Chapter Text
Felix's Pov
I can smell the sea—a sharp, salt-crusted breeze that tasted like sunlight and home.
I was fourteen again, chasing the horizon along the Australian coast with Olivia.
She was a mere slip of a girl, her dark hair whipped into a wild, frantic halo by the wind, her face a map of freckles that mirrored my own.
Everything felt saturated in gold.
The morning light, the ringing laughter, and the naive, unshakable promise of a life that would never end.
Mother and Father were there, watching us from the periphery, their smiles soft and etched with contentment as they observed us splashing through the shallows.
I hear it.
The music of that laughter.
It is a sound I will never forget.
The joyous, unburdened melody of my sister, the girl I loved more than anything in this world.
The scene dissolving like wet paint.
The bright Australian sky was replaced by the suffocating, heavy gloom of a Seoul apartment that smelled of stale whiskey and broken glass.
The warmth of the sun was replaced by the biting cold of my father’s voice—a cruel sound that cut deeper than any blade.
"You're nothing," my father hissed, his shadow looming over me—a distorted, monstrous shape cast by the amber liquid sloshing in his glass.
"You should have been the one to die," he spat, the words heavy and cruel. "You should have been the one buried in her place."
I tried to turn, to find Olivia, but she was fading.
I reached out, my small, trembling fingers clawing at the air, but the door slammed shut.
Then, my father vanished.
Olivia vanished.
The apartment turned into a cage.
The men from the organization appeared—shadows with cold eyes and polished shoes.
They didn't hit me.
They didn't have to.
They simply laid a stack of papers on the table.
"Where is my father? Where is Olivia?" I demanded, my voice cracking.
The man let out a low, mirthless laugh. "Your father abandoned you, kid. With your precious sister. They’re off living the best life imaginable—provided you learn to be very, very obedient."
He leaned in, his shadow eclipsing the light. "You have such a pretty face. It would be a waste to ruin it."
I trembled as his cold, calloused hand clamped onto my chin, forcing my tear-streaked face upward. My vision blurred, hot tears spilling over as I shook with sheer terror.
"Try to run," he whispered, his voice smooth and devoid of mercy. "Or try to end it. It doesn't matter. The moment you do, we’ll hunt her down and turn her life into a living hell until her very last breath."
"Please! I didn't do anything!" my voice thin and broken.
The memory sharpened, agonizingly clear.
A hotel suite, too plush, too expensive.
A door opening.
The first client—a man with cold, handsome features who looked at me not as a human, but as an expensive toy purchased for an hour of misery.
I felt the familiar, crushing weight of the suit I'd been forced to wear, the scent of the man’s cologne, the way I had to swallow my tears, my dignity, and my soul—just to survive.
The memory began to blur, the edges of the room warping like a heat haze. The hotel suite dissolved into a different kind of darkness—a small, suffocating room bathed in an aggressive, neon-red glow.
I was standing there, my reflection staring back at me from a mirror that felt like a cage.
A blade, cold and heavy, was pressed against my skin.
I trembled.
My breath hitched as I pressed the edge against my pulse.
Do it, the voice in my head urged.
End the misery.
But I couldn’t.
I pulled the blade away, my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped it.
Ending it would be the ultimate betrayal.
Ending it would be the end of Olivia.
I had to stay.
I had to endure.
I would swallow it all—the shame, the pain, and the silence.
I would keep the thought tucked away in the deepest corner of my mind like a prayer: Somewhere out there, Olivia is living the best days of her life because I chose to stay in the dark.
Suddenly, a small room flickered into existence.
Familiar, yet fundamentally wrong.
It wasn't just a room; it was a mausoleum.
The air hung stagnant, stripped of color and warmth, rendered in shades of ash and bone. Everything—the walls, the floor, the very light—felt hollowed out, as if the space itself had been picked clean of a soul. It was a dead, silent orbit where time had long ago stopped breathing.
My silver hair fell across my vision, shielding my eyes—until a hand reached out.
Then another.
A small, gentle hand, soft as a memory, took hold of my right.
And then, a larger, familiar hand wrapped firmly around my left—a solid, grounding weight that pulled me back from the edge of the void.
.
.
.
.
.
I bolted upright, a ragged, choking sound tearing from my throat. My fingers were still clawing at the air, desperately trying to keep hold of the hands that had just pulled me from the dark.
The Seoul skyline didn't smell like sea salt, it smelled of sterile, high-end luxury air filtration.
I wasn't in a cage.
I was in a sprawling, velvet-draped penthouse.
I was shaking so violently my teeth chattered.
My right hand was curled into a tight, white-knuckled fist against my chest.
"Yongbok?"
The voice was a low, grounding rumble.
Warmth, heavy and solid.
Hyunjin wrapped his arms around me, pulling me back until my head rested against his chest.
I pressed my ear firmly against him, listening.
His heartbeat was a rhythmic, steady drum that drowned out the echoes of the nightmare, grounding me in the present.
I am not that boy anymore.
My breath still hitched in ragged intervals.
Hyunjin pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead, his thumb tracing the pulse that hammered wildly at my throat.
"I’m here," he whispered, the possessive weight of his voice anchoring me back to the present. "Did you have that nightmare again?"
My trembling fingers clutched the silk of his shirt.
Two months had passed since that night in Tokyo—the night we had the deepest conversation, the night I finally fractured beyond repair, and the night I surrendered every broken piece of my past into his hands.
I had held nothing back.
I didn't want him to miss a single detail.
I wanted him to see everything that made me who I was.
I told him everything.
The hollow ache of my mother’s death, the relentless cruelty of my father. I spoke of the day he took Olivia and left me to wither in the dark.
The day I finally swallowed my pride, choosing to become a hollowed-out toy for the elite just to survive.
I had expected him to look at me differently after that. I expected him to see me as the broken asset I had been forced to become.
Instead, he had only pulled me closer.
Since we returned to Korea, I haven't been able to draw a full, steady breath. I was caught in a blur of shoots, grueling rehearsals, and the relentless preparations for the upcoming tour—all while Hyunjin moved in silence.
I had been so consumed by my own exhaustion that I hadn't realized he was doing the harder work, operating in the shadows.
Even now, I can still feel the frantic, electric drumming of my heart from the morning he woke me.
His eyes hadn’t been soft; they were bright with a dangerous, triumphant light that made my blood run cold.
I found them, Yongbok.
I tracked them. I know exactly where Olivia is.
The memory hung in the air, vivid and haunting.
Until a sudden, sharp sound sliced through the silence of the suite and brought me back to my senses.
A childish giggle, followed by the rhythmic pitter-patter of small, hurried footsteps in the hallway.
The door creaked open, pushed by a small, determined hand.
A tiny face peered through the gap.
She was a miniature portrait of the past. Her hair was long and silky, her skin as pale as mine, and her wide eyes held a warmth that made the rest of the world fade away.
She was wearing a simple white dress, the fabric catching the soft morning light and making her look like a little angel, perfectly at home in the quiet sunshine of our sanctuary.
And there they were—a faint, sun-kissed dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, a map mirroring my own.
She stood still, oblivious to the ghosts that had been screaming in my mind only seconds before, looking at us with nothing but the guileless wonder of a child.
Her eyes brightening the moment they landed on Hyunjin.
She broke into a wide, gap-toothed grin, her voice light and melodic. "Daddy Jin-jin! Licia is hungry!"
Hyunjin’s expression softened instantly, his features blooming into a sweet, indulgent smile. He reached over, his hand resting warmly on my back to soothe me as he tucked the duvet away.
"Yes, princess," he murmured, his voice dropping into that gentle, private register he reserved only for us. "Daddy’s coming."