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The smell of magic is always thick when Minho visits this part of Seoul. 

In the center of the city, where the streets are bustling with crowds and music even late into the night, the clubs with catchy names sell drinks spiked with magic and take in creatures that crawl out of the dark.

It’s where Minho feels the least safe out of the entirety of the city—even though he can protect himself quite well, definitely better than all the other mundanes that walk right into the traps without the slightest idea what they’re doing. 

Minho isn’t here to save anyone tonight, though. 

The colorful lights of the Namsan Tower cast a harsh glow over the hill, exposing the lack of souls wandering around. It’s probably the first time Minho sees the place usually teeming with people all deserted. He expected that when he got the tip, but it’s still a stark and surprising contrast to the streets the tower is surrounded with.

With a sigh, he finally makes his way inside and heads for the elevator, hitting the button covered by a star-shaped sticker, one that’s clearly supposed to lead him to the top floor. Automatically, Minho double-checks his weapons; the silver dagger is still strapped to his thigh, pistol is at his belt, and if Minho tries hard enough, he can use the leather it’s made of to strangle the guy waiting for him on the lookout.

The elevator doors slide open quietly a few moments later, revealing the panoramic view of the city under the blanket of the night, with lights glimmering and the full moon hanging high on the infinite expanse of navy blue.

Minho refuses to be impressed. 

“Did you rent the whole tower for me?” he says, stepping out of the elevator. “I’m flattered.”

Han Jisung turns around from where he’s been leaning against the railing, not the slightest look of surprise on his face; he had probably smelled Minho from this high even before Minho made his way into the building. 

The corners of his lips upturn in a grin. “I’m glad you made it,” he says, strolling over to the table to take two glasses of what looks like wine from the tray and hand one over to Minho.

Their fingers brush. The coldness of Jisung’s skin would make him shudder if only he wasn’t so used to it—and if it weren’t so cold up here, on the top of the Tower. It’s late September after all.

“How could I refuse a personal invitation to kill you?” Minho asks, taking a small sip of the wine despite knowing that the last thing he should do is accept anything from a vampire—especially food and drinks. 

He’s broken too many rules on Han Jisung to care now. 

Jisung chuckles. Minho wants nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his face and finally end him once and for all, but even though he came prepared, he knows it isn’t enough. Maybe he’d be able to break a few of his bones if he pushed him off the tower, though. . . That idea seems pretty tempting.

“It wasn’t really an invitation, was it?” Jisung lifts the glass to his mouth, only to barely let the wine touch his lips before he starts twirling it around. The liquor leaves red streaks on the walls—and it’s far from the first time he’s seeing him drink that, but Minho still sets his jaw at the mixture of wine and blood. “I stopped bothering with those, because you always seem to have no problem finding me without them.”

That’s the thing, really.

Minho didn’t see it at first (and he still doesn’t understand it—or, rather, refuses to), but weeks ago he was ranting to Changbin about how he’s being dragged all over the city chasing Jisung, and Changbin found it exceptionally funny that—for some twisted reason—Jisung appeared at the places in Seoul advertised as the most romantic and suitable for dates.

Minho wanted to stab him then for insinuating something so. . . infuriating. But now he knows Changbin was right—if he had no idea where to go, Minho would pull up a list of top 10 date spots in Seoul and he could be sure he would find Jisung at the next stop. 

And that pisses Minho off the most. This is all just a game to Jisung, a way to pass time during his eternal life, like he’s underestimating Minho, all certain he won’t come up to him one day with a weapon that will finally kill him.

“Cut the crap, Han,” Minho says, downing his glass and setting it on the table with a sharp sound. He could break it and use the jagged edges to cut Jisung’s throat, or take the bottle and smash it on his head. He takes a deep breath instead. “What did you bring me here for?”

Jisung raises his brows. “Oh? I thought it would be you setting plans for the night.” 

“You know what my only plan is.”

“Right.” Jisung grins, pointing at Minho’s thigh—his dagger strapped there—before lifting his glass to take a sip. “You’re not exactly hiding.”

“But I’m taking my sweet time,” Minho says. “Unless you want me to make a skewer out of your heart right this moment.” 

Jutting his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout, Jisung says, “It’s no fun with you. Maybe I just wanted to show you this amazing view.” He turns back to the panorama of the city, stretching his arm out to frame the skyline. 

He’s defenseless. That’s what he is. With his chest and throat exposed, he doesn’t seem to be fearing anything—even though he knows that by the end of the night he will be lying in the pool of his own blood, left for his friends to take care of.

But the night is still young.

Minho waits until they’re done eating, lets Jisung talk his ear off all he wants, and then, when Jisung doesn’t expect it, he stabs him right in the heart with practiced precision.

Jisung lets out a gasp, his eyes widening, bloody red.

And laughs. He laughs. 

And that’s exactly how it all had started.

✰

The moment Minho set his eyes on the vampire sitting in the corner of the bar surrounded by a bunch of other people—bloodsuckers as well, he could tell—he made up his mind about the kill for the night. 

The vampire tipped his head back, brushing away the dark hair falling into his face as one of his friends poured him another glass. With a red short-sleeve button-up he had on, his tattoos were on full display, dancing across his defined arms with artful grace. Minho could make out a dragon curling around his bicep, and some smaller tattoos were scattered across his dark skin, creating an impressive sleeve.

He looked up like he could feel Minho’s gaze on him. Minho swallowed the surprise threatening to take over his expression and forced the corner of his mouth to lift in a slanted smirk. He turned back towards the display of alcohol, playing all hard to get while twirling the remainder of margarita in his glass. 

It took less than two minutes and he could already smell the spicy blend of amber, woods, and something odd, like cinnamon—just centimeters away as the vampire climbed onto the stool next to Minho.

There had always been something off about Han Jisung; from the very moment he walked up to Minho in that bar with a blood-red drink in hand, chatting him up and asking if Minho didn’t need a refill.

Minho should have known then and there that it wouldn’t be easy to get rid of him, but he got ahead of himself, focusing on all the wrong things, internally laughing at how Jisung’s easy confidence would bring him his demise—instead of a human to feed from, he had found a hunter who had been waiting all night for a perfect opportunity to kill. 

“Do you buy drinks for all the lonely boys around here?” 

Jisung ducked his head with a chuckle. “Only for those who aren’t hiding how openly they’re staring at me,” he said, waving the bartender over to get them both whatever Minho had been drinking. The muscles of his arm flexed under the dimmed lights.

Minho hummed, picking up on how it had all been for show. “There’s certainly a lot to stare at,” he said, still deciding to entertain Jisung, figuring that tickling his ego was his best shot at getting him out of Venom.

“Oh, you think so?” Jisung grinned, propping his elbow on the bar counter to shift his body more towards Minho. He had that magnetizing kind of pull, like the air around him demanded the attention of curious, wanting eyes.

Minho refused to be charmed. He wouldn’t admit Jisung was handsome even if someone threatened to rip his heart out. That pretty face and lean body was just hiding how twisted up and rotten he was on the inside. It was a part of his vampire charm—he made himself alluring, and it was Minho’s job to break from under that spell. 

If he wasn’t a vampire and Minho wasn’t dying to kill him, they could have had fun together.

The way he followed Minho out of Venom and trailed after him with a dazed expression before dragging him over into the dark streets of Seoul where the streetlights couldn’t shine light on his wandering hands—it was an indication of his interest. Whether it was of Minho himself or his blood, Minho couldn’t tell.

Jisung’s cold hand made Minho shiver when it landed on his neck, but despite it, his hold was gentle while his fingers curled around his nape. Minho had to remind himself to stay alert when Jisung pressed him against the stone wall of a building, slotting their mouths together in an unhurried kiss.

The dagger Minho had strapped around his waist under the loose shirt was digging into his back as a warning not to get carried away as he kissed Jisung, making the filthiest and the sweetest sounds to break down his inhibitions.

Minho dug his fingers into Jisung’s hips and pulled him closer. The groan that slipped out of his dirty mouth had him pulling back panting, his breath fanning over Minho’s face. 

“How about we, uh—take that to my place, darling?” he asked.

Minho wanted to bash his teeth in at the pet name alone. “Not yet,” he said instead, breathless as he waited for the perfect moment to strike. Which. . . wasn’t coming, and that was starting to wear away his patience. He swallowed hard, and—forcing a more sultry tone—said,  “Wanna kiss you some more.”

Jisung huffed out a laugh, then, his lips twisting into a smirk, and pulled Minho right back in, kissing him like a man starved. It was only a matter of time before his actual hunger would win over the desire—Minho knew exactly how that would go. Kisses becoming sloppy, lips slowly wandering down to the neck, and then the paralyzing pain as fangs pierced through skin.

Tonight, it wouldn’t come any close to that, but Minho still needed a bit more time to get Jisung to let his guard down.

So he put some more character into those kisses, sliding his thigh between Jisung’s legs to let him grind against it. Jisung gasped, his fingers tangling in Minho’s hair and gripping the strands with unnatural force as Minho licked into his mouth. He could taste the traces of wine and blood on Jisung’s tongue, and it must have been the first time he didn’t feel completely repelled by it.

He couldn’t tell why, but he didn’t like that.

When Jisung got too busy rolling his hips against Minho’s thigh, Minho found leverage against his hip. With all the force he possessed in his dazed body, he shoved Jisung off and backwards, pushing him against the opposite wall. Reaching behind himself to pull his dagger out, Minho pressed it to the left of the center of his chest with practiced ease.

Seeing Jisung’s eyes widen in astonishment as he took in the situation was enough of compensation for the vivid images of a man grinding against his thigh he would be a victim to for the following days.

Minho met his gaze head-on, satisfaction blazing in his veins when he thrust the dagger in, piercing right through Jisung’s heart. 

“It was a pleasure,” he said, grinning like the devil as he watched jet black blood drip down Jisung’s chin.  

And he was hoping that would be the last time he would be forced to stand face to face with Han Jisung. Unfortunately, he had been wrong.

✰

“Say, do you come here often?”

Minho snapped his head up, lifting his eyes from the job offers displayed on the screen of his laptop, and choked up. He jerked back against the chair just when Han Jisung leaned forward, elbows resting on the tabletop across from Minho.

There was just no way.

No way Han Jisung was sitting in front of him in Star Lost when Minho had shot a dagger through his heart and watched him die the night before. 

Jisung grinned. “Oh, I bet you thought you wouldn’t see me again this soon,” he said, tilting his head to the side in a mocking way and then lowering his voice. “Should I have stayed dead a little longer?”

“You can’t be alive,” Minho said, his voice breathy with confusion—and fear. “I buried you.” 

Jisung let out a low hum. “Wrong. You didn’t even have the decency to bury me,” he corrected, making a stupid pouty expression. “It wasn’t really nice of you to drag me through those woods and then leave me there to die, you know? Do you know how hard it is to wash dirt and soil out of hair?”

The last time they saw each other, Minho in fact had dumped Jisung’s body in the forest to get consumed by the sunlight and burn to ash. Jisung’s skin was gray, then, venom lines branching out on his face, eyes bulging out with confusion—blood-red; his appearance had been a stark contrast to the satisfied smirk he was sporting now, to the healthy look of his skin, to his soft brown eyes.

Minho shut the lid of his laptop, glancing around them although no other patron of the cafe seemed to pay any attention to the noise.

“Why aren’t you dead?” he hissed out stupidly.

Jisung’s grin only widened. “Wouldn’t you like to know, darling?”

Minho ignored the comment, clenching his jaw and combing through his knowledge to rationalize why the vampire he had killed the night before was sitting across from him with the most smug expression Minho had ever seen on anyone.

The only explanation he could come up with in all his astonishment was that Jisung must have been even more of an abomination than a regular vampire. And that only left being an Original.

The Originals were the first generation of vampires. They were the oldest, fastest, strongest, and most powerful vampires in the world. Regular weapons didn’t work on them, and it was still a mystery to most what could actually kill them. And they were known to have been scattered across the world, avoiding any interactions with hunters—meanwhile Jisung walked into this cafe knowing he would find Minho inside, and he was clearly a resident of this city, not just a passerby. 

How come no one had ever spread the word about an Original venturing through the streets of Seoul?

Something cold crept up Minho’s neck, but he refused to be intimidated. After all, he had killed the guy, and he could do it once again—many, many times, until it finally worked. He swallowed the lump building up in his throat, all the fear that had made it hard to focus, and met Jisung’s gaze head-on.

“What do you want from me?” he asked. “You should have fled when you had the chance. When I thought you were dead.”

The smirk on Jisung’s face didn’t falter. “But I’ve wanted to meet you for so long,” he said casually. “You’re quite the spectacle among us vampires. It’s just a pity I didn’t connect the dots yesterday.” 

Minho’s hand curled itself into a tight fist under the table. He wanted to bash Jisung’s teeth in, even if that wouldn’t have killed him, but he was all too aware that they weren’t there alone.

“I’m not going to talk to you,” Minho said. “You better crawl back into whatever hellhole you crawled out of, Han, before I grab my dagger and this time make sure you stay dead.”

Jisung laughed. Cheerful and delighted, as if it was all just a game to him. He leaned closer over the table and said, “Good luck with that.”

Minho scoffed. They both knew no dagger or gun he had on hand would ensure Jisung was dead for good, but if the one from last night kept him unconscious for a few hours, then it would have been enough—at least for a short moment.

Minho didn’t have the patience for that. He started gathering his things—shoved his laptop into his bag, grabbed his plastic cup of unfinished iced-americano off the table, and slung the strap over his shoulder. 

Keeping his jaw set, he didn’t spare Jisung another look, but at the same time wasn’t surprised when Jisung followed him out of Star Lost.

He wouldn’t consider himself to be someone who is fearful of vampires, but he couldn’t help but feel the terror run through his veins at the thought of such a powerful vampire hounding him back home.

But Jisung didn’t.

He stepped out onto the street behind Minho and said, “I’m feeling like it’s not the last time we’re seeing each other, hunter,” and then he turned on his heel, heading in the opposite direction.

Minho wanted to throw a dagger into his back. Wanted to stab him and watch him bleed out. But they were in the middle of the street, and Han Jisung was strolling down the sidewalk with a smile on his face and head tilted up to bathe in the sun without a single care in the world.

✰

“There isn’t a hunter in this world who doesn’t want to get their hands on you.”

Jisung looks up from where he’s been crouching by a flowerbed and lifts his eyebrows. “Does that include you?”

“Of course it does,” Minho tells him. As if he doesn’t know that—after nearly five months Minho has spent on researching how to kill him and chasing him around with weapons that eventually don’t work at all.

Standing up, Jisung tilts his head to the side in that menacing way that prefaces stupid words that are about to leave his mouth. 

“And what would you do if you got your hands on me?”

Minho scoffs. He chooses to ignore the innuendo and the comment overall, deciding he has already wasted enough time letting Jisung smell some flowers that are about to wither in the approaching waves of autumn cold. He resumes walking down the cobblestone path of the park, rolling his eyes when the sound of Jisung’s footsteps continues too.

“Though, I must say,” he carries on, unaffected by Minho’s disregard, “I’d gotten some pretty good idea of what you would do to me in that alley the very first night.”

When Jisung is close, adrenaline is always rushing through Minho’s veins, and this time, too, it makes him act on impulse. He could be babbling about Minho daggering him then, because he did, but Minho has spent enough time in his company to know that he’s talking about how they kissed.

The memory of that night makes his blood boil.

He grabs the dagger from where it’s strapped to his waist, spins around on his heel, and leaps forward, plunging the blade right into the left side of Jisung’s chest. Blood splutters out, unnaturally dark, but all that comes out of Jisung’s throat is a gasp of surprise. 

His gaze flickers down to Minho’s hand, still gripping the dagger, and he reaches out, taking a hold of Minho’s wrist and pulling the dagger out. Although it’s not nearly enough to kill him, it still causes discomfort to have it lodged in his heart.

“It’s going to take a little more than that to get rid of me, darling,” Jisung says, sounding almost amused as he brings Minho’s hand—and the dagger—down to his side. “You know it.”

“You,” Minho says through gritted teeth, “are going to die.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Jisung says, “but I’m already dead.”

Minho shakes out of his grip and fixes his hold on the hilt of his dagger, putting it between the two of them. “You’re making it so tempting for me to just rip your heart out and put it on display on my fireplace mantel like a trophy.”

Jisung chuckles. “Then do it,” he taunts. “Kill me.”

Not tearing his eyes away from Minho’s, he leans in closer—steps closer, until the tip of the dagger goes through the rip in the fabric of his shirt, piercing through his skin. Minho feels himself flush, his face and ears burning, and he wonders if it’s the cold whipping the blood into his face, the shame, or something completely different.

But he doesn’t falter—even when Jisung tries to impale himself on the dagger by stepping closer.

Instead, Minho pushes the dagger in with one, swift thrust, since the wound from mere minutes ago hasn’t closed up yet. He watches a trail of blood drip down Jisung’s chin as it pools in his mouth—watches his eyes widen, though it’s not surprise Minho sees in them; more like satisfaction.

He clenches his jaw and pulls the dagger out, grabbing Jisung’s arm to wipe the blood off of the blade on his sleeve. Jisung doesn’t even protest—but when Minho whips around, meaning to end the charade for the night and storm away, he grabs his arm to make him stay. 

“You’re gonna like me, Lee Minho,” he says, then, not even bothering to hide the smugness in his expression, “and I’m gonna let you pretend for a while that you don’t already.”

✰

It’s a strange relationship that they have fallen into. Jisung keeps doing what Jisung does best, which is getting on Minho’s nerves and not allowing his mind to get two seconds without thoughts of him swarming his head.

On the other hand, on nights when he isn’t hunting Jisung through the darkest streets of Seoul, Minho buries his nose in books, searching for an enhanced weapon, something powerful enough to kill him and keep him dead for good. 

He has no luck—not even when he wanders into the forbidden sections of old libraries all across the city, studying volumes on witchcraft and ancient techniques of hunting. It’s strange that he comes out empty-handed. 

As if someone had all mentions of weapons deadly to the Originals removed. Maybe that shouldn’t surprise him—and he shouldn’t dismiss the thought so easily. After all, the most powerful vampire clan in existence wouldn’t hesitate getting rid of the information that could easily bring them to their bitter end. They wouldn’t have much trouble with that, either.

But Minho isn’t giving up—the knowledge that the information might have been tampered with or hidden somewhere deep makes him all the more determined to retrieve it. One day he’ll get it—a dagger with charms that carry enough power, a mixture of herbs to go into the bullet, a stake made of some extinct species of a tree—and then that stupid smirk on Jisung’s face will fade and he will finally quiver in fear.

Because it’s not enough for Minho to have him pressed against the wall with a stake at his heart like right now. With that smug face and a satisfied gaze, it’s apparent that Jisung just doesn’t seem to care. As if this is exactly what he wants.

Minho has him pinned down and they both know he’ll end up dead under this bridge for a few hours, and somehow it still feels like Minho is the one who has already lost.

“How long do you think this will keep you dead?” Minho jabs, cocking his head to the side as he presses the willow stake harder so that the sharp tip pierces through Jisung’s skin.

All that leaves Jisung’s mouth is a harsh but quiet groan. His features twist into discomfort, though a second passes and he’s back to sporting a devilish smirk.

“I don’t know, darling,” he says, “but I do have great stamina, so it might be a while before that stake does anything to me.”

Minho rolls his eyes. “You know, I’m very patient, actually, so I certainly won’t mind sticking around here a little longer just to stab that stake into your heart inch by inch and make sure it hurts.”

With this proximity, barely inches between their faces, Minho doesn’t miss the way Jisung’s gaze flickers down to his lips. Jisung swipes his tongue over his mouth before breaking into another one of those smug little grins that piss Minho off so much.

Minho pushes the stake further in, watching the smirk crumble once again. This time, Jisung’s grunt is harsher, wounded. 

“Maybe I’m into it,” Jisung says, even though he sounds breathless. “Maybe I like the pain.” 

“Oh?” It’s Minho’s turn to grin. “Then you won’t mind if I just—” 

He pulls the bloodied stake out, leaving Jisung stumbling forward into him, and then slams it back in, further than it’d been before, but not enough to force him to pass out just yet.

Jisung grips his shoulder for stability and Minho lets him, even though he realizes how easy it would be for him to move his hand just a little to the side and rip Minho’s throat open. 

Completely foolish, by now he trusts Jisung not to.

If it were their second time seeing each other in these circumstances, Minho wouldn’t even let Jisung this close, their breaths mingling as they breathe the same air. After all, Minho is just a human. Skilled, but mortal and fragile and human. If Jisung wanted to, he could rip him to pieces in one move.

But, for some reason, he doesn’t want to.

He plays with Minho, trying to drive him insane, and throws back a few wounds like the scratches he left on Minho’s neck and shoulder or the bruises that painted his side for a week after Jisung kicked him.

But it’s been months of the two of them knowing each other, and Jisung has never even tried to attack Minho with the sole purpose of feeding on him—even though he acts weird whenever he does cause Minho an injury that results in blood trickling down his skin; which Minho chalks up to him being sensitive to the smell of blood.

And that makes the whole thing even weirder. 

Jisung is an Original vampire who could overpower Minho with much more ease than a regular bloodsucker. It’s not in his nature to try to resist feeding on someone who’s already bleeding.

Minho wonders if he’s like that to other hunters he encounters. Merciful. Playful. Does he even have the time to do what he does with Minho with other people? Does he become the hunter and make them his prey? Does he kill them instantly? Does he feed on them and make them lose their minds with his venom? 

“Are you getting hunted by others?” Minho blurts out before he can stop himself.

Jisung looks taken aback just for a brief moment. And then he says, “Would you be jealous if I said I was?”

Against himself, Minho laughs. Or, rather, snorts, but the sound that leaves his mouth makes him just as ashamed as if he were bending over with a fit of laughter. He’s quick to school his expression into something neutral, but Jisung’s smirk still softens into a gentle smile. 

It’s unnerving, to say the least.

“I just need to know if it’s someone I should get rid of before they kill you off and steal my chance to do it,” Minho says nonchalantly. At least that is true—if someone had their eye on Han Jisung, the absolute catch of Minho’s entire life, Minho wouldn’t hesitate to kill them. 

He isn’t above disposing of people who interfere with his plans, especially when the stakes are so high. 

“There’s no one else for me, darling,” Jisung says, thumb stroking Minho’s shoulder in a way that would be reassuring and affectionate if they were two lovers hiding in the shadows, speaking their secrets in hushed tones; but they are far from that, and the touch burns even through Minho’s leather jacket. “But I’m flattered to know you’d kill someone to protect my life.”

“If someone killed you,” Minho tells him, “I’d send them flowers as a thank you.”

And then he fixes the grip on the willow stake and pierces it through Jisung’s heart in a swift move, listening to the way his ribcage cracks, watching the way blood drips down his chin even though his lips are still twisted in a smile, enjoying the way Jisung’s glassy eyes seem to tell him, Buy those flowers for yourself, darling.

✰

Minho can feel a presence shadowing him as he strolls through the park after dinner, but the uncomfortable feeling crawling up his neck fades when he realizes that—although there are many people who could be tailing him—there’s only one person who would follow him around so shamelessly.

He sighs, slowing down, and says, “At least be a little more subtle when you’re stalking me.”

The wind whooshes around him, piercingly cold in its autumn nature, but Minho doesn’t make the effort to pull his jacket tighter around himself. He registers the movement on the side out of the corner of his eye, and when he blinks, Jisung is already moving to stand beside him. 

“I’m not stalking you,” he says. “I was just waiting for you at the Banpo Bridge and you didn’t show.”

“And what about it? Were you worried about me?” 

Minho didn’t show because he was tired after attending (normal) job interviews the entire day. He took a nap, woke up in time to get dinner delivered, and now he’s here—walking around the park without any purpose.

Jisung lets out a hum, but Minho can’t tell if it’s an affirmative answer or just a sound of acknowledgement. “You usually come. And I thought you’d like the rainbow fountain.”

Sending him a skeptical look, not understanding why Jisung would care about whether Minho liked the place where he would get stabbed, Minho shrugs. “Maybe I would,” he says. “But I just didn’t feel like hunting today.”

“Don’t tell me you’re losing interest in me.”

Jisung has his lower lip jutted out in a stupid pout when Minho looks over at him.

“My life doesn’t revolve around chasing you around day and night,” he says. “I have better things to do.”

Jisung gasps, pressing his palm against his heart dramatically. “That hurt,” he says, nudging Minho’s shoulder with his own when Minho just shrugs. “But I personally think it does. You’re obsessed with me.”

Minho feels a stupid, foolish, dumb grin tugging at his lips. Lord, save him.  

“Says the person who’s been following me ever since I left my house.”

Jisung doesn’t even bother trying to argue. “I had to make sure you didn’t get attacked,” he says instead, “and when I saw you walking down the street. I thought that maybe you’d head for Banpo Bridge, so I followed you.”

“I heard the tip, decided not to bother going, and it didn’t cross my mind again,” Minho tells him, turning left into the path that leads to the part with food stalls. “You keep overestimating how much time I spend thinking about you.”

His mind instantly conjures the right facts: that he spends a vast majority of his time researching the Originals (because of Jisung) or specifically him, each day he wonders if he will be hearing about Jisung’s appearances throughout the city, and if they do meet, Minho keeps going over it in his head once he gets back home, sometimes staring at his own reflection in the mirror as he cleans blood off of himself, sometimes in his bed, with lights out, when the only thing on his mind is the question of why he didn’t kill Jisung that day. (He never finds the answer.)

Sometimes it’s like this: Minho walking around the city, Jisung appearing out of the shadows, with neither of them trying to fight or kill. Minho would never admit it out loud, but Jisung makes quite pleasant company when he keeps his mouth shut. 

That doesn’t happen often, though, because as much as there are moments of comfortable silence between them with only the bustle of the city to accompany them in their ventures, Jisung likes talking. About anything.

(Minho learns a lot about what Jisung does when he isn’t stalking him or looking for a human to feed on, even if it’s against his will.)

“I know you can’t get me off your mind,” Jisung says, an annoying grin on his face. 

Minho decides to only roll his eyes and ignore him, especially that he sees the stall he’s been meaning to stop by in the distance. That doesn’t stop Jisung from following right after him, all the while insisting that Minho must at least be thinking a lot about killing Jisung—which, according to him, counts.

Coming closer to the food stall, Minho greets the Auntie and orders a hotteok. Jisung immediately butts in.

“Darling, aren’t you going to buy one for me?” he asks, feigning a sulky tone, only to wave a dismissive hand and grin at the vendor in all his charming glory. “Well, it’s okay. I’ll pay for us both.”

Minho sends him a deathly glare, which Jisung pointedly ignores, already pulling out his wallet. The vendor laughs like she knows something Minho doesn’t as she hands over their food. 

The sugar syrup is hot against his tongue, almost burning it, but he shakes it all off because the warmth in his hands makes the weather more bearable.

Minho lets Jisung tag along as he drags his feet to his house. He isn’t afraid of Jisung knowing where he lives, because he probably wouldn’t even need to follow Minho to find out. Hell, he already knows. It doesn’t matter—Minho sleeps with a dagger under his pillow, anyway.

The walk over to Minho’s house is quiet, at least on their part. The city is alive and well around them, with people making their way down the sidewalks and cars passing by, and that provides some strange sense of comfort.

Minho unlocks the gate and pushes it open, expecting Jisung to take it as his cue to leave without further ado. But he should know better. Jisung follows after him and it’s Minho who has to stop him by turning around and lifting an incredulous eyebrow.

“Goodbye, Han,” he says, exasperated. His hand is twitching, longing to reach into the pocket of his jacket to get the string he carries around and strangle him.

Jisung only laughs, backing away with his hands lifted in surrender. “Sweet dreams, darling.”

Sighing, Minho lets him be and closes the gate with a harsh sound of metal hitting metal and the lock clicking. He makes his way down the path, towards the front door, feeling a dark stare on himself still.

Even though it’s his back that’s facing him, Minho can tell Jisung stands there on the side of the road until Minho walks inside his house—and then he disappears into the shadows like he was never there in the first place.

✰

Knowing that Jisung feeds on humans and seeing it with his own two eyes are vastly different things. 

It makes Minho feel sick to his stomach for more reasons than one, to step into this restaurant and find it empty—except for Jisung and the girl perched in his lap, in whose neck he’s fangs-deep into. 

Everything Minho wants to say withers at the back of his tongue when their eyes lock; he walks in, Jisung looks up, his eyes as red as the blood dripping down the girl’s exposed skin.

He doesn’t stop drinking, and Minho feels like he’s the only one frozen in time. The girl doesn’t seem to mind it, despite the many times Minho has seen humans writhing in pain and screaming while having their blood drunk without consent. 

He swallows the bitterness, scoffs, and turns on his heel without even trying to save her. Minho isn’t a savior. Not to people who seem to be enjoying themselves, anyway.

He can hear the noise breaking through the restaurant as he storms out, but the front door slips shut and all of it is cut off, replaced by the neverending intensity of the city. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, Minho makes his way down the sidewalk and turns right into the alleyway that should make the angry walk back to his house shorter. 

Minho doesn’t know why he feels so. . . disappointed. It doesn’t make sense. 

The wind whistles around him, seemingly just as frustrated as he is, but with the next harsh blow, it spews out Jisung. Fuck him and his vampiric powers, Minho thinks; he has to overtake him since Jisung decides to stand in his way, but he doesn’t miss the chance to glare him right in the eye.

“Can’t you just wait a moment?” Jisung calls out—but Minho carries on walking through the dark as if he didn’t hear anything at all. “Hey!” 

Minho grits his teeth, but the urge to scream beats him. “Go back to your blood bag,” he says over his shoulder, anger bleeding into the spaces between his words. “Don’t be shy. Don’t let me stand in your way.” 

Jisung scoffs. “That’s what you’re angry about? That I’m feeding?” 

Minho clenches his hands into fists by his sides, but he’s afraid to break the skin so he forces himself to loosen the grip. It would be smarter to keep walking and leave it all behind. Unfortunately, when it comes to Jisung, Minho has already lost all his common sense.

So he turns around with a finger pointed at Jisung and spits out, “That you’re feeding in front of me. That you’re feeding from a living human being.”

Stepping forward, Jisung almost completely closes the distance between them. His gaze sweeps all over Minho’s face, studying the frown sewn into his features and the storm raging in his eyes.

“There are people who want to pay me to feed on them,” he says eventually. “There are people who are willing to let me drink just because they like the thrill of it.”

“You’re still hurting someone,” Minho says, even though he truly couldn’t care less about the strangers wandering through the world, somehow finding their way under Jisung’s fangs.

“It doesn’t have to be torture if I don’t want it to be,” Jisung tells him. “I’m not the horrible person you think I am.”

Minho shakes his head. “I think you are,” he says. “If you had any decency, you’d at least feed on criminals and assholes and people who deserve every drop of pain this world has to give.”

Setting his mouth in a firm line, Jisung falls quiet. For a moment Minho considers that maybe he won’t say anything else, that Minho should go back to what he was doing, and that had been heading back home, far away from Han Jisung and his horrible vampiric needs.

“Rotten people have rotten blood,” Jisung tells him belatedly. “It tastes like poison.”

“So what? You’re into the innocent? Because pure people taste best?”

“Hm. Maybe.” Jisung shrugs. “The more I like someone, the sweeter their blood tastes for me.”

He sends Minho an obnoxious wink that has him huffing in annoyance and crossing his arms over his chest. Of course he’s trying to turn it all into a joke. Minho doesn’t want to talk about the implications of what Jisung is saying, nor does he want to let Jisung shift the focus from something serious to his meaningless flirting. 

“What happened to that girl?” Minho asks, nodding towards the building they had both left in a hurry minutes ago, nothing but brick and stone from this side.

Jisung shrugs. “Nothing. She works at that restaurant, so I just left her there. I didn’t drink a lot and, anyway, I asked her if I could and she said yes, so it’s not a big deal.” 

Minho gawks at him. “Not a big deal?” he echoes, his fingers burning with the need to reach into the sheath and grab his dagger, and then plunge him right through Jisung’s chest, even if it doesn’t kill him. 

“Yeah. Why are you so pissed, anyway?” Jisung asks, lifting his eyebrows challengingly. “Jealous?” 

Minho’s heart skips a beat. Jisung can tell, can hear, but he doesn’t comment on it as Minho scrambles through his mind in search of something to say. Something witty. Something that will stop Jisung from making all those comments he finds hilarious. Something that will shut him up.

But his throat is dry and his stomach has tied itself into knots that tighten with every breath he takes. 

The realization sits heavy in Minho’s chest. He thought he could handle what’s between them, the way their relationship heats and fizzes whenever they’re in the same room. But control he used to have over the situation is slipping through his fingertips like sand.

Minho takes in a sharp breath and spits out, “You’re gonna have to try harder than that if you want me to give a fuck about you.”

When he turns back around and finally continues making his way between the buildings, he half-expects to hear Jisung following him, but Jisung doesn’t. 

✰

The last thing Minho expects on a Saturday night is to open the front door and see him standing on his doorstep. Scratch that—it’s the last thing he expects to ever happen.

But he’s here, looking more pale than usual under the fanlight, with his hand pressed against his side and eyes clouded, not even focusing on the sight before him. 

And Minho knows that with their history, he wouldn’t be here if something wasn’t completely wrong. He scans him over again, asking what Jisung is doing here, but a heavy breath comes out instead of an answer, and when Minho looks down—

Dark red, almost black blood is coating Jisung’s fingers where his arm is hanging at his side. It’s wet, fresh as it seeps out in a spurt when he tries to move.

When the sight sinks in, Minho gasps, eyes bulging and threatening to pop out of their sockets while his fingers twitch uselessly as if his body wants him to reach out and grab Jisung before he collapses.

“What happened?”

“I—” Jisung breaks into a cough. His bloody hand flies to press against his sternum, and he takes in another sharp breath before the wheezes stop wracking his body. A trail of blood, equally dark as the one covering his hand, drips down the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry—” he rasps out. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Minho opens his mouth, only for nothing to come out. 

Jisung isn’t his responsibility. Minho has absolutely no reason to not let him die, even if he’s going to bleed out in front of his house. He’s a vampire, someone Minho has personally dedicated months to find, chase, and hunt down.

And yet.

The sight of Jisung’s face contorted in pain is enough to make his heartbeat pick up the pace. A second later, he’s already pulling him inside the house, not caring about the trail of blood they’re leaving behind or the fact that seeing his enemy on the brink of death shouldn’t make him feel this panicked.

Jisung’s weight against him as Minho kicks shut the door is grounding in the face of everything brewing inside of him. Fear, because he doesn’t know how this will end; confusion, because he doesn’t know what led to this in the first place; and anger, because he doesn’t know who did this.

They step into the foyer, and Minho realizes he has no idea what to do. He should lie Jisung down and check what’s going on, but considering all that blood, he’s going to need the first-aid kit and space that will allow him to clean him up.

“Hold on,” he says, his voice trembling. “We gotta go to the bathroom.” 

And then he slings an arm under Jisung’s knees, only for a moment pondering how easily he gives in, drained of energy—and mounts the stairs, figuring that they don’t have time to lose.

He pushes the bathroom door open with his shoulder and moves to sit Jisung down on the edge of the bathtub, but Jisung stops him with his ragged voice.

“I need to lie down,” he says, his head lolling back as he appears to not have any strength left in him to hold it up. 

God. What could possibly harm an Original like that?

Minho sets him down on the tiled floor, rolling a towel to put it under his head as Jisung lies down. It’s only when he flicks the light on that he notices the blood soaking Jisung’s shirt, glistening against the black color. 

“Where’s the blood coming from?” Minho whispers as Jisung clenches his fists by his sides from pain. “Jisung,” he says, addressing the vampire by his name for the first time, trying to keep the fear from seeping into his voice. Jisung blinks his eyes open at him, and they’re completely dark, as if his sclera has disappeared. “Where is it coming from?”

Jisung shakes his head. “I can’t—I can’t move,” he sobs out. “It hurts.”

Minho sets his jaw, trying to stop the stupid tears pricking at his eyes from falling. He doesn’t want to think about why he wants to break down in tears. Not now. “I’m going to take your shirt off now,” he says instead, already reaching behind himself to open the drawer under the sink and get a pair of scissors. 

Jisung whimpers as Minho slowly peels the shirt off his chest, the blood—both already dried and the one still wet—making it stick to his skin, leaving prints behind. When the fabric is out of the way, Minho sees it: the gunshot wound just below his ribs, scorching marks around it, blood rhythmically bursting out to trail down his side.

“Oh, god,” Minho whispers, choking on a sob. “Who did this to you?” 

Jisung swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Minho can barely hear him when he answers, “A hunter.”

His eyelids flutter shut, stiff muscles relaxing for a long second, as if he’s slipping into a dream. Minho’s anxiety spikes up even higher at the sight and he grabs Jisung’s shoulder to shake him awake.

“Stay with me,” he says, voice stern with fear, watching with relief as Jisung opens his eyes, even though it hurts him physically to see them filled with tears. “Don’t fall asleep, okay? I got you. You’re safe now.”

Jisung’s moves are lethargic when he nods. A coughing fit wracks his body and he rolls onto his hurt side, wailing in pain as blood, dark like the night, trails out of his mouth and onto the floor. The movement irritates the wound in his stomach, causing more bleeding. 

Minho presses his lips together into a thin line and grabs a face towel from the cabinet to press it against Jisung’s ribs as hard as he can. “I’m sorry,” he says when Jisung cries out again. “We need to stop the bleeding.”

I don’t know what to do, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t want Jisung to give up, to stop fighting—that would be the end, and, for some reason, Minho can’t let that happen. 

He can’t hear anything past the desperation of his own mind, screaming at him to do something, but all he knows is pressing the towel against the wound and whispering foolish assurances that go unheard in the sheer volume of Jisung’s cries.

He needs to help him—he’s going to find a way to help him. 

“Please,” Jisung sobs out, grabbing Minho’s bloodied hand with his own trembling one. “I can’t—I need to. . .” He gulps, swallowing the scream that threatens to escape his throat—one that still manages to shift his features with pain. “You have to kill me now.”

Minho’s heart shatters across the bathroom floor like broken glass. The tears he’s been trying so hard to keep at bay spill over, rolling uselessly down his cheeks, and he shakes his head so violently his neck hurts. 

“No,” he says sternly, squeezing Jisung’s hand. “Never. No.” 

He has spent months chasing after Jisung with the intention to end his eternal life, but none of his weapons ever worked. And now that Jisung is here, hurt by someone who found a way to kill him, weak and asking for Minho to finish the job, he can’t bring himself to make the first and last move. 

Jisung sobs, tears and snot running down his face and mixing with blood. “I’m begging you,” he whispers. “It hurts so much.” 

“No, Jisung,” Minho repeats, even though he hates the thought of Jisung being in pain and hates not being able to do anything to ease it. “You can’t ask me to do that. I won’t do it. I won’t lose you. I can’t.”

“What?”

The fear of losing Jisung is bigger than his commitment as a hunter—that’s simply it. Maybe it’s the worst possible time to realize this, to let the feelings slip through the cracks in the wall he’s built around himself. But it also might be the last possible chance to do that.

“You’re not leaving me,” Minho tells him, blinking away the tears. “I’m not letting you leave me.” 

Jisung opens his mouth, but instead of speaking, he starts coughing blood again. Minho doesn’t care that it splatters all across the floor and cabinets—his heart hurts at the sight of Jisung struggling to breathe, at the notion that there’s nothing he can do to help him.

The blood is almost black, and Minho realizes belatedly that it’s mixed with vampire venom. If Jisung is already weak and he isn’t healing on his own despite Minho trying to stop the bleeding, the bullet that hit him must’ve been made of something more than just silver. 

Jisung keeps crying, and Minho can only wipe his face off of tears and blood and venom, struggling to keep himself together too.

His hand doesn’t let go of Minho’s. He’s squeezing it so hard Minho thinks his bones might break, but he can’t bring himself to care—and perhaps that wracks his heart more than anything else. Jisung is terrified, and Minho is helpless.

And then a face appears in his mind, sudden and fleeting, and Minho scrambles to reach his phone, not caring about the bloody fingerprints he’s leaving on the screen as he pulls up the right number.

He should’ve done that earlier. He should have thought of it first when Jisung showed up here. If Minho loses him, it’s going to be his—

“If it’s not a life or death situation, you should hang up, ‘cause I’m busy,” Yang Jeongin says on the other side.

Minho swallows, putting the phone on speaker and setting it down on the floor so that he can grab another towel and change the one that’s already soaked in blood. He sniffles, pressing it against Jisung’s wound, but the bleeding doesn’t stop. “It—It really is,” he stammers out finally. “I need your help.” 

Jeongin is a witch, that’s the thing. Minho got his first charmed daggers from him years ago, even though it’s frowned upon by the Hunter Committee to interact with other supernatural creatures. 

Jisung mumbles something as he squeezes his eyes shut, but Minho shushes him. “I’ve got an Original that was hit by a bullet, and—he’s vomiting venom, and blood, and he’s shaking, and—” An uncontrollable sob rips out of his mouth. “I can’t let him die, Jeongin. I can’t let him die. Help me. Please. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything.”

Jeongin is silent on the other side, and Minho knows exactly what he’s thinking. It’s uncommon for hunters to want to save vampires. Minho should be taking this chance to end him.

“Where did he get shot?” Jeongin asks, then. “Where’s the exit wound?”

“Under the ribs, slightly to the center,” Minho says, and, keeping the pressure on the wound, he tries to sneak his other hand under Jisung’s back, gulping when he doesn’t feel anything. “There isn’t one,” he says eventually.

Jeongin sighs. “You have to take out the bullet, Minho. Right now,” he says, the certainty and finality of his voice filling Minho with traces of hope. “It must be made of mountain ash and white oak and silver, and he’s going to die if he hasn’t already.”

Minho lets out a sob when Jisung starts writhing on the floor again. “How do I do that? I—” he whispers. “I can’t.”

“You have to take it out so that he can start healing on his own,” Jeongin explains—that much Minho has figured out. “Minho—I can only be there in the morning. I’m not in the country right now. You have to do it.”

“I can’t, I’m not a medic—” Minho stammers. “I’ll only hurt him.”

“He’ll die if you don’t remove that bullet and he’ll heal from any damage you’ll leave if you remove it,” Jeongin commands. “I’ll talk you through it. You just have to get your hands clean and grab towels, gloves, and a knife.”

Minho’s hands are trembling and his legs wobble when he pushes himself up to stand.

Jisung doesn’t let him slip out of the hold he has on his hand. “Don’t leave me,” he whines. “Please.”

“I’ll be right back,” Minho whispers, leaning in to brush Jisung’s hair away from his forehead, and grabs his phone. “I promise. I’ll be right back.”

Minho holds his tears in just long enough to make it out of the bathroom. And then he cries, hands leaving bloody prints on the wall as he holds himself up, only remembering he’s still on the call with Jeongin when he hears his voice past the rushing of blood in his ears.

“Come on, Minho,” he says. “You can save him, and you will.”

Minho nods, even though Jeongin can’t see him, and sniffles pathetically as he runs through the house to get everything he needs and wash the blood off his hands, wanting nothing more than to get back to Jisung so that he isn’t alone any longer.

He’s writhing on the floor when Minho rushes back inside the bathroom, his back arched with blood seeping out of the wound even though he’s clearly trying to keep pressure against it. But his muscles are stiff and seized-up, and he can’t help but clench his hands into fists, only letting go when Minho drops on his knees next to him—to get a hold of his hand again.

“I’m here, Jisungie,” he whispers, swallowing over the lump in his throat. The knife he grabbed from his wide collection clatters when he sets it down on the floor. He still has to rummage through the cabinets to find more towels and gloves, but he’s all set—and that gives him hope. “You’re gonna be okay.” 

“Minho,” Jisung mumbles, sounding breathless and tired, voice all roughed-up from the constant coughing. “I’m sorry.”

Minho sniffles, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand—and smearing blood all over it. “Don’t say that. Don’t say anything.”

Jisung shakes his head. “I have to say it now.”

“No,” Minho interrupts, his voice sharp. “You can tell me later. When I get this thing out of you.”

Jisung sobs out his name, but Minho has to ignore him for both of their sakes—he needs to focus, and if Jisung is going to keep trying to apologize, Minho will break down and not get the job done.

Keeping Jisung alive is more important. They can talk when this is all over.

If this was a normal bullet—if Jisung was human—it wouldn’t be safe to remove it; Minho would simply try to stop the bleeding, clean the wound, and hope that it didn’t damage any internal organs. Above all, Minho would take Jisung to the hospital to have actual qualified doctors take care of him. 

But the bullet is made of death, Jisung is a vampire, and Minho can’t take him to the hospital, because the mundane world isn’t supposed to know about supernatural creatures.

Jeongin knows better—if he says that removing the bullet will allow Jisung to heal on his own, then Minho will remove the goddamn bullet. Even if that means cutting him open and shoving his hand into Jisung’s stomach to take it out. 

“This is going to hurt,” Minho whispers, pulling surgical gloves over his hands and taking a hold of the knife.

“Probably not more than it already does,” Jisung wheezes, starting to cough again and making yet another sob rip out of Minho’s throat. Jisung instantly shushes him, trying to calm his own breathing down to seem less affected, even though he’s dying. “Hey, hey—it’s okay. It’s—It’s fine. Don’t cry.”

Minho blinks, chasing away tears. “You’re the one with a bullet stuck behind your ribs, why are you consoling me?”  

“Because I—”

“This is all very sweet,” Jeongin cuts in, “but if you don’t move, he’s going to die.”

Minho nods, letting out a shuddering breath. “We’ll talk later,” he says. “Trust me.”

“I trust you,” Jisung tells him without hesitation. 

Although his hands are trembling, Minho does everything exactly as Jeongin tells him: he cuts into the inches of skin below Jisung’s ribs, opening the already existing wound further, and—blinking away the tears so that they don’t blur his vision—delicately sticks his fingers inside. It’s beyond gross and Minho almost pulls out when Jisung starts wailing again, but Jeongin harshly calls out his name, so he tries to feel for the bullet.

Taking it out is another struggle. Jisung writhes and thrashes on the ground and grips Minho’s thigh so hard that it’s Minho who wants to scream. The bullet is hot to the touch when he finally gets a hold of it, almost sizzling as it drags against the inside of Jisung’s body, but Minho does everything he can to make it quick and gentle and avoid moving it too much so that it doesn’t damage his lungs. 

Once it’s out, the black blood trails out of the wound again, this time even more of it as Minho has opened it up, so he drops the bullet on the floor and jumps in to press the towel against Jisung’s side.

Jisung is breathless, his face still pale and covered in blood, but the sob he breaks into sounds more like relief than pain. 

“I did it—” Minho pants out to Jeongin. “I pulled it out.” 

“Okay,” Jeongin says. Even though he doesn’t know neither Jisung, nor what’s going on, he sounds glad the worst part is over. “You have to keep the pressure on the wound now.”

Minho swallows, using all the remainder of strength in his body to do what Jeongin is telling him to, until his arms are shaking and tears are falling down his face again. “It’s okay, Jisungie. Everything’s gonna be fine now.”

Jisung nods. His muscles are slowly relaxing, head lolling back against the towel and the floor, and although he looks weaker, he looks better. “It doesn’t hurt that much,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. 

“Minho,” Jeongin calls out. “He’s going to need blood.” 

Oh.

Minho blinks. “I. . . I’ll take care of that,” he says, grabbing a towel to sneak it underneath Jisung’s back and tie it tightly around the wound in his side. “Thank you, Jeongin. I’ll call you later.” 

“Of course. Stay safe.”

Ending the call—and smearing even more blood over the screen with his dirty gloves—Minho turns his focus back to Jisung, his heart never ceasing to throb painfully in his chest. 

His breathing has slowed down and steadied, he isn’t vomiting venom anymore, but his hands are once again clenched into fists by his sides and his dark eyes are drilling holes in the ceiling. Minho panics.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, words coming out hushed and slurred in urgency. If something went wrong, if Minho messed it up. . . Jeongin can’t get here in time, and there’s no one in this world Minho could trust with this—one one else he knows who could help him save Jisung.

Jisung swallows hard. “I’m not going to drink your blood,” he says, the edge of his voice containing a kind of finality that makes Minho frown in confusion.

“You have to,” he whispers. “You need to feed, Jisung.”

“I won’t,” Jisung argues, all the while refusing to look at Minho, to tear his eyes away from the ceiling, staring at the white paint like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “I won’t hurt you like that. You don’t want it. You’re just—”

“Bite me,” Minho says sternly, blood thumping deafeningly in his ears, “or I’ll cut my wrists open and force the blood down your throat myself.”

Not for the first time that night, he surprises himself. A week ago—hell, that same morning—he wouldn’t even think of helping a vampire. And here he is, saving one’s life and offering his own. 

Because Jisung isn’t just a vampire. 

He’s the most annoying person Minho knows and someone he still wants to kill for being a pain in the ass, but he’s also someone charming who makes Minho laugh and leaves him craving any kind of connection. Against all odds, Minho has taken a special liking to him—and it would hurt like nothing else to lose him.

Jisung finally looks at him when Minho grabs the knife lying on the floor and uses a towel to wipe the dried blood off of it. Minho holds his gaze to make it clear that he isn’t joking, and when Jisung’s jaw remains clenched, with a hiss leaving his lips—Minho slides the edge of the knife along the wrist of his right hand. Droplets of blood bead at the sharp wound before dripping down his pale skin, and Jisung gasps, either because he can’t believe Minho did it, or because of the smell.

The cut stings, but Minho doesn’t regret it—because Jisung might let out a sob, but he takes hold of Minho’s hand and pulls him closer. To make it more comfortable, Minho crawls over behind Jisung and helps him sit up enough for him to rest his head in his lap. 

Jisung cradles his arm, eyes wide and glimmering, but he doesn’t make a move to actually feed. The blood is beginning to branch out, drawing red lines over Minho’s forearm, and Jisung seems to be watching them move, almost entranced.

“Please, drink,” Minho whispers, throat tightening up. “You need to start healing.”

Jisung takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, and then he cranes his neck, finally lapping at the cut on Minho’s wrist, licking the trail of blood down the inner side of his arm.

The sensation isn’t strange, but Minho knows nothing has happened yet. He’s trying to prepare himself for it, but a loud gasp is still punched out of him when Jisung’s fangs bite into the flesh of his wrist.

Minho moans, pain burning under his skin as Jisung drinks, and he squeezes his eyes shut so hard that his vision goes white for a minute. He can’t help but remember what Jisung had told him weeks ago—about the blood of the person he likes tasting sweet. He selfishly hopes his is the sweetest.

It’s over before he knows it, though; Jisung is licking up all the excess that’s dripping down Minho’s skin and coloring it red, and the wound closes up under the power of his venom.

He falls back against Minho’s lap, chest heaving with the harsh breaths he’s taking. Although Minho himself feels dizzy from all the blood loss—even though he feels like Jisung has taken just enough to satiate the hunger and not a drop more—he leans in closer to cradle Jisung’s head in his arms. 

“I’m sorry, Minho,” he says quietly.

“I was the one who made you drink,” Minho points out. “But I’m not sorry. I’m okay, and thanks to the blood, you will be, too.”

He’s hoping so, but the anxiety lingers; Minho is deadly terrified that something could’ve gone wrong, that he fucked it up somehow, and Jisung will have to suffer the consequences.

Minho sniffles, willing his brain not to conjure the worst-case scenarios just yet. “How are you feeling?” he asks, maybe searching for reassurance. 

Jisung lets out a sigh, leaning into Minho’s touch when he cradles his face. “Better. Like I’m not dying,” he says. “Like I’m starting to heal.”

Minho’s eyes still sting when he says, “Good. When you feel up to it, you should take a shower and get that blood off of you. I’m sure you’ll feel better then.”

“Yeah,” Jisung whispers. “I feel disgusting.”

Minho does, too. His own clothes are soaked with blood and he can feel dried splatters of it on his face. He’s going to need to clean himself up, but—most importantly—he’s going to need to clean his apartment, the bathroom that’s been painted red, and the trail of blood they left behind while getting up here.

But it’s okay. What’s important is that Jisung is with him, and he’s slowly starting to heal, and everything is going to be perfectly fine. Dirt and blood and vampire venom doesn’t matter.

The worst thing is, they don’t seem to know how to talk. There’s a lot of things Minho wants to say, but Jisung has been through a lot and he’s still recovering, so he gives him space. On the other hand, he can’t help but notice how Jisung seems to want to speak up, but backs away when Minho looks at him and their eyes lock.

It stings more than it should. 

“Can I take a shower now?” Jisung asks, trying to pull himself into a sitting position up from Minho’s lap. He has to prop himself up on his hand and his face still twists into a grimace, but even like this, he looks much better than when he showed up at Minho’s doorstep. 

“Of course,” Minho says. “Do you think you can walk down the stairs, though? That bathroom is smaller, but it’s clean.” 

Jisung swallows visibly, but nods. He isn’t even looking at the mess surrounding them, but at Minho—with his gaze fixed on his nose, or somewhere, because for some reason he still refuses to look him in the eye. 

“Come on,” Minho says, trying not to let it hurt. “I’ll get you some clean clothes.” Because he ripped Jisung’s shirt, and his pants are ruined, too. 

“Thanks,” is all Jisung tells him as Minho pulls him up by his hands, wrapping a steadying arm around his waist. His moves are lethargic and slow, contrasting with the image of him Minho knows: all speed and impatience. 

It’s eyes-opening. 

He helps Jisung down the stairs, even though he’s doing pretty well walking on his own, and has him sitting down on the toilet lead so that he can check his gunshot wound. 

Minho lets out a sigh of relief, heavy weight falling off of his shoulders at the sight of Jisung’s side—still dirty with blood, still furiously red, but starting to close up, healing. He’s surprised when Jisung returns his shaky smile when Minho looks up, but that alone fills him with hope and warmth and happiness.

Things are really going to be alright.

He believes that now, with enough courage to cup the side of Jisung’s face and sweep his thumb across his cheek. 

“Don’t lock the door or wait until I bring you clothes to do it, okay?” Minho says, waiting for Jisung to jerk his head in a nod to leave. He’s still feeling a little dizzy himself, with that blood loss and the events of the day taking his toll on him, but he tries to make it quick, darting up the stairs to make it back to Jisung as fast as possible.

Once he finds the most comfortable hoodie and sweatpants he owns, he grabs some underwear too, and jogs downstairs, only to hear the water already running when his hand touches the handle. He kind of thought Jisung would wait.

“I’m coming in!” he calls out, anyway, doing his best not to stare at the shower to respect Jisung’s privacy. He sets the clothes down on the toilet lid along with fresh towels and a toothbrush if Jisung needs it, and leaves him be.

In the meantime, he takes a quick shower too, immediately moving to clean the bathroom upstairs after that, mopping the floor and wiping the cabinets, doing everything not to break down all over again.

Minho doesn’t remember the last time he felt so scared—the last time fear didn’t want to let go of him this way, holding on with sharp claws that tear him apart in their excruciating slowness. 

By the time he finishes cleaning—at least partly, because there was a lot of blood—Jisung still hasn’t left the shower, and for a fleeting moment Minho considers checking up on him. But he waits, washing his own hands with the door wide open, and hears the door click downstairs.

And then—

“Minho?”

He shakes the water off of his hands and steps out into the hallway. “I’m upstairs,” he says, and soon enough Jisung’s footsteps sound through the house, his figure appearing at the top of the stairs, small and hesitant.

Minho’s breath catches in his throat. 

Jisung looks so much better when he isn’t covered in blood, shaking from the pain and borderline delirious. His hair is damp, fluffy, making Minho itch to run his fingers through it. And the worst thing is that he looks drop-dead gorgeous in Minho’s clothes, big enough to swallow him whole despite how well-built he is.

God. How could Minho refuse to acknowledge that Jisung gets his blood pumping and heart pounding before? He was so stupid. 

He can’t be anymore.

“Come here,” he says softly, nodding towards the door of his bedroom. “You should get some sleep, or at least lie down and rest.”

Jisung hesitates, and Minho wonders if he’s reading it all wrong, getting ahead of himself. But then Jisung takes a step forward, and even though he’s stiff and a bit awkward (for which Minho definitely can’t blame him), his lips upturn in a shaky smile and he follows Minho inside the bedroom.

He looks around, curious, and Minho lets him run his hand along the spines filling the bookshelf in the corner, lets him wander around and explore, even though there isn’t much to it—much to Minho, really.

Jisung moves to sit down on the edge of the queen-sized bed like he isn’t completely sure he should be here at all. But Minho wants him here, he’s happy that Jisung is here, safe and sound.

“Hey,” he starts, leaning against the doorframe with his shoulder. “I’m just wondering. . . if you don’t need any more blood.”

Jisung’s lips part, but for a moment he remains quiet, staring at Minho, but looking past him, as if he isn’t standing right there. And then— “I don’t,” he says flatly. “What you gave me was enough. More than enough.” 

“It didn’t hurt me,” Minho says, bending the truth, but not lying. “If you’re worried about that. I’m fine, so if you need more, then just let me know.” 

Jisung’s lower lip wobbles, and in the moonlight streaming through the window, his eyes almost look like they’re glassy, filled with tears. Minho wastes no time. He strides towards the bed and sits down beside him, but his hands fall uselessly into his lap as he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to reach out and hold Jisung.

Even though that’s all he wants to do now.

“Thank you,” Jisung says, voice wavering, but not breaking. He swallows hard, trying to hold himself together—it amazes Minho, how strong he is, coming back from the brink of death and sitting here, keeping his cool. “For everything. I just. . . Thank you.” 

“Hey, you don’t have to thank me,” Minho whispers. 

And when Jisung starts shaking his head, he can’t hold himself back any longer and pulls him into an embrace, hoping that the hug will purge all negative thoughts out of his mind. He doesn’t expect Jisung to reciprocate it right away, but Jisung does, wrapping his arms around Minho’s shoulders to pull him closer. 

“You could’ve killed me,” Jisung says quietly, his forehead pressed against Minho’s shoulder. “But you didn’t even think of it.”

Minho swallows. “Yeah. Because when I get you, it needs to be a fair fight,” he says, trying to joke and lighten the atmosphere. To his surprise, Jisung snorts, and when he pulls back, he’s even sporting a smile.

He looks beautiful like that, dark circles under his eyes and all, and Minho can’t stop himself from reaching out to cup the side of his face, just to hold him, just to feel him.

His skin is as cold as it was all the times Minho had touched it before—when he gripped his jaw or dug his fingers into the sides of Jisung’s neck moments before plunging a stake through his chest or stabbing him.

But it’s the first time he wants to feel its heat—the pulsating warmth that would indicate Jisung is alive and well. 

But he isn’t alive, and Minho has no idea if he will be doing well, either. Even though his face isn’t twisted in pain now, even though he isn’t writhing on the ground or vomiting blood and venom, awful things can be happening in his system, and Minho has no way to make sure he’s alright on the inside.

The next few hours will be crucial, that’s all he knows, and he’s going to keep an eye on Jisung, stay close, make sure he doesn’t suddenly start feeling worse than this. Minho simply doesn’t know what he would do if Jisung’s body wouldn’t start healing or if he would start spasming again.

He doesn’t want to think about it, but his thoughts stray into that territory anyway. It’s been a long night—and it’s not yet over—but he isn’t sure if the storm raging in his mind will allow him to fall asleep; he isn’t even sure if he wants to sleep, the need to check up on Jisung leaving his fingertips tingling with strange coldness. 

Minho only briefly moves his hand to push Jisung’s damp hair back from his forehead before he retreats, giving him his space. Even though they’re closer now, the air is still tense with all the things left unsaid—things neither of them want to poke while they’re exhausted, both mentally and physically. 

They can talk in the morning. Hopefully.

For now, Minho settles against the headboard of his bed because Jisung asks him to stay, wide eyes looking up at him in the dark and desperate fingers curling around his wrist. Jisung lies down beside him, a soft sigh escaping his lips once he rests his head against the pillow.

And even with space between them, Minho feels like they have never been closer than this.

Being surrounded by darkness, something familiar, doubles his courage. He wants to ask many things, but—not wanting to overwhelm Jisung after something so. . . traumatic —he doesn’t think he should. There’s only so much ‘how are you feeling’s he can take, after all. Minho can only trust Jisung to tell him if something’s wrong.

But darkness, the night, and the silence that falls over them all cooperate to allow Minho’s thoughts roam free across the expanse of worries and anger lodged in his brain. 

There’s one question on the forefront, one he can’t hold back. So he turns his head to look at Jisung and—keeping his voice quiet—asks, “Who did this to you?”

Jisung straightens his back, muscles tensing. “Is that important?” he asks, glittering eyes skimming over the white ceiling of the bedroom.

“I’ll find out anyway,” Minho says. If Jisung doesn’t tell him, that will be the first thing he’s going to do tomorrow morning—discover who almost killed him. The mere thought of that person—that hunter— makes Minho feel hot all over with fury. 

The quiet stretches on a bit longer, and Minho is already starting to think he won’t get it out of Jisung—which. . . truly, he wouldn’t be upset about, since whoever it was, they definitely caused him not only the visible, physical pain; it must be hard to talk about—but then Jisung takes a deep breath and breaks the silence.

“It was Jeon Hyeonu,” he says.

Minho clenches his jaw so hard his teeth gnash.

Jeon Hyeonu is one of the most annoying hunters Minho has ever come across, arrogant and ruthless even to people he isn’t supposed to hunt down. It was a relief when he suddenly packed his bags and traveled all the way to Busan. It’s been months, and now—apparently—he’s back in the city, and Minho has no idea why.

“He attacked me when I was leaving Fangtasia after feeding. I don’t—I don’t think he was waiting for me in particular. I was just there when he struck.”

Minho nods, his hand flying to tangle in Jisung’s hair without a second thought. He hesitates, though, but Jisung doesn’t look put-off or uncomfortable, so he cards his fingers through the strands, hoping it’s at least a bit comforting.

“Did he say anything to you?”

Jisung shakes his head. “I was trying to fight him, but he just shot me, and it’s like all my strength just. . . vanished,” he says, his voice wavering. “He probably thought I was a regular vampire—that I’d die right away and burst into ash once the poison in the bullet hit my system, so he didn’t even bother staying around.”

Minho sucks in a breath. How many vampires has Hyeonu killed before using these bullets? How long has he known about the combination of white oak, mountain ash, and silver? 

Minho himself has been researching for years and months and days and nights, trying to find something that would kill an Original, but no other hunter knew—and if someone knew, they didn’t want to say. 

Hyeonu discovering this hidden weapon and then using it on every single vampire he comes across is beyond Minho’s understanding. As long as he has enough bullets, he can wipe out a vast part of the city’s vampire population. And perhaps Minho wouldn’t bat an eye if he’d heard about it a year ago, but now. . . 

A lot of things have changed. 

For one, Jisung has become an integral part of his life, and tonight Minho has come close to never seeing him again. That hurt more than he imagined it would—not that Minho ever imagined feeling anything other than satisfaction at the thought of Han Jisung’s death. 

Minho has changed.

Just a little.

And it still hurts a deep ache in the core of his being, the thought of losing Jisung—because maybe he is alright now, but Hyeonu still yields the power to kill him, and he will yield it until the day he dies. And maybe next time Minho won’t be able to save him.

He swallows over the lump in his throat as his heart crashes against his ribcage, fast and harsh. He knows Jisung can tell he’s nervous—and nervous is an understatement—with his vampire hearing, but he’s hoping he’ll chalk it up to Minho’s reaction to his story; which is partly true.

“It’s okay,” Minho tells him quietly. “You’re safe now, and he won’t hurt you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re okay.” 

Jisung tips his head back to look up at him, but Minho can’t read his expression, so he offers Jisung a smile—soft and small and a bit forced, considering the turmoil brewing in his mind.

“Rest now. You’ll heal faster if you sleep,” Minho adds, nails gently scraping against Jisung’s scalp to lull him to sleep; it seems to be working, because his eyelids slip shut and he actually looks like he’s trying to drift off. “I’ll be here all the time.”

Minho says that, and he means it.

But when Jisung’s breathing evens out and he falls into deep slumber, Minho is once again left alone with his thoughts. They are killing him.

The pictures of Hyeonu flood his mind—him lurking in the shadows until a soul stumbles out of the bar so that he can kill them blindly without sparing another glance at who he’s killing; the undoubted satisfaction he must be feeling, the superiority and indestructibility. 

Minho can’t chase away the thoughts of Jisung writhing in agony in the dark alley, the hellish burn of the silver bullet, the deadly mixture of mountain ash and white oak eating him alive. He was grasping at anything, any chance to ease his own suffering—and ended up on Minho’s doorstep.

Minho can’t even imagine how much it must have hurt, death taking its sweet time creeping up on him and slowly ripping him to shreds. Even though he saw Jisung trembling with pain on his own bathroom floor, it’s still unbelievable to him that the person who has walked away from him unharmed after so many attempts on his life could ever fall into the hands of demise.

It shouldn’t be this way—Jisung is immortal, full of life despite being undead, and he should be the one who’s indestructible. He should be pissing Minho off every day with his cockiness and running all over the city just because he knows Minho will always find him; drinking his stupid bloody wine on tops of buildings even though he’s scared of heights, eating cheesecake until his stomach hurts because he can’t have human food, compelling people to leave buildings because he wants the two of them to be alone. 

Minho is well-aware that if it were anyone else, any other vampire, he wouldn’t care. But it’s Jisung who almost died, his Jisung. He would be a fool to let that slide.

It’s a split-second decision, but as he reaches out to sweep his thumb across Jisung’s knuckles, Minho realizes he made it the second Jisung had showed up at his door, the need to get revenge buzzing under his skin, the question who did this to you swimming in his mind.

Minho makes sure Jisung is asleep as he leaves the bedroom, and shuts the door as quietly as he can with his trembling hands. His feet take him to the basement, where he slips on a leather jacket, steps into combat boots, and straps his weapons to his belt. 

Jeon Hyeonu might have not made his kill tonight, but Minho will.

✰

He knows exactly where to find him—gloating about his kill in a dingy dive bar in one of those obscure streets of Seoul where no one bats an eye at people with knives strapped to their belts and blood covering their boots.

Hyeonu will have people patting him on the back and buying him beer as he tells an exaggerated story about the most gruesome death blow of the night. Minho doesn’t doubt Jisung will be the main character tonight, even if not by the mention of his name. He feels sick at the mere thought of it—the anger boiling over like lava, meant to burn and destroy everything in its way.

His footsteps are heavy as strides down the side of the Han River with his jaw set and head high up. Things were different just a few days ago, when he and Jisung had had convenience store ramyeon in full view of the city on the other side of the river. Jisung’s laughter was swept away by the October wind when Minho poured holy water all over him before they said goodbye for the night.

It was a sweet goodbye. Minho was smiling all the way back home. Back then, he had no idea what any of it meant. He didn’t care what it could mean. 

Tonight, he’s avoiding confrontation, staring straight ahead with sharp determination settled across his features just so that everyone gives him a wide berth.

With fury buzzing in his blood and fingers twitching by his side, longing to curl around the handle of his beloved dagger, he isn’t sure how an encounter with anyone might end. 

Letting out a sigh, Minho cuts through the main path and picks up the pace to make it through the pedestrian crossing before the light changes. He has to leave glimmering city lights behind as he ventures further into the dark alleys, wet with rain and hell knows what.

Minho needs to make it quick. Needs to come back home to Jisung, hold him, and make sure he’s doing alright—that he knows Minho will never let this happen again. The knowledge that he left him there alone after everything that had happened eats away at his conscience, but Minho knows he has to do this—to get revenge, but first and foremost, to be able to tell Jisung, You’re safe now, and actually mean it.

By the time he reaches the doors of the bar, his head has become even more of a mess than before. But there’s one thing right at the forefront: the savage urge to end Jeon Hyeonu’s existence.

When Minho steps inside, he’s surprised to find out not many people are there to pat Hyeonu on the back after all. That doesn’t stop him from looking all smug and superior, though—and that enrages Minho all the more.

The fury that’s been slowly building up behind his eyes turns into a throbbing headache the moment his eyes land on Hyeonu, nursing the last drops of some piss-colored drink in his glass. He gets a refill even before Minho manages to school his expression into impassiveness, and when he climbs onto the bar stool beside him (with one chair of space between them), the glass is already half-empty.

Maybe it will be easier than Minho initially thought. 

(But he knows better than to underestimate.)

Regardless of what he’s here for, Minho doesn’t even acknowledge Hyeonu’s presence, sweeping his eyes over the display of alcohol despite knowing he won’t be drinking anything tonight. 

He needs to keep his head clear. 

The bartender shoots him a questioning look, but Minho only shakes his head, pretending he hasn’t made his mind up yet. At the movement, Hyeonu finally spares him a glance.

“Lee Minho,” he says as a greeting, voice laced with alcohol and interest. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Minho has to clench his fist just so that his desire of decapitating Hyeonu doesn’t show on his face. Feigning boredom while his body is coursing with energy, he slowly turns his head to look at him and says, “Hm.”

And then he turns back towards the display, pretending that the noise Hyeonu makes in the back of his throat—something between a scoff of disbelief and a grumble of annoyance—doesn’t satisfy him. Get angry, he thinks. That will make everything even more fun.

Hyeonu is as persistent as he ever was. After twirling his drink in the glass, he leans back on the stool to chug it all down. Minho almost wishes he fell and broke his neck, but that doesn’t happen.

“What brings you here, Minho?” he asks. “Got a kill to celebrate?” 

Not yet, Minho thinks. “Didn’t know you were back in town, Hyeonu,” he points out, neatly dodging the question.

Hyeonu shrugs, waving the bartender over to pour him another glass. It’s strong. It stinks. It will make Minho’s job easier. Hyeonu downs it in one go and gets another shot. If the bartender is concerned, or at least surprised, he doesn’t show it.

“Had a few errands to run,” Hyeonu says, setting the glass down on the wooden counter with a clinking sound and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Gross. “And, well, something keeps pulling me back here even when I’m far away.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

Minho himself has it on the tip of his tongue. The Originals. But he acts like he doesn’t know the intentions behind Hyeonu traveling far into the south of the country where witches reside and coming back here, to Seoul, to the center of the vampiric heritage.

“There’s something here that interests me,” Hyeonu says after a moment, continuing his own charades, thinking he’s being all sly and deceptive while he’s pointedly staring at Minho.

At least Minho is now aware that Hyeonu is sober enough to know better than to divulge his own business. 

He hums noncommittally, although his dagger feels a little heavier at his belt, like it has a mind of its own that makes it want to jump out of its sheath and fling itself right into Hyeonu’s carotid artery. How perfect would that be, Minho thinks, to have a knife charmed to kill all the while having another one to make personal stabs.

“I wonder what that might be,” he mutters, but the last thing on his mind is playing Hyeonu’s stupid games. He forces himself to swallow all the anger, all the disgust and resentment he feels in favor of saying he needs to get a breath of fresh air.

Minho knows all this talk is bullshit, knows Hyeonu isn’t interested in him in the slightest, but he needs to get him out of the bar. And if there’s anything he knows about men, it’s that they think they’re smarter, that they can have anything—that everything already belongs to them; that all they have to do is go and take it.

He could kill him right here in front of every other patron, the scarce kind that’s lurking in the corners of the bar where the light doesn’t reach, but he doesn’t know how that would end. Maybe in a massacre. Maybe with prison.

And Minho needs to get back home—to Jisung.

He doesn’t wait for whatever bullshit Hyeonu has to stay, simply slipping off the stool and walking out, swaying his hips even though it makes him feel gross. He tells himself he’s doing this for Jisung, that it’s going to be over soon, and they will never have to do as much as think about someone like Jeon Hyeonu after all of this ends.

Once Minho is outside, he walks down the stone wall of the bar and rounds the corner, disappearing in the darkness of the alley. He can hear the door shutting behind him, and then the hinges creaking again, followed by clumsy footsteps as Hyeonu drags his drunken feet across the sidewalk. 

And when he appears in the nook, Minho moves like a shadow, winding an arm around his neck and dragging him further in to the sound of his sputters and panicked yells as air gets cut out of his lungs. It takes more effort to take hold of his arm and pull it behind Hyeonu’s back, but once Minho twists and twists and twists, finally releasing a part of his anger, the elbow easily pops.

Minho loosens the hold on Hyeonu’s neck just so that he can hear the strangled scream that leaves his throat. Does that make him sick? Wanting Hyeonu to wail in pain harder than Jisung did? 

He doesn’t care.

He snaps his other arm to make sure he won’t try to defend himself against what Minho has in store for him, relishing in the way his curses die on his tongue because he can barely draw in a breath.

Minho’s face is blank when he grabs his dagger out of the sheath and unceremoniously stabs Hyeonu in the side, angling it upwards to mimic the wound Hyeonu left in Jisung. 

“This is for the vampire you tried to kill today,” he says, struggling to keep his voice flat as the anger reaches its precipice.

Hyeonu thrashes around, only making the blood squirt out more furiously. “You—”

Whatever he’s about to spit out dies when Minho stabs him again, twisting the dagger once it’s lodged in his abdomen. “What were you saying?” he asks sweetly, tightening his chokehold on Hyeonu’s neck.

He’s practically kneeling now, his legs giving out as blood colors the front of his shirt and starts dribbling down. Minho gets another hit, dragging the knife through Hyeonu’s stomach, in disbelief at how easy it is to knock down an unsuspecting, overly-confident man—and that’s when he lets go of his throat. 

Desperate for air, Hyeonu starts coughing, but only his blood comes out, splattering across the dirty concrete as he struggles to catch his breath. His face is red, almost as red as the blood dripping down his chin. 

It’s blind rage pouring out of Minho when he grips the long hair at the back of his head and moves to stand in front of his kneeling form. His jaw is clenched in anger so hard it feels like it might break, but satisfaction is what he feels when their eyes lock and the realization dawns on Hyeonu.

“Trai—Traitor,” he spits out. 

Minho pulls his hair until he screams. He wants it to hurt. He wants Hyeonu to feel at least one percent of the pain he put Jisung through, wants him to beg for mercy, wants him to bleed out without it. 

His grip on the hilt of his dagger tightens when he puts the edge against Hyeonu’s throat—not intending to cut, but spreading the blood from his gut around. Hyeonu tries to break out of the hold, but his efforts are futile with how fractured his arms are, how languid thanks to the blood loss his movements get. 

“Say that again,” Minho tells him, digging the edge of the dagger into Hyeonu’s throat, although the pressure isn’t enough to cut him, even when he moves. “Say it.”

Sick sense of delight floods Minho as Hyeonu grimaces when he has to swallow the blood pooling in his mouth to speak because he’s too afraid he’ll get cut if he tries to spit it out. 

“They’re abominations,” he grits out, all the disgusting things in his mouth dirtying Minho’s boots. It’s taking him a lot of effort to say that—to say anything at all, and he looks completely out of it, too. Being drunk and bleeding out would do that to you. “They have to perish. All—all of them. What their kind is capable of—”

Minho twists his mouth in a wicked smile. “You should be more worried about what I’m capable of.”

Hyeonu whimpers, and the sound pisses Minho off enough to slide the dagger against his throat in a shallow horizontal line to ensure he doesn’t make it again. His mouth falls open, even more blood spilling out, and Minho tips his head back by his hair, wanting him to choke on it. 

But it’s not enough. Seeing Death slowly curling her hands around him isn’t enough. Even in his final moments, he won’t learn his lesson. But Minho isn’t going to kill him to teach him one. Minho is going to kill him to carve him out of existence, to get rid of him like he’s nothing more than a fly buzzing over Minho’s head. 

The screams and cries won’t be enough to pay for the hurt he has caused Jisung, but Minho hopes that when Hyeonu gets to the gates of hell, he’ll remember this and cower in fear. 

“And this—” Minho says through gritted teeth, pressing the knife against his throat—harsh enough to draw blood this time around. “This is for me.” 

It shouldn’t be this easy to kill someone whose occupation is killing monsters, but that only makes Minho think Hyeonu deserves every single thing that’s happening to him right now, every bone fracture and every cut. 

And his sense of superiority, the easy trust he put in Minho just because he’d decided to underestimate him, the element of surprise—it all works in Minho’s favor when he finally slashes his throat open.

One last gasp, eyes widening and glimmering in the dark, and Hyeonu falls limp against the pool of blood on the dirty ground with a thud that’s almost deafening in the silence of the alley.

Minho stares at his dead body for a long moment, and decides then and there that he would do it all over again without an ounce of hesitation.

✰

It’s only by the time Minho makes his way upstairs from the basement at home that his bones have begun feeling heavy with exhaustion. Every step feels like it’s taking forever. He could probably fall asleep like this, if he allowed himself to slump against the wall, to close his eyes just for a moment. 

But the distinct scent of blood lingers in the air, nearly suffocating in its brutal reminder of what happened, of how badly Jisung got hurt. Minho forces his feet to move through the house, heart threatening to break his ribs with how hard it’s thrashing around in his chest, anxious and terrified.

Overhead, the ceiling creaks, the sound of footsteps making their way across the floor, and Minho’s heartbeat stops. He rushes up the stairs, breath caught in his throat, only to come to a screeching halt when he sees Jisung down the hallway.

Looking like he’s trying to leave. With shoes on and a hood thrown over his head, hands shoved into the front pocket of the jumper. 

He stops in his tracks when their eyes lock, mouth parting at the sight of Minho. His eyes are dark, and even without any source of light to set them ablaze, they’re shining—more than any human’s eyes should shine. Minho is once again reminded that the person he likes so much is as far from human as it gets. 

And still, he finds himself thinking that he doesn’t care.

“Where are you going?” he asks, breathless and confused and scared.

Beyond everything, he’s nervous. It’s a foreign feeling for him, especially compared to the rage he’d been feeling just moments ago when he ended Jeon Hyeonu’s life with cold blood. But he lies his eyes on Jisung, and all murderous urges disappear from him—which is strange in itself, considering that the person standing in front of him is someone he’s been chasing with an intention to kill for months now.

Jisung ignores his question in favor of taking a step closer with furrowed brows and asking, “Where are you coming back from?”

Minho’s mouth parts uselessly. But Jisung doesn’t even wait for an answer, already spitting out the next question.

“Why is there blood on your cheek?” he asks. And when Minho’s features shift into something more stern, when he clenches his jaw and looks away, Jisung lets out a shuddering breath. “What did you do?”

Minho’s tongue betrays him once again, tying itself into knots. He doesn’t know how to say, I killed one of my own for you. 

“Minho,” Jisung whispers, stepping so close that Minho can smell the eucalyptus and spearmint essential oils of the shower gel he’d used. Barely an arm’s reach away. “What did you do?”

“What was right,” Minho says, unable to make himself look into Jisung’s eyes again, afraid of what he might see in the dark of his irises. “Hyeonu won’t bother you anymore.”

Jisung lets out a soft gasp of his name. And just when Minho thinks he will get pushed away, Jisung reaches out and winds both arms around his neck, pulling Minho down and close—so close that feel the rapid pounding of Jisung’s heart against his own chest. 

Minho might be in denial, but isn’t stupid. He knows that the feelings sizzling between them, the passion, and the care shown in most peculiar ways, are all far from meaningless. But for now, Minho forgets himself, forgets everything but the suffocating need to hold Jisung close.

He wraps his arms around Jisung’s waist and rubs his back as they hug, tight and warm despite the cold radiating off of Jisung’s body. Minho breathes him in, pressing his face into Jisung’s neck. And even when Jisung’s hold on him loosens, Minho’s body simply doesn’t seem to want to pull away. 

He moves his hand to the dip of Jisung’s waist, and then up to his face, just to hold him for a little longer, just to keep him skin to skin, just to feel him after being so close to never being able to again.

“Let’s go back to bed,” Minho says softly, his thumb caressing Jisung’s cheek where his hand is now cupping his jaw underneath the hood. “You need to rest.”

“I—” Jisung gulps. “I don’t know if I should.”

Minho retracts his hand, slow and hesitant, blinking at him in confusion as he takes the words in and tries to make some sense of them. 

“What?” 

“I just—” Jisung sighs. “I mean. . . What are we doing, Minho?”

Minho’s heart thunders, harsh and painful as it crashes against his ribcage, and Jisung must hear it through his vampiric hearing because his eyes flit down to Minho’s chest. He has no real power over it, can’t hold his heartbeat back from betraying his emotions over and over, but he can divert Jisung’s attention away from it.

“How about you start taking responsibility for some things you do?” he snaps, eyebrows furrowed. “You can’t flirt with me, make moves on me, show up on my doorstep half-dead, and then go acting like it doesn’t mean anything.”

Maybe Minho is being unreasonably sharp, but he feels like Jisung’s words don’t mean I want to sleep in my own bed after everything that happened tonight, but rather Coming here was a mistake. And it hurts a deep ache right in the core of his being. 

This is as far from a mistake as it gets for Minho—after all, he has always thought that the truth is told in the last moments, and when everything had started crumbling down, it was here that Jisung came. To him.

It has to mean something.  

“I just thought you’d want me gone,” Jisung says, quiet and resigned. Like he really believes that. 

Something tightens in Minho’s jaw. “If I wanted you gone, I’d let you bleed out on my doormat.” 

“But I’m a vampire, and you’re a—”

“I’m quitting, Jisung,” Minho interrupts, making Jisung’s eyes snap back up from where they were glued to the floor to meet his gaze. “I’ve been trying to for a long time now.”

For the past few months, Minho had been telling himself, I don’t really want to do this, but then he went out onto the streets and slayed vampires without an ounce of remorse, anyway. Even a dagger-deep into some chick, he was still trying to find a way to make it all worthwhile.

He told himself Han Jisung would be his last kill. Maybe that’s why it was something more than just dread that seeped into his bones when Jisung had sat down in front of him in that cafe. Maybe it was relief.

Because he was hoping Jisung would restore his passion, be enough of a challenge to get Minho’s blood rushing with anticipation, to awaken the bloodthirst in him again. 

And, in some other sense, he did just that. Minho spent months trying to find a way to kill him—and then he simply started chasing Jisung just because it was the vampire himself who made him feel newfound excitement. Even though Minho knew his weapons wouldn’t kill Jisung, there was something about the glint in Jisung’s eyes when Minho had pressed the edge of his knife against his throat; about his smirk and his teasing remarks and everything in between that had Minho coming back for more.

But Jisung also completely ruined Minho’s vocation, and the fact that he has only killed three vampires after he started running after him when he had so many chances to slay them when the two of them were roaming around spaces full of the undead.

Minho has had his eyes on Jisung and Jisung only for a while now. 

“What do you mean you’re quitting?” 

Minho shrugs. “You were supposed to be my last kill, but you just didn’t want to die,” he says, as if that explains everything. “And I’ve killed enough before you for the Committee to pay me a large sum even if I stop now. And I will—whether you give me a chance or not.”

Jisung swallows hard. “Give you a chance,” he echoes.

“I mean. . . Did you expect me not to fall for you when you laugh as I make you choose which knife I should stab you with for the day?” Minho asks. He feels softened around the edges instead of sharp-cut like was just mere moments ago—like he usually is, harsh tones and even harsher words.

Ducking his head, Jisung snorts. “Sorry for thinking you’re awfully hot when you threaten my life,” he says, looking back up with a small smile stretched across his lips. “I didn’t think this would happen when I went after you to that cafe. I thought I would scare you for life and that would be it.”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Minho says, reaching out again to curl his fingers against the back of Jisung’s neck. “I’m quite persistent.”

“Oh, I know! You just wouldn’t give up on trying to kill me!” Jisung laughs.

Minho doesn’t. He smiles, though, soft and easy. “I did,” he says, and—at Jisung’s confusion—explains, “I stopped researching how to kill an Original. I stopped asking around. I was just—I was just messing with you this entire time. But I forgot that I wasn’t the only one who knew about the existence of something more powerful than regular vampires.” 

Jisung exhales. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, but now that someone actually came close to killing you. . .” Minho swallows, but the bitterness coating his tongue doesn’t let up. He gathers his thoughts while thumbing across Jisung’s pulse point, feeling anchored by the steady rhythm of his heart. “Sometimes,” he starts after a moment. “Sometimes you don’t know what you have until it’s no longer there. And the thought of not having your annoying ass around made me. . . terrified. I don’t know what I would do if you—”

“Hey,” Jisung interrupts in a whisper, eyes flitting across Minho’s face until their gazes meet again. “I’m here. I’m fine. Because of you.” 

“Yeah, but—”

Jisung shushes him before Minho can say, But I can’t protect you from every single hunter that can possibly know how to kill an Original.

“All this time, I was thinking I was delusional—for letting my feelings grow and for hoping you’d return them one day. Each time I sought you out, I thought it would be the last. I thought you were finally going to kill me, and yet I just couldn’t stop wanting to see you,” Jisung says, a smile playing on his lips. “I thought you were going to kill me, but you saved me instead.”

Minho’s throat tightens. “I guess I did.”

“You guess?” Jisung chuckles, his eyebrows flying up. “You shoved your hand into my stomach and pulled that goddamn bullet out like it was nothing.”

A corner of Minho’s mouth rises in a smile, but he still waves a dismissive hand. “Eh. No big deal,” he says jokingly, even though something cold runs down his spine at the thought that what they’re talking about happened not even two hours ago. “I would do it again.”

Jisung shakes his head like he can’t believe what Minho is even saying, but he’s smiling all the same. “You’re crazy,” he says, moving his hands to Minho’s waist, tugging him that one step closer.

“Eh. We’re both a little insane,” Minho tells him. “I think it’s one of the things that makes us fit well together.”

Although his eyes are inquiring, Jisung stares at him for a moment without saying anything. His fingers skim across Minho’s sides, and it takes every drop of Minho’s self-control not to press his fingers into Jisung’s nape and pull him into a kiss. It can wait. Minho’s desperate heart can wait.

Whatever it is that’s on Jisung’s mind is more important, anyway.

It only proves to be true when Minho hears him hesitantly ask, “Doesn’t it put you off? That I’m a vampire?

It should surprise Minho how quickly his mind conjures an answer: a firm no.

Morality is relative. Just because one finds something heinous, it doesn’t mean it actually is. There are many things and people in the world that disgust Minho more than any vampire ever could. And what he feels for Jisung is far, far, far away from disgust. 

But maybe that’s what he should go for now. Killing revolting humans.

“I care for you,” Minho says, wanting to be honest and direct despite how difficult it is for him to openly communicate his feelings with words. “Sometimes because of who you are, sometimes in spite of it.”

Jisung’s lips part in surprise, gaze skittering away to the side like he can’t bring himself to look Minho in the eye, perhaps too flustered by the raw nature of his confession.

Minho wishes he could say he’s doing any better, but doesn’t really know how it’s possible that he’s still alive with how harshly his heart is hammering. It should have already burst out of his chest, painting the ground beneath their feet the darkest and deepest red.

“I have my issues, too, you know that,” Minho continues. “And if you’re willing to accept me with them, then I don’t see a problem about the two of us being together.”

“You should already know that I care for you too,” Jisung says, making sure they’re on the same page, with nothing left unsaid. “Just the way you are.”

Minho swallows.

The nature of his profession and his general aversion to all the most conventional romantic gestures has always brought all his relationships to ruins—even if there weren’t many of them in the first place. But here Jisung is, telling Minho everything he was always dying to hear but never had enough courage to openly wish for. 

“We don’t know each other that well yet, but I’d love to,” Minho says, voice quiet. “Know all of you.”

The parts of Jisung’s soul that he doesn’t share with anyone. What makes him feel happy, what makes him quiver with fear, his favorite color and time of day. The little things that make him him.

Jisung sucks in a breath, eyes wide with wonder, as if he can hear everything that’s crossing Minho’s mind. “Who would’ve thought that you were such a romantic?”

“Don’t get used to it,” Minho says, trying to make his words come out as sharp—but it doesn’t work as he’s unable to hold back a fond and pleased smile. 

It makes Jisung laugh, and it’s so different from the provoking chuckles and sarcastic jabs they’re both used to—sweet and hearty. The sound makes Minho feel warm inside. It makes him want to do everything in his power to keep hearing it.

His gaze falls on Jisung’s mouth almost automatically, taking in the soft curve of his smile, and Minho starts wondering how it would feel to kiss it off of him. 

Jisung’s thoughts must wander across the same idea because he digs his fingers into Minho’s shoulders and pulls him closer, the smile slipping off of his lips just so that they can part with a soft gasp when Minho finally kisses him.

The first press is soft, just lips on lips, but then Minho tilts his head to the side and dives in for more as his heart leaps to his throat and blood rushes to his head. He slips his tongue into Jisung’s mouth with a jolt of electricity running down his spine. 

Jisung’s kisses are like everything about him—sweet like honey and addictive. It’s different from what Minho thought it would be, since Jisung always chases him in a game of cat and mouse, always vying for attention, always teasing. But now, he melts under his touch and lets Minho take the lead as their lips slot together, slow and soft because they have all the time in the world now. 

Jisung breaks away, much too soon for Minho’s liking, swallowing hard as he flutters his eyes open, pupils blown wide and glittering. If his cardiovascular system worked like a human’s, he would be flushed all over, letting Minho know just how content he is, but he breaks into a soft smile and it’s more than enough.

“Stay,” Minho says quietly, sliding his tongue over his lips in search of the remainder of Jisung’s taste. “And let’s go back to bed.”

Nodding, Jisung agrees with a soft okay, and wraps an arm around Minho’s waist as they make their way to his bedroom, reluctant to put even the smallest amount of distance between each other.

Jisung kicks off his shoes while Minho changes from the clothes that Hyeonu’s blood ruined, wondering if the smell of it bothered Jisung more than it bothered him. He makes his way over to the bathroom to toss everything into the laundry basket, and comes back to find Jisung already perched on the mattress.

As he climbs onto the bed and lies down beside him, Minho can’t help but ask, “How are you feeling?”

Jisung shoots him a glare and sighs, and Minho knows that it’s the most annoying question in the world, but he needs to hear an honest answer. He might not have a supernatural hearing that will allow him to detect a lie, though that doesn’t matter. 

He trusts Jisung when he says, “I’m fine. I’ll tell you if that changes.”

“Promise?” Minho sticks out his pinky finger and ignores the amusement painting itself on Jisung’s face. 

“Promise,” Jisung tells him all smiley, linking their fingers together in a vow. 

It’s been so long since Minho held someone like this, someone’s heart in his hands, and as he lets Jisung rest his head on his chest, something clicks right into place.

He isn’t sure if he will be able to fall asleep, and a part of him still wants to remain vigilant and keep his eye on Jisung. But his eyes flutter shut, and when he opens them again, daylight is already breaking through the curtains. 

There’s an arm loosely wrapped around his waist and a cold body pressed against his side, and when the sleep clouding his mind washes away, the sense of fulfillment settles in, and for the first time, Minho feels like he belongs. Maybe Jisung’s small, pleased smile while he’s still deep asleep right beside him might have something to do with it.