. I don’t either.” 

Jeonghan must make a noise of some sort because there’s something about Choi’s voice that sounds resigned, like he’s speaking from somewhere beyond all of this, somewhere numb and faraway. “I don’t enjoy what I do. It’s not something that I take pleasure in. Most of the time I hate everything about it.” 

“Then why do you do it?”

And maybe that’s too personal a question to ask, especially a question that hangs between them, a criminal and a police officer, a mercenary and a detective. It’s the kind of question that you would never ask in the interrogation room and expect a real answer for. Choi Seungcheol is yet to give a straight answer to any of his questions, and Jeonghan expects nothing less from this. 

“I owe someone a debt.” Choi says, eyes shadowed and dark, fathomless. “As you might’ve noticed, I pay back my debts.” 

He stands then, tugging the covers straight where they’d bunched up beneath them.

“I hope you manage to get some sleep, Detective.”

Choi closes the door behind him, leaving Jeonghan alone and feeling strangely laid bare even though he wasn’t the one openly sharing his secrets and deepest vulnerabilities. He stretches out on the bed with the piano sounds of Clair de Lune lulling him into a sort of haze, not quite asleep, but enough to turn off his mind and fool his body into a semblance of rest.

-----

It feels weird not going to work on a weekday. The lack of someplace to be, somewhere to go, throws everything off-kilter. But then, if being thrown off his latest case, informed that he has a target on his head, and being almost murdered within the span of twenty-four hours wasn’t enough to throw his entire body clock off its rhythm, then attempting to sleep with Choi Seungcheol mere feet away from him would have just about done it.

Jeonghan wakes to his entire body aching, and an instant wariness at not being in his own bed and his own apartment.

He’s five seconds from getting up and investigating his location when the door opens to reveal the man in question. 

“Morning sunshine.” Choi says, dangling a bag from his grip, face sunny and hospitable, the events of last night and what was said apparently forgotten. “I come bearing breakfast.” 

Jeonghan lets out a groan and slumps back onto the bed, slowly, still mindful of his bruised ribs. “I was really hoping everything that happened yesterday was all some fucked-up dream.” 

“Ooh, do you get to see me naked in it? Are you naked?”

“Is your mind just perpetually in the gutter?”

“I can’t help it.” Choi shrugs. “I’m a very attractive man; I have needs.”

“Oh my god.” Jeonghan groans. “It’s too early for this much bullshit in the morning.” 

“Hey! You don’t think I’m attractive?” When Jeonghan opens his eyes, Choi is, for some reason, close enough that he can count all his lashes. He’s hovering over him, over the bed, handsome face pulled into a disgruntled frown that make him look far younger than his twenty-eight years of age. 

His eyes are the most noticeable part about him, almond-shaped and long-lashed as they are, but he has a well-shaped nose, thick brows, lips seemingly stained in this deep rosy shade.   

Jeonghan smacks a hand into Choi’s face before his over-observant detective mind can go into any further detail about the exact depth of Choi Seungcheol’s attractiveness.

Choi lets out a yelp, clasping his hand over his face and making a soft, wounded noise as he tumbles to the bed. “What the fuck was that for?!”

“You were being annoying.” Jeonghan says, reaching over to pluck the bag containing their breakfast from his hand.

“Oh, you got chicken!” Jeonghan grins, and leaves the bedroom and Seungcheol with it, making a beeline for the kitchen.

Choi staggers out of the room after him, taking a seat beside Jeonghan on one of the stools beside the kitchen island with a childish pout.

“Not even a “Thank you, Seungcheol”?”

“Thank you, Seungcheol.” Jeonghan echoes, wide smile plastered to his face and eyes widened like one of those life-size dolls, his voice dripping in saccharine sweetness. 

Seungcheol feigns a shudder. “Creepy. Your normal smile is much prettier.” 

Jeonghan scoffs, rolling his eyes at the shamelessness. “You’re as obvious as blunt force head trauma.”

“Good obvious though, right?” Seungcheol smiles, dimples appearing in his cheeks.

“No. Just shameless.”

Jeonghan snaps open his chopsticks and opens up the takeaway box, digging into his chicken and rice and banchan. Seungcheol helps himself to his own food.

“Not that it’s necessary or even relevant for you to know, but I’m going back to my apartment to collect some case files.”

“What?!” Seungcheol splutters, choking on his mouthful of food. Jeonghan watches him choke without moving a muscle.

“I’ll stay here in the meantime until this whole… bounty on my head thing gets sorted out but I’m going back. I need those files if I want to find a way to stop the men paying for my head on a silver platter.” 

“That’s suicide. They’ll have the place under 24-hour surveillance.”

“Then come with me.”

“What?” Seungcheol’s brows shoot up into his hairline.

“Come with me,” Jeonghan repeats, chewing before swallowing around his food. “I’m going with or without you but it’s up to you what you want to do.” 

“I thought you didn’t trust me.”

“I don’t. But for some reason, you have a weirdly vested interest in keeping me alive. So, I expect you’ll be ready to kill me for again, or at least take a bullet or two for me if it comes to that.” 

Seungcheol’s jaw drops theatrically open. “And I’m the shameless one here? You’re basically using me as a human shield!”

Jeonghan shrugs. “Maybe I am.”

“Unbelievable.” Seungcheol mutters, stabbing his chopsticks into his rice. “You know, you would have made a killing, figuratively speaking, as a criminal. That’s some real diabolical shit right there.”

“We’ll leave around noon,” Jeonghan continues, ignoring him. “Broad daylight is best because they won’t be expecting me to show up so soon if they’re already monitoring the apartment.”

“They are. Guaranteed. It’s protocol.” 

“I’ll go in first. You’ll be my cover. I’ll, uh, need to borrow a gun, too.” Jeonghan glances at Seungcheol expectantly.  

“What, now? You realise I’m not always carrying, right?” 

“Not even a knife?”

Seungcheol smirks, sitting back in his chair. “You didn’t mention knives.”

Jeonghan sighs. This is his life now. He’s unofficially working with a criminal. A mercenary. A man who’s killed possibly over a hundred people before. 

“And I’ll be needing a temporary set of clothes until I can get some of my own.”

“Sweetheart, if you wanted to get me naked, all you had to do was ask.”

Wooden chopsticks aren’t much of a weapon, but the way Jeonghan wields them, they’re sharp enough to hurt. Seungcheol cries out, flailing backwards with the hand that’d been stabbed with the blunt chopstick, and nearly falling out of his chair.  

“Next time, it’ll be your crotch.”

-----

Jeonghan manages to stuff an empty bag with three sets of clothes, spare socks, and the case files he’d been meaning to grab without being ambushed or shot in the open. They were right about the house being monitored, but apparently coming back to the scene of the crime the day after he’d been attacked hadn’t been a possibility they’d accounted for. 

They’re in and out in under twenty minutes. Seungcheol’s safe house is a thirty or so minute drive from Jeonghan’s apartment in Apgujeong. He doesn’t seem particularly bothered about Jeonghan knowing its exact location because there’s no blindfold or attempt to distract him from memorising the route to the place. He’d taken out their sim cards before they got in last night so there’s no detectable trace of them ever coming here. 

Jeonghan lingers at the doorway this time, taking in the apartment in full. 

He notices a picture of Seungcheol and two older men he doesn’t recognise hanging in the doorway. Upon closer inspection, he sees the fleeting family resemblance.  

“What the fuck, Choi Seungcheol. Is this your house?” 

Seungcheol appears from his own bedroom, apparently, brow furrowing as he glances at Jeonghan’s face lit up in sheer disbelief. 

“Uh. Yeah? Why?” 

“What kind of fucking mercenary are you? I thought this was a safe house!”

“Oh. Well. I tend to move every six months or so when my lease is up. It’s not really much of a problem if you’re worried about me.” 

“Worried — worried about you?!” Jeonghan feels like he’s going to choke on his own air. “Why the fuck would you bring me here? Don’t you have enemies? What if they find out where you live?!” 

Seungcheol’s expression morphs into a lazy smile, his eyes going hooded. “Nobody’s ever tried coming after me in my own home. I’m too damn good.”

“Or, you’re too damn stupid to live and are surviving on nothing but sheer luck.” Jeonghan pinches the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to turn around and walk right out of Choi Seungcheol’s apartment. 

“Look, I appreciate the concern but you’ve got nothing to worry about. Even if someone was going to come after me, what are they going to achieve here where I’m surrounded by weapons and on familiar ground, that they can’t somewhere out on the street?” 

It’s completely irrational, but Jeonghan finds he has nothing to argue against it with. He stalks over to the couch and plants himself down on it. He begins taking out his files, spreading them in a loose circle on the coffee table in front of him.

“So… I guess I’ll just leave you to it, then.” Seungcheol says awkwardly, scratching at his head. “Let me know if you need anything? I, uh, have some errands to run so I’ll be back later tonight.”

Jeonghan says nothing, attention focused on his files.

“Alright. Well. See you later, Angel.”

Jeonghan sighs in disgust, but he can feel Seungcheol’s grin without even looking up.

-----

The smoking’s a form of anaesthesia. Self-medication. It’s killing him with each slow, careless inhale, but then, a job on the SMPA isn’t exactly a guarantee of long life or sound mental stability. 

He can’t sleep tonight, or any night, but it’s as if the stars and the night air sympathise. 

His exhale fades with the lull of a breeze, and the sky is inexplicably clear. A constellation strung across the heavens gleams like tiny brightly lit flames despite the air pollution and midnight city noise. 

There’s a warm cup of milk growing cool on the step beside him. His favourite irony — milk and honey and the taste of nicotine.

Jeonghan presses the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply as he watches the stars and the night go slowly by, his exhaustion fading, too, into a bone-deep twinge of something more bearable.

His ribs are still bruised, and there’s still fifty-million reasons for someone out there to want him dead, but right now, in this moment, he’s got his head above the water. He’s one step ahead of the target on his head. Everything is… well, it’s not going to be alright, but he’s going to survive. With or without Choi Seungcheol’s help. He’ll do this because he has to. Because regardless of anything else, he’s a police officer, the best of the best, Seoul Metropolitan’s darling star detective.

Footsteps sound behind him in the distance inside the house, and Jeonghan hears the door of the house open slowly. Speak of the devil.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“What gave you that idea? The fact that it’s three in the morning and I’m out here smoking, or the fact that my eyes are wide open?”

Seungcheol makes a soft huffing noise. “No need to be snippy. Just trying to make conversation.”

“We don’t have to talk.” Jeonghan answers, rather pointedly.

“No? But I like talking to you.”

Jeonghan eyes him from the corner of his vision, taking in his sleep-worn state, the dishevelled curl of his hair, the blue faded shirt he sleeps in. He looks almost harmless like this. Not someone capable of cold-blooded murder for hire.

“You said you owed someone a debt.”

If he’s surprised or caught unguarded by Jeonghan’s choice of topic, it doesn’t show on his face. 

“Mm.” Seungcheol says, and slides a cigarette out of the packet beside Jeonghan on the patio. He holds his hand out for Jeonghan’s lighter, and Jeonghan complies. He balances the cigarette between his lips, and lights it with a smooth flick of his thumb, inhaling sharply.

“I thought you said smoking was a nasty habit,” Jeonghan drawls.

“I said it was nasty, I never said I didn’t share it.”

“Oh, so you’re a hypocrite.”

“Aren’t you?” Jeonghan turns his head to furrow his brow at him, and Seungcheol answers with a single cocked brow. “You save lives for a living and yet here you are slowly killing one.” 

Jeonghan rolls his eyes, taking another drag as he glances away. “Don’t get all deep on me now, Nietzsche. It’s just a cigarette. My entire department smokes at least a pack a day, if not more. It’s got nothing to do with why or how we do our jobs.”

“Fair enough. But I was always more of a fan of Camus.” 

Jeonghan smirks. “‘Those who lack courage will always find a philosophy to justify it.’” 

“‘The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.’” 

“And do you believe you’re unfree? That’s why you’re a mercenary that kills people for a living?” 

Seungcheol breathes out, smoke coiling in the air in front of his face before dissipating into the night air. His voice is gravelled and soft when he finally speaks.

“I believe that there are parts of our world that are governed by corruption and gross injustice. I believe that what you do is noble — brave, even — but that it’s not enough.” 

“That’s not a good enough reason. Law and justice exists to serve a higher purpose. We can’t all take the law into our hands just because we don’t agree with how things work. If you want things to change, you change them. You don’t circumvent the system altogether.” 

“And what if the system itself is corrupt? You think things like bribery and embezzlement in the highest office of our country, the Samsung scandal, each successive justice minister stepping down in shame and disgrace after the institution is once again exposed for its complicity can be fixed with hypocrisy and media play?”

Jeonghan clenches his jaw, gaze fixed stoically skywards. He doesn’t have an answer for that. No one does. But just because their country’s justice system is systemically corrupt, that doesn’t give men like Choi Seungcheol free rein to kill and commit crimes as they please.

Besides, what point is there in debating truth and justice with a man with thirty-four counts of murder and possibly dozens more to his name? 

He exhales through his teeth, stubbing out his cigarette. 

“‘Freedom is nothing but a chance to be better.’ At the very least, I can believe in that.”

Jeonghan straightens, picking up his cold glass of milk. He draws in one last breath of clean, untainted air, and goes back inside the house.

-----

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t go, but you can’t do this alone. You need back-up.” 

Seungcheol has his arms crossed over his chest in a way that emphasises the lines of biceps and shoulders. Which is the last thing Jeonghan needs right now.

It’s been five days since they retrieved the files from his house. The body hasn’t been discovered as far as Jeonghan knows but they’re running out of time. Seungcheol’s associates haven’t moved the body yet, meaning they don’t care who sees it, and it’s only a matter of time until a neighbour reports the suspicious smell coming from his apartment and they discover the corpse in the middle of a SMPA detective’s living room.  

He’s got this ticking bomb of a crime scene on top of the bounty on his head, the fifty-million-dollar prize for whichever murderous criminal kills him first. 

And then, of course, there’s the matter of Choi Seungcheol. 

Choi Seungcheol, the mercenary who, up until five days ago, was a suspect on the other side of the interrogation table. Someone Jeonghan could say without hesitation didn’t have a trace of humanity in him. 

Now, he knows that Choi Seungcheol has two older brothers. He listens to RnB and underground rap music. He works out every other day. He sleeps naked, a fact that Jeonghan discovered in the middle of the night when he’d been accosted in the hallway trying to get to the bathroom and nearly tripped over his own feet upon seeing Seungcheol standing in the kitchen naked, drinking a cup of water. He has a habit of biting his lip and can’t seem to stay still for more than a minute at a time. 

It’s too much extraneous information, too many stray details Jeonghan’s hypervigilant mind can’t seem to stop itself from keeping track of. His mind is full as it with the theories and pet conspiracies about who’s responsible for putting the hit out on him. He doesn’t need the space Choi Seungcheol seems to be taking up in his life and in his mind to be monopolised by useless facts like his penchant for socks with weird prints and cute animal patterns on them. 

It’s a distraction, and Jeonghan can’t abide distractions when he’s working on an open investigation.

It makes him irritable and impossible to be around at work, which is usually something he can control by limiting his human interaction exclusively to Seokmin, his favourite dongsaeng and occasional partner, and Soonyoung, the prosecutor he’s known since his first case on the force. Now, despite being a… guest in Seungcheol’s home, he can’t help but snap every time Seungcheol says something offhanded and clearly meant to be playful.

He feels like static, here one second, and reduced to crackling nothingness the other. He’s not sleeping either. Everything else combined with the complete and utter lack of sleep, is driving him slowly insane.  

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” Jeonghan enunciates slowly.  

Seungcheol, to his credit, doesn’t rise to the bait. “I know the club. I know the people. There’s no reason why my opinion shouldn’t be valuable to your plan.” 

“That doesn’t mean I require your input.” Jeonghan snipes back. “I’m a detective, this is what I do.” 

“And I’m a criminal. I do illegal things for a living. You shouldn’t be going in undercover alone when you’ve got no support and no allies.”

“I’ve done plenty of solo missions before. I can handle myself.”

“And I’m not arguing against that.” Seungcheol snaps. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you talk into a veritable lion’s den by yourself. That club is where people like me gather to organise their criminal dealings with each other. What do you think they’ll do if they find out you’re a cop?”

“They won’t find out. That’s what having a cover is for.”

“You’re going to need me, regardless, if you want to get into that club. They only grant entry to people who know the password.”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? For me to be reliant on you? For me to owe you something.” 

Seungcheol’s brow furrows, his face twisting in open frustration. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? All I’m trying to do is help. All I’ve done since I saved your life is try to help. I’ve never once mentioned you owing me for that.”

“Why are you even helping me? I don’t fucking get it. It can’t be just because I spared you that day. What the fuck do you actually want from me?” 

A muscle in Seungcheol’s jaw twitches, tenses, but he stays silent. And his lack of response, the complete lack of anything in reply to that question sets something off in Jeonghan.

“I know the kind of man you are, I know what men like you are capable of. You’re  waiting for me to let my defences down so you can swoop in like my knight in shining armor. You think that if you play the long game, I’ll offer myself up to you because I’m so grateful that you decided not to kill me, I’ll let you ravish me in your own house, your own bed.” 

Seungcheol’s face goes blank terrifyingly quick. And then he’s across the room, asserting himself into Jeonghan’s space, edging him back against the wall with such an intensity and fury blazing across his face that Jeonghan can almost taste the smoke of him burning on his tongue. Seungcheol doesn’t touch him, but it feels like if he does, his skin might catch fire.

“That’s really what you think of me?” 

Seungcheol’s voice is low, deeper than Jeonghan has ever heard it. He’s always been light, playful banter, occasionally suggestive and indecent, but never improper, always toeing the line of what’s acceptable but never stepping beyond it.

Jeonghan used to think of Seungcheol as a man beyond the law, but he’s never infringed upon his own rules before. 

Jeonghan presses backwards until his spine hits something solid, desperate to maintain the careful, deliberate distance between them that’s dwindling with every second, every breath that draws Seungcheol closer. He feels like he can’t breathe, like his lungs are filled with smoke and the air between them is lit with gasoline. Seungcheol braces an arm against the wall beside his head, and Jeonghan feels trapped, feels caged. There’s something in the way Seungcheol looks at him that makes him incapable of movement even though every inch of him is heating like he’s standing too close to open fire. 

“You think I’d just take what I want from you, without even asking?” 

Jeonghan can feel his breath on his face, brushing across his lips, and his throat feels tight, thick with an unspoken no. He’s felt more sure staring down the barrel of a gun, but he doesn’t know what to say, what to do, in this moment.

He can’t even bear to look Seungcheol in the eye.

Seungcheol’s lips twitch, seemingly recognising this at the same time Jeonghan does, because he reaches for Jeonghan’s chin with his other hand. 

His fingers are warm and calloused against Jeonghan’s skin, singeing where he grips his chin, the touch reverberating through him like an electric current. A mirror of the time Jeonghan had done this to him in the interrogation room. He can feel the roughness of his fingertips against his jaw, spreading slowly to encompass his face. It’s so unspeakably intimate, yet strangely inviolate; and yet all he does is tilt Jeonghan’s face up unt his gaze is unavoidable.

Jeonghan swallows, his pulse fluttering in his jaw, wild and rabbit-hearted, closing his eyes with the remnants of his defiance.  

“Look at me, Yoon Jeonghan.” 

It’s the only time Jeonghan can ever remember Seungcheol calling him by his full name. It’s always been Detective, or Jeonghan-ssi, or Angel. Sweetheart. Darling.

Up until now, he always thought he’d hated it.

“Look at me.”

Jeonghan’s lashes shutter, like dragonfly wings skimming the surface of water, and he opens them slowly, fighting through the urge to turn and run and keep running.

The look on Seungcheol’s face only makes him want to run harder.

Jeonghan knows what it is to be looked at like he’s wanted. He’s always been beautiful, handsome, an alluring combination of feminine and masculine. beauty. He’s fully aware of the power he holds over men and women, the inimitable control he wields over them without their conscious recognition of it. It’s a power he’s always used for good, or in service of the greater good. He’s comfortable with being a symbol — the handsome face, the androgynous pretty boy. He’s used to being typecast. 

Choi Seungcheol looks at him in a way that makes him feel stripped bare, vulnerable. He looks at Jeonghan like he holds the secret answer to everything that’s been left unsaid in the universe, like he’s something profound. 

Like he sees him.

And Jeonghan doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t even know where to begin with the fear of being seen for who he is when people have only ever seen what he wants them to see. 

Choi Seungcheol says Look at me, but it feels more like he’s asking to be let in, like he’s asking Jeonghan to let him see. 

They’re so close every breath feels like a betrayal of his heartbeat. He can feel Seungcheol’s body heat radiating from his chest, his arms, the fingers pressed against his chin.

Despite the command, his touch is gentle. Like heat rather than fire. Enough to keep him warm, keep him wanting more, without burning him. Jeonghan wants to melt into it. He wants, so badly, not to be cold anymore if this is what it means to be warm. There’s a gasp locked in his throat that tastes like wanting, and Jeonghan hasn’t wanted someone in so long it sends a wild flash of exhilaration through him that he can’t disguise as mere lust or desire.

“I may be attracted to you, but I would never touch you without making sure you wanted it.”

Seungcheol’s thumb brushes up across his mouth, tracing the swell of his bottom lip, the calloused pad of his finger warming against the soft skin of Jeonghan’s lips. Jeonghan lets out a shaky exhale, like a kite string cut loose from his ribs, breath curling over Seungcheol’s fingers. 

It’s a shadow of a kiss, a promise sealed with the suggestion of his mouth on Jeonghan’s.

Seungcheol is so close, close enough that it feels like they’re sharing the same breath. The finger grazing across his lips slips back into place at his chin, the movement tipping Jeonghan’s face closer still. He can feel Seungcheol’s breath like a caress imitating the touch of his finger.

And then he lets go, and his hand is suddenly gone, cutting off the warmth that was there half a heartbeat earlier.  

Seungcheol lets him go, stepping back to a safe distance and Jeonghan’s left gasping for air, fingers ghosting over the echo of his touch, the heat still singeing his skin. 

-----

They don’t talk about what happened, which suits Jeonghan and his purposes just fine. The next two days are a strange, tentative impasse of awkward glances and stilted attempts at conversation, of dancing around each other like binary stars orbiting a black hole, perpetually aware of the magnetism between them, and simultaneously repelled and drawn helplessly towards it. 

Jeonghan doesn’t try to apologise. It’d be uncharacteristic of him. And he doesn’t know what he’d be apologising for.

(Sorry I accused you of being a predator in the heat of the moment? Sorry for implying you’d want to have sex me with or without my consent?

Sorry for finding you attractive and not knowing how to deal with that reality in a mature and adult manner?)

Besides, they have an undercover operation to plan.

The Gambit is an exclusive, members only club in the heart of Seoul run by four of the most notorious criminals in the city’s underground. Illicit drugs, black market weapons and contraband — these men have been linked to every broken rule in the book, but nothing’s ever stuck. They’re infamous, the four faces on the SMPA’s Most Wanted List that every rookie cop has dreamed of pinning to a prosecutable crime.

Jeonghan would love nothing more than to walk out of this club with the four men in handcuffs but as far as The Gambit is concerned, Seungcheol’s made it very clear he’ll be lucky if he even makes it in the door. 

The entrance password is exchanged via word-of-mouth, and only from the lips of the syndicate’s most trusted advisor. On the night of the full moon every month, forty-eight guests are granted access to the club via a burner phone delivered to their doorstep. The Gambit’s owners are eccentric like that, and ludicrously wealthy. The private floors of the club supposedly house some of the world’s most priceless stolen artefacts, paintings, and jewellery commissioned on behalf of the syndicate. 

Jeonghan’s cover story is this: Kim Jungwoo. Twenty-eight years of age. Chaebol heir, a spare and a second son with an outrageous fortune to his name due to his family’s empire built on the shipping and machine manufacturing industry. A known dilettante who’s spent years languishing in Japan, wasting his family money on partying from Osaka to Hokkaido. Fond of expensive art, wine, and men.

Seungcheol is his… pet eye candy for the evening. (Call him a sugar baby, neither of them are especially picky.) A glorified boy toy masquerading as a bodyguard. His hitman backstory remains intact, with some additional embellishments about the nature of their… sexual relationship.

“I don’t know how we’re meant to convince people that we’ve been sleeping with each other on and off for years,” Jeonghan had said, squinting at the messily scrawled details of his cover story on his borrowed notepad.

Seungcheol had merely glanced at him over the screen of the burner phone and let out a snort before returning to boring holes into the side of the 2008 Samsung excavated from the annals of ancient history.

This particular event, being held as it is a week before Halloween, is also a themed masquerade. Because rich people with more money than they know what to do with need excuses like Halloween-themed masked balls to showcase their outlandish extravagance and splendour in socially acceptable ways.

They decide to go as Harley Quinn and the Joker. Well, Jeonghan decides. He’s used the costume before and even though his hair isn’t as long as it was in his university days, it’s a simple matter of dyeing a blond wig and digging up the harlequin shorts from the back of his closet. Seungcheol opts for a fusion of Ledger and Leto Joker, his hair slicked back in neon green, face painted white with the eyes hollowed out under a clown half-mask and the bloody red smile carved across his face. He’s got the signature purple jacket and green vest on but he’s completely bare beneath that, just inches of toned, taut muscle. 

Jeonghan commits to the costume. Four-inch heels and all. Pink and cerulean eyeshadow bloom around individual eyes, a tiny black heart drawn like a beauty mark on his left cheek, the crimson lipstick. His mask is a lacy white scrap of fabric. Jeonghan has no idea how Seungcheol found such a beautiful thing at such short notice but it’s exquisite. It obscures the shape of his eyes without concealing his makeup, leaving just enough to hint through the delicate lace.

When he saunters out from the bathroom, Seungcheol takes one look at him and abruptly chokes on his drink. He splutters for a good twenty seconds or so, beating frantically at his chest and flailing wildly in the air while Jeonghan hums and touches up his lipstick. 

“How do I look?” Jeonghan asks, turning in a half-spin to give Seungcheol the full view. “Good enough for this fancy rich people club?” 

“You look —” Seungcheol cuts himself off, mouth moving mechanically around words that make no sound. His gaze skims the length of Jeonghan, lingering on his legs and the fishnet stockings, the tattoos etched on his thighs in black liner. “Incredible.” 

Jeonghan snaps his pocket mirror shut and whirls to face him, smile tugging coquettishly at his ruby red lips. “You think so?”

“Y – yeah, I think so.” 

Jeonghan doesn’t think he’s ever seen his eyes so wide. It elicits a playful, provocative giggle from him that’s only partly artificial. 

“Aw, puddin’.” He blows Seungcheol a mocking kiss, batting his lashes and winking at him before flouncing out the door, car keys dangling from his finger. 

“Lookin’ pretty handsome yourself.”

The password, Sirius, had been delivered the evening before during a phone call that lasted all of thirty seconds. Seungcheol even lets him whisper the password at the small gap hewn into the gateway of the club, smirk curving across his lips beneath the lace edges of his mask.

They enter as Kim Jungwoo and Choi Seungcheol, ostentatious socialite and armed and dangerous arm candy. There’s a power to the costume, the mask. He’s only play-acting at being this flamboyant, androgynous caricature, but there’s a kind of freedom and empowerment to towering above everyone in his heels and makeup, his long platinum blond wig. Jeonghan has never cared much for conventional gender conformity, but he fits himself neatly into the box that’s required of him at work, in his life, because it’s what’s expected. 

Perhaps the ridiculous rich people have a point about dressing up to escape reality and subvert social norms every month if only for a night.

The interior of the Gambit would make the Metropolitan Ball look like a cheap tourist-trap in Hongdae. The velvet and violet tinged decor exudes old money, but the gilded accents and carved chandeliers are all nouveau riche opulence. Aerial dancers glide from one corner of the vaulted room to the other, spinning amongst diaphanous strips of billowing silk. The ceiling is a midnight blue, designed to look like the constellations emblazoned across an observatory’s sky, each star glinting like spilt diamonds. Everything is lit like a kaleidoscope, colours and lights shifting across every surface, turning the space otherworldly, like a gateway between reality, and this strange, beautiful playground of a world the four have built for their secret guests.

Seungcheol gets them both drinks to keep themselves looking busy. Everyone here seems to know everyone else, and even though their cover story is relatively airtight, they don’t want to risk anything by appearing too open to conversation. After all, eccentric socialites like to maintain a deliberate radius of enigma and impenetrable mystery around them at all times. Seungcheol slides his arm around Jeonghan’s waist at some point and he can’t come up with a reason why he shouldn’t put his arm there if it’s in the interest of maintaining their cover.

Seungcheol’s chest is very warm against Jeonghan’s side, and perhaps it’s the alcohol speaking but it feels safe, almost, to have his arm resting against his hip, his hand spread on Jeonghan’s thigh as they sit and chatter about meaningless nothings with a small group of women dressed like Sailor Moon characters.

At some point in the night, when Jeonghan’s lost track of the drinks and charming, interesting people he’s spoken to and who’ve complimented him on his outfit and cute couple ensemble, he finds himself alone and separated from Seungcheol. 

It takes several minutes of searching and stumbling through the crowd but Jeonghan finds him at last with his head bent towards a woman dressed like a sexy cat of all things, matching conspiratorial looks on their faces. Jeonghan doesn’t know what compels him to do it, but one second he’s standing on the side-lines as a spectator, and the next he’s pushing forwards, striding forth through the crowd until he’s come right up beside them. 

“Baby, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Jeonghan coos, edging his way in between them none too subtly. “I see you’ve been making friends.”

“Oh, Jungwoo! Hey.” Seungcheol smiles, eyes crinkling as he slips his hand against the small of Jeonghan’s back. It sends a flicker of warmth down his spine, something purring deep within him, pleased at the display of possessiveness. “This is Minkyung. Minkyung this —”

“I’m Jungwoo.” Jeonghan interrupts, reaching out to straighten Seungcheol’s collar. His fingertips brush idly against Seungcheol’s throat, provocative despite the lack of intent. Beneath Jeonghan’s hands, Seungcheol breathes out very slowly, the movement measured and deliberate.

“And this is my — my Seungcheol.” 

Seungcheol clears his throat subtly, the muscle running along the underside of his jaw straining. “Minkyung, tell Yaebin I miss her, won’t you? We need to catch up some time, it’s been ages since we last got to hang out outside of work.” 

“That’s because you won’t stop stealing our jobs from out under our noses.” Minkyung scoffs, Cheshire smile tugging at her lips. Jeonghan slips his fingertips against the back of Seungcheol’s neck, grazing across the soft hair there. “If we didn’t like you so much we’d put a bullet through your head and be done with it.” 

Jeonghan has no idea who this woman is or who Yaebin is but the sudden turn of conversation to murder and mercenary work dispels the bizarre agitation he’d felt seeing Seungcheol so close to her. They’re just colleagues. Jeonghan’s the one Seungcheol’s here with. He’s the one playing Seungcheol’s fake lover for the night.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you two boys to your fun. Let me know how the Lazarus job goes.” Minkyung flashes Seungcheol a parting smirk and disappears off into the crowd. 

Seungcheol’s quiet for a moment, and Jeonghan’s content to simply relish in the heat of having him near until he speaks. 

“Your Seungcheol, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up, Choi Seungcheol. I’m just doing my job.” Jeonghan growls under his breath. “A job you’re making very difficult by constantly wandering off and leaving me all on my own.”

“You miss me that much when I’m not around, Angel?”

“God, you’re insufferable.” Jeonghan huffs, turning away from Seungcheol with his lips pursed.

“As cute as you are when you’re pouting, we’re supposed to be having fun. Enjoying the party. It’s not every night you get to have the pleasure of having someone so handsome hanging off your arm.” 

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a pleasure.”

“A distinguished privilege, then.” Seungcheol concedes, smiling nonetheless. The hand that had been hovering at the small of Jeonghan’s back has now shifted to curl around his waist once more. Jeonghan doesn’t know what Seungcheol’s obsession is with his waist but it feels — strangely right, to have him there.

“I’m having plenty of fun.” Jeonghan insists. “I’ve had at least two cocktails and five glasses of champagne.” 

“Ooh, sounds like someone’s a bit of a lightweight,” Seungcheol teases, smirk flashing across his face in that infuriatingly handsome way. 

You should smile less, Jeonghan wants to say. It makes me want to do stupid, reckless things that I shouldn’t even be thinking. Like kiss you.

“I am not. I’m a very good drinker. I could drink you under the table any day.”

“You promise? I’ll hold you to it.” Seungcheol’s palm is curved over the top of Jeonghan’s thigh, and it’s his turn to suppress a shiver, biting down on his crimson-stained lip. He can feel Seungcheol’s calloused fingertips grazing against his bare skin through the diamond pattern of the fishnets. 

“Do you want to dance?”

“What?” 

With the hand anchored at his waist, Seungcheol tugs Jeonghan into him, mouth dipping to brush against his ear as he repeats himself, his voice husky and an entire octave lower: “Dance with me.”

Jeonghan bites back the urge to melt against his chest like his spine has turned to silk and honey.

“Alright,” Jeonghan says, and lets Seungcheol take his hand, lets him lead him to the dancefloor and slide his hands against his hips, fingers curling around the dip of his waist beneath the swirling lights and technicolour bass. 

Seungcheol draws them so close together there’s no room to breathe without some part of him brushing against him, his thighs pressed against Seungcheol’s when he moves, their hips, their mouths a breath apart. All this time they’ve been dancing around each other, circling around this unspeakable magnetism between them, that it’s a kind of catharsis to fit himself against Seungcheol’s body, the spaces of his own filling the gaps and edges between them.

The siren sound beating overhead, around them, through them, is intoxicating and seductive, but all Jeonghan can hear is the rhythm of his own heartbeat hammering in his ears, reverberating through his chest. It’s so loud and insistent that Seungcheol must be able to hear it, must be able to feel it against his skin where he touches him, roughened hands splayed against his hips.

Through the shifting neon lights and shadows, Jeonghan catches Seungcheol gazing at him from beneath his lashes, and the rush of heady exhilaration that blooms in his chest forces him to exhale shakily. It’s not just want, or lust, he finds in his eyes, it’s this underlying trace of wonder — wonder and disbelief — that he has Jeonghan here, under his hands, touching him like he knows exactly how to make his body sing. Jeonghan leans in first, fingers spreading across Seungcheol’s jaw and pressing his head gently but urgently backwards as he grazes his lips against his pulse. Seungcheol lets out a muffled gasp of a sound, low and breathy, and Jeonghan smirks against his skin.

Seungcheol’s grip tightens on his waist, and Jeonghan answers with the press of his thigh between Seungcheol’s legs, a tease, an incitement.

Jeonghan relishes in the satisfaction of watching Seungcheol’s eyes widen, his teeth sinking into his lip, but it’s a short-lived victory. Seungcheol shifts one of his palms to Jeonghan’s thighs, and hikes it up against his hip, his breath curling against Jeonghan’s neck as the hardness between their thighs brush against each other.

Not to be outdone, never to be outdone, Jeonghan grinds down against him from his new vantage point, the scrap of fabric stretched across his ass and upper thighs concealing nothing as he presses against the outline of Seungcheol’s pants. He skims his hands down Seungcheol’s jacket, fingertips teasingly tracing the outline of his lapel, the buttons lining his coat, before slipping behind them to the expanse of naked skin. Seungcheol’s breath hitches as Jeonghan splays his hands against his abs, exploring the length of his torso and travelling up to brush across his pectoral muscles, the tips of his fingers brushing tantalisingly across his nipples.

“Jeonghan.” Seungcheol grits out under his breath, half a gasp and half a warning. Jeonghan continues his expedition, determined to map out every inch of Choi Seungcheol’s body with his hands. And later, perhaps, with his mouth. 

“Yes?” Jeonghan teases one of his nipples again, feeling it harden beneath his touch. He watches, listens, in delight as Seungcheol makes a strained sound from behind his teeth, and wonders what sound Seungcheol would make if he were to do that again with his lips. For now, he decides to show a little mercy, and retreats to safer territory, stroking his fingertips down along the ridges of Seungcheol’s abs instead.

“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol breathes. “What are you doing?”

“Having fun.” Jeonghan answers, flicking his eyes to give him a darkened look from beneath his lashes, pupils blown wide with desire and his expression tinged in hunger.

The hand that isn’t curled around his thigh slides up into Jeonghan’s hair to cup the back of his head. Seungcheol brings their faces close enough that Jeonghan could count each individual eyelash if he wasn’t struggling to draw breath with the full force of Seungcheol’s eyes boring into his. Jeonghan’s hands curl against his chest, and he feels suddenly very certain that he wouldn’t be standing right now if not for Seungcheol’s arms holding him up, pressing him tight against him.

“I need — I need to kiss you right now.” Seungcheol’s lips part, and they’re smeared red from the lipstick, slick from the number of times he’s wet his lips or bitten at them, and fuck, Jeonghan wants to be the one to do that. He wants to be the one to leave them kiss-swollen and bitten, bruised.

“Can I kiss you?”

Jeonghan reaches up, places his hand on Seungcheol’s jaw, fingertips curled around his chin, and closes the distance between them, kissing him like he wants to leave him breathless, ruined. It’s electric, his entire body set alight by the heat blooming from the kiss, their bodies, his tongue sliding into Seungcheol’s mouth, brushing across his tongue. This isn’t a granting of permission: Seungcheol has had him, right from the beginning. And maybe he’s only willing to admit it now with his mouth on Seungcheol’s, their lips pressed together in hot, breathless desire, but it’s a confession written with each heady gasp and pounding heartbeat. 

They’ve been circling each other, drawn irrevocably towards this, for some time now. Jeonghan knows it even as Seungcheol bites at his bottom lip, sucking against his skin and smearing his scarlet lipstick across both their mouths, turning them both into a visible mess. Each kiss leaves him feeling even more wrecked, even more laid bare in a way he’s never allowed himself to be with anyone.

This isn’t just a kiss. It’s a revelation: Seungcheol has always had him. 

Jeonghan groans against Seungcheol’s mouth, parting for him when he feels the touch of his tongue dragging against the seam of his lips. Seungcheol must kiss how he fucks, Jeonghan imagines. Thorough. Persistent. Like he wants his partner to feel every possible iteration of pleasure by the time he’s through with them. Like he wants them to feel so impossibly good they’ll never want anything, anyone, else to ever touch them again.

Seungcheol fists his hand in Jeonghan’s hair, the slight force drawing a soft growl from Jeonghan as he nips at his lip. He can taste the way Seungcheol smiles against his mouth, and then Seungcheol is scattering kisses from his jaw down to his throat, wet and open-mouthed, sucking small, sharp bruises against his skin. 

Jeonghan can only clutch onto him, biting his lip to keep from letting each noise slip out into the open.

“They’re gone.” Seungcheol huffs out a ragged laugh, face lighting up briefly with a small grin as he lifts his head to brush one last, searing kiss against Jeonghan’s mouth. “Fuck, that was close.”

Jeonghan’s having trouble focusing on anything other than Seungcheol’s mouth, or hands, or lips. His head is in chaos, clouded by liquor and lack of inhibitions, and above all, the feeling of Seungcheol’s tongue dragging against his pulse.

“What are you talking about?”

“Jooheon. I thought I saw him in the crowd. Fellow mercenary. He’s definitely one of the ones looking for you.”

“Oh.” Jeonghan says, eyes shuttering. “That’s… that’s why you needed to kiss me?”

“Mm. Easiest way to hide our faces, right? And hey, at least you’ve got a mask and wig on. No one’s going to recognise you in this outfit.” Seungcheol takes this moment to slide his hands from Jeonghan’s waist down to his hips, a possessive, claiming gesture. As if all of this is solely for his pleasure.

“Right. The mission.”

Jeonghan straightens, and drops his hand from Seungcheol’s shoulders. He steps back and places a deliberate foot of distance between them. 

“What’s he dressed as, by the way?”

“Vampire, probably. He and his friends always comes as the same thing.” Seungcheol runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it and only serving to make himself look even more flushed and shamelessly debauched.

Jeonghan… Jeonghan needs to get away from him. Right now. He needs to get the fuck away from here.

“Great. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” He begins to turn on his heel when Seungcheol’s hand shoots out to grab him by the wrist.

“Hey, where are you going?”

Jeonghan’s eyes go cold. If this was a second ago, he would’ve welcomed his touch, might’ve even surrendered to it. He shakes his hand out of Seungcheol’s grip without sparing a glance back.

“Recon.”

Jeonghan loses himself in the crowd, heedless of where he’s really going and what he’s doing. What is he doing? Has he lost his mind? Kissing Choi Seungcheol in the middle of an undercover operation, melting in his arms mindless with desire, all sense of priorities gone? His life is on the fucking line and here he is playing at drunken fool with a man who’s probably old friends with the same killers who want to murder him for money. 

Rage and frustration coiling tight in his chest, Jeonghan stumbles over to the bar, determined to get another drink in his system before he sobers up enough to inflict physical harm on Choi Seungcheol’s body.

And it must be luck, after all, that saves Seungcheol’s livelihood because as he nears the open bar, Jeonghan spots a vampire nursing a margarita.

Smirk curling across his scarlet-smeared mouth, Jeonghan straightens, pushing his shoulders back as he prepares to saunter lithely over to the man. But first, he signals for the bartender.

“Whatever this gentleman’s having.”

Jeonghan tucks a strand of ice blond hair behind his ear and shoots the man a flirtatious look as he slides into the seat beside him.

He waits until he has drink, taking a delicate sip from it before turning fully to face him. He gives him the requisite onceover, lingering so as to show he’s impressed before meeting the man’s eyes again.

“I’m Jungwoo.” Jeonghan says, voice light and low, like he’s sharing a secret just between the two of them. 

“Jooheon.” The man says.

“Strange to see such a handsome man all on his own in a place like this.” Jeonghan gestures around them with a wave of his hand. “But then, I’ve never been to The Gambit before.”

“Really?” Jooheon arches a brow at him. “Who are you here with?”

“Seungyoon? Seungmin?” Jeonghan furrows his brow, glancing upwards slightly to feign airheaded confusion. “I keep forgetting.”

“Seungcheol?”

“Ah, that’s the one.” Jeonghan beams at him. “Seungcheol. He’s so boring though and he keeps trying to talk about work when I just wanna have a good time.”

Jooheon smirks, amusement gleaming in his eyes. “So, you know what he does for a living?” 

“Oh, sure. He’s one of my father’s favourite hired guns.” Jeonghan leans in, hand curved over his mouth in a conspiratorial manner. “We have a lot of enemies.”

“I can see why, he’s a popular man.” 

Jooheon’s smart, sharp. But unfortunately for him, Jeonghan’s smarter and sharper than most of the people in this room. He hasn’t made it this far in his career without learning a thing or two about playing to people’s egos. 

“But that can change,” Jeonghan murmurs, voice dropping an octave as he rests his hand against Jooheon’s arm, right over the swell of his bicep. “We’re always looking for new blood. Besides, I think Seungcheol’s had a little too much on his plate recently, what with his arrest and all.”

“I heard he was cleared of all charges.”

“Of course. But who wants the cops sniffing around their business when there are so many people in this line of business who’d die to be making as much money as he does?”

“Well, from what I hear, he’s on his way out anyway. He’s not going to need the pay check much longer.” 

Jeonghan blinks, tilting his head like he’s struggling to comprehend what’s being said. It’s a simple thing to make people believe he’s slow, superficial, if only because he’s too pretty to be taken seriously. And then he waits. 

“I mean, it’s no secret he hates this work. One last job and he’ll be in the clear with Old Man Lee. That’s what Lazarus is for.”

There’s that word again: Lazarus. What the hell is the Lazarus job and why does everyone but Jeonghan seem to know exactly what it is?

“Lazarus?” Jeonghan echoes, eyes wide and doe-like.

“Yeah. A long con, of sorts. Still a hit, but he’s trying to get out of this one clean. Figures that if he plays things right, he’ll be able to deliver the target to SM and get out without leaving fingerprints this time.” 

“Lazarus. Why’s it called Lazarus, though?” 

Jooheon smiles, and its wolfish, sinister, and this is thing about asking questions you’re not sure if you want the answer to. When you’re staring down a suspect you and the judge and their lawyer knows has done the deed, the only thing left is to get a confession but even that’s no longer worth it when their crime is the blood and filth splattered across every inch of the case and anyone who’s ever touched it.

“Apparently, the target is some hot-shot detective. One who’s put a lot of our people behind bars.” Jooheon tosses back the rest of his drink. “He’s worth more alive than dead. The trick is making everyone think he’s dead.

“And once they do, he’s going to be shipped to Lee and never seen again.” 

Jeonghan’s heart turns to ice. He staggers to his feet, vision blurry and suddenly the swirling lights and colours overhead aren’t alluring and enchanting but menacing, garish. The rush of blood in his ears rises to a crescendo pitch, a ringing sound.

“Hey, are you alright? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine.” Jeonghan forces a smile to his face, and turns before he can let the façade crumble before anyone else’s eyes. He stumbles away on heels that suddenly feel like steel-traps on his feet, this outfit that’s barely there and so tight it’s suffocating, the makeup heavy and sticky on his face a complete farce, a sick burlesque. Everything about this night, about what he’s done, a disgusting charade.

And that’s when a gunshot rings out, crackling through the air like a firework, pure chaos exploding into the sky. It’s followed by the succession of three more. 

In the chaos that follows, Jeonghan finds himself lost in the eye of the storm, screams and sound swallowing him whole. He feels lost, adrift, at a fucking loss as to what to do or where to go now that he knows the truth about everything. A hand grabs him by the wrist, jarring him from his mind, pulls him into something solid, warm, strangely wet. Seungcheol’s voice grazes against his ear, and his breath gusts along his neck as he clutches at him, and even now, it sends a shiver like a lightning bolt down Jeonghan's spine.

There's blood staining his fingers where he reaches out for Jeonghan’s hand.

“We need to get the fuck out of here. Now.”