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"Wow, Na Baekjin herself, and just for me?"
They exchange glances. She says "let’s go" and, for some reason, leads Seongje into this stinking motorcycle shed. They walk from the police station on foot—Baekjin in her heavy army boots, an oversized leather jacket, and a stretched-out turtleneck, and Seongje—limping, filthy, wearing a sneaker on one foot and some shitty plastic hospital thingy on the other. At the hospital, they also gave him back his glasses—all disinfected, neatly laying in a bag in two pieces. Fucking Yeon Sieun.
Seongje lights a cigarette at the entrance, sucks down half of it in one drag, flicks the remaining half onto the asphalt, and follows Baekjin inside. She slides the massive door shut, locking it with a heavy bolt. They stay silent as Seongje brews himself some three-X spicy Buldak and crumbles a cheese stick into it. They stay silent as they settle in the main room—Seongje sprawled across the couch, Baekjin in the armchair. She pulls out a pack of cigarettes from her jacket—new, still in plastic—and sets it on the table, placing a lighter right beside it. Aligns them perfectly. Baekjin can’t stand cigarettes; Seongje’s only seen her smoke once in all the time they’ve known each other. Interesting. Kinda funny, even. The cigs are that menthol garbage with a crush ball, though. Gross.
"So why are we here? You needed to hit your ten thousand steps?" Seongje lights up a cig again—god, real air feels so good. "You hate this place."
"What do you mean?" Baekjin is still tapping away on her phone.
"For one, it stinks. And it’s filthy, that’s two. And you’re a neat freak." Seongje laughs, the sound reverberating through his bruised back, cracked rib, and concussion. "And not a single dumbass from Union around for you to beat half to death."
Baekjin exhales sharply, locks her phone, and leans across the table toward Seongje. Her face is stone, a statue, a brick wall—pick your metaphor. For a name so masculine, her face is striking. Perfectly symmetrical, goddamn. Ideal for experiments—punch only the left side and compare later.
"What did you tell the police?"
"Huh?"
"The bank account, Seongje." Her gaze drills into him, her eyes to his. "Only you and I have access. And today, it wasn’t me limping out of the station."
Seriously? Oh, fuck this. Screw you, Na Baekjin.
"Told ’em jack shit," Seongje finishes the cigarette and immediately lights another. His leg hurts like hell. "Said I was bullying them for money and we got into a fight."
"That’s all?"
"That’s all." His head throbs too; sand still seems to grind under his eyelids. Yeon-fucking-Sieun. "Could’ve at least asked how I’m feeling. Pat my head or some shit."
She doesn’t ask. Just leans back on the armchair, crossing her legs, and pulls out her phone again, texting someone. Seongje smokes. The shed reeks. Ah, so that’s how it is. Not a single dumbass from the Union, huh? Hard being a saint, isn't it, Na Baekjin?
"So you thought I ratted you to the cops. Were you gonna kill me?" Seongje stubs out his cigarette with more force than intended, burning his fingers on the embers. "I thought we had some kinda shared goal here. Ideals, whatever the fuck."
"We all know why you’re in the Union, Seongje." Baekjin’s stare is unrelenting—tense jaw, glassy eyes, fingers clenched bone-white. Yeon Sieun, but with no brakes and a girl. Great. Just fucking perfect. Wonder what it’d be like to fight them both at once. What they’d stick in him and where in that case. Wonder if their eyes would bulge the same way when choked, or if girls and boys pop differently. "I was. Any objections?"
She was, huh? Fuck you, Baekjin.
"Yeon Sieun came at me—was I just supposed to walk away and not wreck that little shit because he helped you with some math problem and promised not to kiss Baku tenderly on the lips?" Seongje jabs yet another lit cigarette toward Baekjin, ash scattering on the floor. "That fight was catharsis, Baekjin. Fucking nirvana."
"I don’t care about Yeon Sieun as long as he stays away from Baku." Baekjin tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then sighs and redoes her ponytail. Obsessive-compulsive freak. "But I made a promise to him. Don’t touch him again."
"Christ, you’re so fucking obsessed with Baku, it’s unreal." Seongje closes his eyes and stretches, feeling every muscle in his body. Feels good. Feels great. Feels very painfull. "He’s sick of you too, by the way. Told me straight up at the museum. And then almost cried."
Baekjin stands, rolling her neck. Seongje braces for a hit and licks his lips. Come on, Baekjin. You’ll look so good with a busted face. Bet your fingers sound amazing being cracked. Better use of them than scribbling your shitty math.
"You’re becoming unreliable, Seongje." Baekjin lifts her heavy boot and slams it down on his crotch. Ah, okay. So that’s the kind of fight this’ll be.
"Oh, really?" Seongje exhales sharply. He’s almost offended. If he’s unreliable, the Union’s fucking screwed. Not that he cares about long-term success. Not that he should care. Some part of him screams, "Fuck the Union, fuck Baekjin, capiche? Especially Baekjin, this dumb bitch." Another part wants to drag her by the hair and break her arms. A third part wants himself dragged by the hair first.
Baekjin presses harder, hands in her pockets, staring him dead in the eyes. Seongje doesn’t look away, breathing ragged. Smirks. If it comes to it, a boner has never stopped him from a fight before.
"If you were looking to get some, could’ve just said so. I would’ve eaten you out." Seongje exhales slowly, leaning forward, hands sliding to her knee. He presses on it himself, pushing into her leg even more. Baekjin’s tired eyes narrow. "Unlike your precious Baku, I wouldn've even cared about your periods. Just don’t get under my skin, at least figuratively."
The fabric of his shirt grinds leftover sand into his chest and back. He should strip and hose himself down, let the pressure wash over the bruises. Baekjin leans in too, covering his hands with hers, squeezing hard enough to hurt, nails digging in. She didn’t even wash off her school makeup today. Poor thing must’ve been in a hurry.
"He doesn’t care either." Baekjin shrugs slightly. Seongje laughs, long and low. Romance isn’t dead after all. This is why they came to this fucking shed—to have foreplay while discussing how Park Humin ate her out until he got mad his friend lost his kneecaps. Fragile knightley ego. She presses down one last time—Seongje moans, grinning straight into her eyes—then shoves his hands off and steps back to her armchair. Then sits down. "Calm now?"
"Fuck you, Baekjin. ‘Unreliable,’ my ass." Seongje glares at the ceiling. His vision swims, but that might just be because Yeon Sieun broke his fucking glasses. "I’m taking an indefinite leave. Delete my number, okay?"
They sit in silence a while longer. Then Seongje limps to the exit, flipping her off from the doorway.
Baekjin just sighs and tosses the unopened pack of cigarettes in the trash.