Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

rule no. 1: do not ask about the "other brother"

To say that Seokmin was overwhelmed would be the understatement of the century. 

He had no idea how he got here. One minute, he was half-joking about applying to The Empire as a dare, and the next, he was in his shoebox apartment wrestling with a tie like a freaking live animal.

“This is fine,” he mumbled to himself. “You’re just… starting your first day at the most powerful company in the country. No big deal.”

He yanked the knot again. Crooked. Too tight. Choked.

“Okay. Big deal. Huge deal. An enormous problem.”

He ripped the tie off and threw it on the bed beside two others: navy, black, off-white. All were safe, and all were boring. What was he supposed to wear to work when the literal face of the company was a Vogue-anointed deity ?

He already changed his shirt twice, tried a new jacket, then went back to the first one, then tried another one. His apartment looked like he had just been robbed. Clothes were a mess on the floor, hair gel on the sink, and his coffee was now cold. And the clock was screaming. OH MY GOD. 

He was going to be late.

God. He was going to be so late.

And it wasn’t like he was just starting at any company. No. He was starting at The Empire, for god's sake.

Yes, that Empire, the one and only.

The Empire, the only company that dominated ruled fashion, cosmetics, entertainment, media, luxury design, digital technology, everything . The one with headquarters like The Pantheon. The one New York Times called “the closest thing Earth has to Olympus.”  They weren't lying, though.

The Empire, founded and owned by none other than THE Jeonghan Yoon,  the highest paid model in the world, and what the world unironically referred to as the most beautiful face ever to walk the earth.

Jeonghan Yoon, who could sell out skincare with a blink. Jeonghan, whose face launched empires, and apparently now, jobs.

Because somehow, for reasons beyond the earthly realm, Seokmin got in.

Don’t ask him how because he himself still doesn’t know. It started as a dare. Now, he is here, absolutely panicking, because his breath is doing that wheezy, traitorous thing it does when he’s stressed

And his legs had no business to be moving this fast except for the minor detail that he’s late, and also possibly about to spontaneously combust, while he is sprinting into the building .

As soon as the automatic glass doors slid open, yes, real glass, with actual gold borders, Seokmin knew he wasn’t prepared or ready.

From the entrance alone, the building hollered luxury. No, not only hollered. Everything is too elegant here for him to holler. Said under one's breath confidently would be the more appropriate phrase to use. Expensively even.

So far, The Empire’s “closest thing Earth has to Olympus” reputation remained intact.

So far, the rumors were right.

Oh, there it is. The scent of the lobby entered his system: cool, sharp bergamot softened by black tea and something like smoked sandalwood, but with a hint of vanilla. What kind of place, expensive place rather, is this?  It seems like the kind of fragrance that made you feel underdressed even in a suit. Seokmin’s steps faltered.

He suddenly felt… ashamed, even though he wore his Bath & Body Works perfume for the first time that he’d saved for months. Bought it during a holiday sale. Hey! It was still Bath & Body Works. And for someone like him, that was expensive.

Okay. Enough of that. 

The floors  of the lobby alone gleamed like they’d never been touched. The walls were polished stone, black and silent, with veins of gold running through them like quiet, expensive power. People walked as though they owned the floor, or had meetings, tons of money, and bones made of pressed wool.

And then there was him, Seokmin Lee, a fresh graduate...but at least as the top of his class! He smirked to himself. 

He stood near the elevator banks with his portfolio case clutched to his chest, trying not to sweat through his newly ironed shirt. Everyone said first days were hard, but they didn’t say they’d be terrifying, especially not when you were starting at the most powerful luxury conglomerate in the country. No, in the whole world.

The Empire, owns brands and is also THE brand . Fashion, cosmetics, entertainment, media, The Empire had their claws in every industry that mattered. If you wanted influence, you worked for them. If you wanted money, you signed with them.

And if you were stupid enough to cross them… well, Seokmin had heard the stories.

The woman at the front desk had been surprisingly kind. “Creative wing, top floor. You’ll be with Brand Direction, Mr. Lee.”

Seokmin bowed so many times he forgot how to stand up straight.  He was mid-reset when an intern moved past him, carrying three trays of oat milk lattes and what looked like a moodboard made of literal crystal.

“Mr. Seokmin Lee?” He turned sharply.

A man with round glasses and a pale grey suit smiled at him. “I’m Chan. I’m Jeonghan’s project assistant. I’ll be taking you up.”

“Oh. Right. Yes—hi. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Chan said brightly. “You’re the rookie they said has a golden eye for design and the emotional spectrum of a Pixar film.”

Seokmin flushed. “I—wow. That’s…”

“Don’t worry. It’s a compliment,” Chan laughed. “Come on. Your schedule’s packed. I apologize in advance, Mr. Lee.”

“Seokmin. You can drop the honorifics and call me Seokmin.” he smiled shyly at Chan

“Very well, Seokmin. And you can call me Chan. Feel free to ask questions any time about anything.”

Seokmin felt less nervous with the interaction. Fortunately, Chan was being kind to him despite the number of mechanical engines that seem to have been turning inside Seokmin’s as soon as he entered the building. 

As the elevator rose, Seokmin glanced at his reflection in the mirrored walls. He looked fine. At the minimum, his outfit was safe: black and cream, while his hair was, at least, neat. But his hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting.

“You’ll be working with Jeonghan directly,” Chan said. “We’re flying out tonight for Paris Fashion Week. It’s his 12th consecutive closing show for the season.”

What. He’s flying out tonight? Paris? What the h- Seokmin blinked “I…I’m going to Paris?”

“Yup. You’re his lead creative now, Mr. Lee. Congratulations!”

Seokmin felt his stomach drop. “Oh. I thought I’d be observing.”

“Nope. They like throwing people into the fire here.”

The doors opened. The literal fire (apart from the one inside Seokmin), apparently, was gold-accented and bathed in natural light. The creative wing was minimalist and modern, but not cold. There were sketches pinned on walls, fabric samples laid across tables, stylists pacing with iPads.

And Jeonghan’s face was everywhere. On screens, on posters, on the moodboards, and on a ten-foot digital wall in the center, showing a slow-motion shot of him walking in a cloud-gray couture coat, wind brushing his cheeks. It was… magnificent, actually. How could a person look like that?

“They call him the face of the nation,” Chan said without looking up but shooting a smile. Seokmin felt a bit embarrassed then followed him numbly.

“He’s the most beloved model in the country. Some say the most beautiful face of the decade. Vogue even named him Living Art . And he’s… intimidating, yes. But not in the way you’d think.”

Seokmin glanced around. “Well, everyone looks scared.”

“They’re not scared of him,” Chan replied. “They’re scared of disappointing him.”

Seokmin bit his lip. As they walked past the design floor, murmurs floated behind them with enough volume to hijack his auditory sense.

“Have you heard the new guy’s working with Jeonghan directly?”

“Poor kid.”

“Hope he doesn’t piss him off.”

Hope he doesn’t piss him off? Were they referring to Jeonghan?

Seokmin frowned and whispered to Chan “Sorry, but who’s him ?”

Chan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes this time. “Ah. Right. That’s the other one.”

“The… other?”

“The co-owner of The Empire. Technically. Same blood, anyway.”

Seokmin blinked. “Wait—Jeonghan has a…”

“Twin,” Chan said. “Younger by three minutes. Jisoo.”

The name made something cold crawl down Seokmin’s spine.

“No one really knows him,” Chan continued. “He’s never shown up to a meeting, and has never taken a single step down these halls. And still, you’ll hear his name. Everyone does.”

“What kind of rumors?” Seokmin pried a bit

Chan’s smile turned tight. “Don’t ask that out loud. Especially not in here.”

Okay, that’s a bit terrifying. Seokmin thought to himself.

Time didn’t exist inside The Empire. Or at least, not in the way the rest of the world understood it.

Everything moved like it was already ten steps ahead. Deadlines were measured in hours, instead of days, while decisions were made before meetings were even scheduled. Everyone seemed to glide or pivot or tap their way through the halls. Executives powered through the day without stopping for lunch, while assistants had caffeine as their fuel. And Seokmin, bless his very out-of-breath soul, was just trying to remember how lungs worked. It was only his first day, and already he’d been added to six threads, reviewed three style decks, got his badge printed, and somehow, was flying to Paris in under twenty-four hours.

Welcome to The Empire.

Even Forbes once wrote a profile titled:
“The Empire: Business of God. Asia’s Crown. The World’s Standard.”

And it wasn’t wrong, since the building itself was proof. Sleek glass, black marble, and veins of gold ran through every surface. The air smelled like neroli and power. Every hallway had motion sensors. Every elevator ride had silent pressure, or for Seokmin, at least. And everywhere, of course, there was Jeonghan Yoon.

His face was on campaign walls, LED displays, across massive banners, in the digital museum on the ground floor. His Vogue covers. His campaigns. His brand collabs. His interviews.

The entire building of The Empire felt like a museum built for him. And, Seokmin thought, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Because if the world was going to worship a face, Yoon Jeonghan’s was a pretty damn good choice.

He was led into a high-ceilinged but topsy-turvy workroom with fabric rolls, screens, rack samples, and teams shouting over AirPods. Chan led him to the farthest room, the one separated from the rest of the numerous groups.

“Hey, team!” Chan grinned. “Seokmin, meet the core team. You’ll be stuck with us for a while. Fortunately or unfortunately, up to you.”

One by one, they looked up.

“This is Soonyoung, choreography lead. Every movement or motion you’ve seen in a commercial produced by The Empire has been mapped out by him.”

Soonyoung threw a finger gun. “Welcome to hell, Seokmin.”

“Wonwoo,” Chan continued. “Our technology and strategy brain. Anything that is ciphered, he wrote the code. If something is broken, he already fixed it. He’s basically one of The Empire's computer brains.”

Wonwoo barely nodded from his laptop. “Try not to spill coffee near me… Oh, and welcome to hell.”

“Next is Minghao,” Chan said, gesturing to a tall man sketching beside a mannequin. “Styling, design, makeup artistry. He’s terrifying, but he’s always right. At least when it comes to skincare. You shou-”

Minghao gave Seokmin a once-over. “You need moisturizer, dear.”

“I—I use some?”

“That’s cute, but not enough. Your skin’s dehydrated, sweetheart.” He scribbled something on a sticky note. “Buy this. You’ll thank me later.”

Shiseido Men Moisturizing Emulsion

Seokmin received the note and gave Minghao a rather sheepish smile.

“And lastly,” Chan said. “Jihoon. Music direction, video sound design, moodboards, and somehow also our emergency crisis manager? Heh. Don’t ask how. Just know if you hear music on anything Empire-related, he made it.”

Jihoon looked up briefly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Don’t mind him,” Soonyoung said. “That’s Jihoon being friendly.”

The workday blurred before he could even catch up to the morning. Seokmin tried, really, genuinely tried, to absorb everything being thrown at him: timelines, project outlines, sample sets, digital drafts. Every screen around him flickered,  and every conversation he found himself pulled into already felt like it had started hours ago.

Somewhere between rechecking lighting palettes and reviewing shoot locations, the team collapsed around the coffee bar of the core team, with their arms crossed, lattes half-drunk.

“So,” Soonyoung began casually, sipping his espresso. “You’ve heard about the twins?”

Seokmin looked up from his tablet. “I mean… everyone’s heard of Jeonghan.”

“Of course,” Minghao muttered. “Who hasn’t?”

“But have you heard about his brother?” Soonyoung asked, voice quieter now.

Seokmin blinked. “I only heard of the name. Ji-”

“Jisoo Hong” Wonwoo didn’t even look up from his screen. He just said, cool and low. The name dropped like cold metal and Seokmin’s grip on his coffee cup tightened slightly.

Soonyoung repeated it with a little grin. “Jeonghan’s twin brother, who goes by the name Hong Jisoo … is the co-founder of The Empire.”

“The other half of this company,” Minghao added. “The bottom half.”

They all laughed lightly, it looks like it was a running joke. Seokmin didn’t understand. “Sorry. Bottom half?”

Chan turned slightly toward him, eyes sharp with amusement.

“Jeonghan Yoon walks the light of The Empire,” he said. “Literally and figuratively.” Seokmin couldn’t argue with that. No one can. “He’s the face. The dream. The art.”

“And Jisoo, his twin brother” Chan continued, smile flattening. “He runs the underground.”

Seokmin didn’t know what that meant exactly, but then Soonyoung leaned forward, eyes steady, voice lowering.

“The contracts you never see, the competitors who suddenly fold, the brands that drop their made-up scandals before they’re even shared to the public, well, that’s him.” Soonyoung tapped the table once. “I heard he once burned down a penthouse office in New York. They said it was an electrical accident. Everyone at the Empire knew it was Jisoo sending a message.”

“There was a client who threatened to pull their collab unless Jeonghan lowered his rates and slept with him,” Minghao said, almost bored. “Jisoo met him at a gala. He left with a broken nose, two cracked ribs, and dropped the deal by sunrise.”

“The rumors go on,” Chan added. “One of the interns once said something out of line about Jeonghan, well according to the intern it was just a joke, nothing serious, like Jeonghan probably slept his way to the top. The next morning, his ID didn’t work, and his name was wiped from the database. He told people later he got relocated… to a warehouse job. In Busan.”

Jihoon finally looked up. “Didn’t you ever wonder why no one in the industry says anything bad about Jeonghan? Or if they do, they literally cease to exist? For one, Jeonghan’s actually a kind and pure person. Intimidating, yes, but he’s really kind.”

Seokmin stayed silent. Chan’s voice dropped a little lower.

“But other than that, everyone knows, everyone fears rather. An attempt to cross Jeonghan is an attempt to risk your life because of his brother.”

And suddenly, the pieces made sense. The tension in conversations, the silence, or the way no one ever said too much but somehow said everything. And the reverence for Jeonghan, and for the one who made it unthinkable, possibly even dangerous, to ever hurt him.

Seokmin cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but… why? Why go that far?”

The room went silent, then Chan leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable.

“You see, the twins… built everything from scratch. No one really knows the full story. But they didn’t have a happy childhood, or a childhood at all, for that matter. Some say they were abused, while others say they were abandoned. All the rumors agree on one thing, though, they only ever had each other.”

There was no laughter now. Seokmin bit his inner cheek, not expecting to hear this news. 

“Jeonghan’s the one who smiles, who shines, but behind that smile is someone who’s been through hell. And beside him is his brother, Jisoo, the one who went through it with him. The one who never forgot.”

Chan tapped the table again, softer this time.

“They say Jeonghan raised his brother. He protected him from everyone, even from their own parents when no one else would, which explains how much Jisoo protects him back with everything he has. Without rules. Without mercy.”

Seokmin felt goosebumps crawl up his neck.

“No matter how big The Empire is, no matter how famous they’ve become… Jisoo never changed. He bows to no one, and he stops at nothing when it comes to protecting his brother.”

And suddenly, the laughter started to look like the truth. The weight behind the rumors didn’t feel exaggerated anymore. The glassy stares, the carefully chosen words, the way everyone seemed to speak in code, it was all starting to land. Chan leaned back just slightly, letting the weight of the story settle.

Then, he spoke again, quieter this time.

“Sorry that was a lot to take. There’s… one more name you should know.”

Seokmin blinked, still caught in the mental image of a boy building an empire with his bare hands and a bruised heart. Chan continued, voice unreadable.

“There are only two people Jeonghan trusts with his life. His brother…”

Another pause.

“…and Scoups.”

Seokmin blinked again. “Scoups? Is that… a brand?” Minghao and Soonyoung laughed at Seokmin’s innocence

“Not a what ,” Wonwoo said, glancing up from his tablet. “A who .”

“Seungcheol Choi” Chan supplied. “But no one calls him that. He goes by Scoups. And he’s… something else.”

“Jeonghan’s bodyguard,” Jihoon added after seeing Seokmin’s confused face “The personal one. Well, the only one.”

“He was handpicked by Jisoo,” Soonyoung said. “Yep, not recruited. CHOSEN. Trained under him, assigned to Jeonghan BY him. That alone says enough.”

“Most of us haven’t even heard him speak,” Minghao muttered. “He’s just... there. ”

“He shows up only when Jeonghan does,” Chan said, stepping into the circle with his arms folded. “Then vanishes when Jeonghan leaves. It sometimes feels like he’s built into his shadow.”

Seokmin shifted in his chair. “Uh..What’s he like?”

There was silence for a beat. Then Chan smiled, tight and slow. “Kind of similar to Jisoo. Ruthless.”

“He doesn’t even blink when he breaks bones,” Jihoon said. Seokmin almost spilled his coffee

“Br-breaks bones?”

“He once cornered a reporter in the basement parking of the Seoul HQ for asking Jeonghan about dating rumors,” Wonwoo added.

“Scoups just stood there,” Soonyoung said. “Didn’t touch him, didn’t even raise a hand. The guy dropped the mic, and resigned the next day.”

“They say he never raises his voice,” Minghao said. “But people still flinch when they hear it.”

“But,” Chan added in a much quieter voicce “he’s… different with Jeonghan.”

Seokmin looked up. “Different?”

“Soft,” Soonyoung said, biting back a grin. “Practically gentle.”

“He holds the umbrella,” Soonyoung said, dramatically “He carries his coffee, remembers the orde-”

No oat milk. They all said in unison while laughing.

“He’s the only one allowed to speak to him without lowering his voice,” Minghao muttered.

“He even smiles for Jeonghan,” Soonyoung said. “Well, barely, but yeah.”

“But,” Chan warned, “don’t say that out loud. Especially not near him,” 

Soonyoung leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “If he hears you say he’s soft,” he said slowly, “he’ll break your bones.”

Everyone nodded like that was just a universal law while also biting back their laughter.

Seokmin swallowed. Hard. Holy fu-

To say that Seokmin was overwhelmed would be the understatement of the century.

No, Seokmin was spiritually disoriented. Mentally rerouting, emotionally buffering, and it wasn’t the workload alone. It was everything else. The name, the stories, and the rumors. Oh god, the rumors.

He sat on one of the velvet benches near the Empire’s private terminal lounge, staring blankly at his tablet, which now displayed his boarding pass as if it hadn’t just casually sentenced him to a full-blown identity crisis, or maybe air sickness?

What the hell did I sign up for?  Seokmin thought to himself

Aside from the speed, the jet lag, or the deadlines, it was the fact that he had walked into this company, this... institution, because of a stupid dare. A. freaking. dare.

One shot of soju too many at his friend’s rooftop birthday “Apply to The Empire, Seokmin. I dare you.”

And now he was flying to Paris, for Fashion Week, with a team of unnervingly attractive perfectionists and under the direct supervision of THE Jeonghan Yoon.

And worse, he’d just been briefed, no, gently threatened, really, on a man who literally burned buildings for vengeance, and another who broke bones when you said the word soft.

God. He’s at risk now, isn’t he? His life, his limbs, or even his soul, maybe. Scoups could kill him with a stare.

And Jisoo , Jeonghan’s twin brother, the one who people say erased entire boardrooms, who made interns vanish, who sent “letters” in the form of resignation drafts they hadn’t written yet —

…was kind of…

Interesting. Wait-  ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

Seokmin shook his head, horrified at himself.

No. No. He was not about to romanticize a man whose name literally came with fire hazard warnings. But still! 

Oh, Hong Jisoo… for someone whose name has allegedly brought literal fire to people, I kind of want to know more about you. Like. What’s that about?

And that Scoups gu—

“Seokmin?”

He almost dropped the tablet with his boarding pass. Chan stood in front of him with two luggage tags and a look of amusement.

“You good? You look like you just remembered you left the stove on. I can call one of our men to break into your apartment and turn it off for you”

Seokmin sat up. “I—yeah. Just thinking. WHAT-”

“I’m kidding! Is it your first time flying?”

“International? Yeah.” Chan grinned and handed him a tag. “Welcome to the deep end. Come on. We’re boarding.”

The jet was impossibly sleek, all white gloss and black chrome, with The Empire’s crest etched in gold near the cockpit. A uniformed crew greeted them with bowed heads and quiet voices.

And before he could blink, Seokmin was stepping onto a private plane.

A real, actual private jet, with a leather seat assigned to him, and with his name on the digital screen.

To say that Seokmin was overwhelmed would be the understatement of the century.

Yeah, it was a cosmic understatement .

Because how did he go from wearing mismatched ties at 7 a.m. and silently panicking in the mirror…to boarding a plane headed halfway across the world ? To Paris? On his first day?

Chapter Text

rule no. 2 – worshipping god is not optional

If Jeonghan ever decided to start a religion, the whole world wouldn’t even need time to convert. They already worship him anyway.

Fashion Week felt like a hallucination, too surreal. Seokmin hadn’t slept, and he’d eaten half a croissant. Hell he wasn’t even sure if he was still breathing.

Everything was too fast. The Empire’s Paris team worked like a Japan's bullet train, a machine, like time itself answered to them. Tailors sewed final stitches mid-sprint, while models rotated in and out. Hair and makeup huddled under one light, blending and brushing, while a translator barked orders under another. Somewhere in the chaos, someone kept adjusting the violin quartet’s sheet music, again and again, to match the ever-changing entrance tempo.

And Seokmin was holding his tablet upside down again. Sigh.. What did I get myself into?

The building they were using was a cathedral. Wait, let Seokmin repeat that to himself. A cathedral. A. Freaking. Cathedral.

Gilded edges, velvet-lined benches, marble floors so polished they might as well be fake, or maybe there were just mirrors. Stained glass windows were covered in sheer black to match the aesthetic. Candlelight flickered under each seat row, even though no one had lit a match. There was an eerie calm to it. Beautiful, but too much, like a place of worship.

And Jeonghan Yoon is still nowhere…but everywhere.

His face was on the posters outside, on the building's press wall, in the handouts, the digital screen by the lobby. Half the fashion staff wore lanyards with his face on them. Even the coffee cups had his initials.

God. The world is really Jeonghan Yoon's runway and kingdom .

Even half across the world, he was inescapable.

Seokmin watched as another group of models walked in. To be fair, they were beautiful, expensive-looking, even. Their cheekbones could cut through the wind. Their shoes probably cost more than Seokmin's monthly rent, and they floated across the cathedral like they belonged to a higher species.They probably do. 

But no one frankly cared. Even Seokmin. Because everyone was still waiting for the main event . 

A stylist clicked her pen like a metronome, while one of the directors kept checking the time. An assistant nervously fixed the same hemline on the same model three times. Seokmin couldn’t even tell the difference but the assistant swears there is a huge difference every time.

"So," Soonyoung muttered beside Seokmin, downing an espresso shot like water. "Still think we're exaggerating?"

Seokmin tried to play it cool. "...It just seems like a lot of pressure for one person."

Chan looked up from his clipboard. "One person named Jeonghan Yoon, who's also a creative director, a co-CEO, and the closing model for the twelfth time in a row. There was a time he was labeled as the omnipotent being next to God .”  

Well, they weren’t wrong. Soonyoung leaned over. "And that’s just this week."

Minghao walked in from the side wing, holding a black envelope. He handed it directly to Chan without a word. Seokmin blinked. "What’s that?"

Chan opened the note, eyes scanning. Then he straightened, cleared his throat, and turned to the production team.

"Lighting!" Chan called out. "Look 7. The stained glass on the left: blue hits the dress wrong. Jeonghan wants it covered before sunset. You have two hours."

The lighting director didn’t hesitate. "Got it. Moving."

Jesus, no one questioned it. There hadn’t even been a greeting. It was just a note, a quiet correction. Seokmin watched in awe as entire departments adjusted their workflow in real time over a single sentence.

Jeonghan Yoon hadn’t even shown up. But he might as well have, and that thought alone sent real-time shivers down Seokmin’s soul .

"How… how does he even know?" Seokmin whispered.

Soonyoung grinned. "He knows everything. Hence, the omnipotent being next to God,” tapping on Seokmin’s surprised shoulders once before moving.

Minghao, already sketching again, didn’t even look up. "The world is his show, his runway, his … Empire. We just breathe in it. Well, we’re lucky to breathe in it."

Wonwoo entered from the tech wing, tablet in hand. Chan gestured him over.

"Jeonghan says the audio sync is a bit late on the walkthrough video," Chan said.

Wonwoo was already typing. "Adjusting timestamp."

"Soonyoung," Chan continued, turning. "He wants the model entrance slowed by half a beat. The glide feels too sharp."

"Noted," Soonyoung replied. "I’ll run it again with the quartet."

"Jihoon," Chan called toward the hallway. "We need a warmer bass under Look 4. He says it feels too hollow."

"I can work with that," Jihoon said from behind the soundboard.

Seokmin couldn’t believe it. This was supposed to be a preparation,but it felt more like an orchestration. He was surrounded by artists, all calibrated by a single conductor who hadn’t even arrived.

"Oh, and get this," Chan added, lowering his voice. "The last 24 hours alone, over forty designer brands sent emails practically begging Jeonghan to wear their pieces for the nth time. Even just casually. No ambassador title. Nothing. A post would do."

"They’re throwing everything they have," Minghao added. "Gucci sent this. Prada sent that. Valentino even sent their intern." He rolled his eyes.

Seokmin gawked. "He turned them all down?"

"Of course he did," Soonyoung said. "This is The Empire. The Jeonghan Yoon doesn’t beg. They do."

Seokmin looked around the room again. Everywhere, still, there was Jeonghan. And it hit him fully this time.

The Empire was a crown. And Jeonghan wore it, while also being the one who built the throne. 

They were only in rehearsal. And yet the world had already stopped to look, to worship.

D-day: Paris  Jeonghan Yoon Fashion Show

By the time the venue opened its doors, there was a line of people scattered around two city blocks and a private security team that looked ex-military. Cameras were already raised, flashes going off as lightning in slow motion. Badges were scanned, and the air was thick with the nonstop chatter that settled over everything.

Seokmin was still clutching a copy of the run order, pretending to be calm. Spoiler: he was NOT calm, not a bit. His fingers kept crumpling the edge of the paper.

The cathedral had changed overnight. Stained glass now glowed with subtle backlighting, casting soft golds and faint blues across the white marble aisle. The long pews had been replaced with cream velvet seats. Floral installations draped the edges and velvet ropes marked off the press pit. Rose and sandalwood filled the air. It didn’t smell like a venue.

It smelled like money.

Everywhere he turned, people were talking. So this is what it feels like to be in a show Jeonghan is included.

"He’s here, right?"
"He’s closing again. Twelfth time in a row."
"God, I would kill to dress him."

No one said the name, but everyone knew who they meant, of course. Who else would be the reason why people attend such things? No one, unless it’s Jeonghan Yoon . Wherever he goes, he was the event himself.

Some say it should just be called the Jeonghan Yoon Fashion Show . Can’t argue with that. Seokmin thought. No matter how stunning the venue, how influential the guests, how celebrated the designers—the only moment anyone cared about was the one name on the bottom of the program, the most expensive face to ever exist, the face that even Helen of Troy would join the launching of the thousand ships for him, Jeonghan’s.

The lights dimmed. Shit, this is really happening . 

One by one, the models came out. Cloaks, layers, black velvet, deep grays, lace gloves. Faces sharp, features glass-cut. Some were recognizable from Vogue covers, others were new. All of them looked stunning.

But no one clapped. Hell, no one even gasped. It may sound harsh but the reason is blatantly simple: no one cared, not really. The audience was polite, controlled, and watching with the kind of tension that came from expectation. Everyone was waiting, even Seokmin.

And then, the music changed, a minor key, a softer one. The music became something orchestral, god, almost celestial. That’s right, celestial was one way to describe it, and him .

A single spotlight adjusted, and then the long anticipated event happened. He happened.

Jeonghan Yoon appeared without an announcement, without a cue, without footsteps, even.

Jeonghan Yoon just… appeared, like time had stepped aside to make room for him. Backlit by gold, his silhouette melted out of the light.

God, it really was devastating. 

Long legs wrapped in tailored black. His shoulders looked sharp under a flawless jacket. One hand in his pocket, while the other barely swinging. His frame moved like liquid and marble all at once.

Even from behind the light, Seokmin could tell it was him from his ethereal silhouette alone. Jeonghan Yoon, what a celestial being you are.

His hair, tucked neatly behind his ears, still caught the light like it had been blessed. His cheekbones sculpted them. 

And his face, dear god, his face, was something the dictionary had long since given up on describing.

Jeonghan Yoon was too pretty for a woman.

Too handsome for a man.

Too celestial for anything human. And so the world settled on the only word that ever seemed to fit: God .

Everything about him was ethereal, celestial, perfect.

No one said it out loud anymore. Well, they didn’t need to, because every appearance, every campaign, every step he took was a goddamn pilgrimage.

Somehow, the world had collectively agreed:

If Jeonghan ever decided to start a religion, the whole world wouldn’t even need time to convert. They already worship him anyway.

Seokmin swore his soul left his body. His breath stuttered as his stomach turned inside out, and his palms went damp. It felt like reverence, the kind of dizziness that came from seeing something divine, something so celestial. There's that word again.

The music slowed as Jeonghan walked: not too fast, not too slow, it was just perfect. Everything about him is perfect anyway.

The marble runway gleamed under his steps like it had been waiting for him.

His suit, god, the suit. Black silk that clung in all the right places. No shirt underneath, a single pale collarbone peeking through. A flower pinned near his lapel. It was simple, soft, deadly and again, celestial . Seokmin really found a way to use that word, thanks to this ethereal being. His gaze was unbothered, like he knew the cameras would follow anyway, like he knew this was all for him.

When he reached the center of the runway, he stopped, turned his head, and looked directly into the crowd. Seokmin couldn’t tell who he was looking at, but he felt it anyway, like the whole room changed to stay in his orbit.

There was something in his presence that directly communicates to each person the words:

Look.

Breathe.

Obey.

The camera shutters burst, social media feeds exploded. His name trended globally before the second look ended.

#JeonghanYoonParisFashionShow #JeonghanxPFW #JeonghanYoon 

You see, Jeonghan hadn’t said a single word. And still, the show belonged to him.

“That,” Soonyoung whispered beside Seokmin who almost dropped his entire body as he was pulled out of his Jeonghan-religion-worshipping trance, “is why designer brands cry over him.”

“He wears their clothes once,” Minghao added, “and their stock goes up by morning.”

“No wonder they beg,” Chan muttered. “He’s flawless. He makes everything look divine.”

Seokmin couldn’t speak, he couldn’t even blink. Everything that they are saying is true. He is witnessing it with his own eyes right now.

Soonyoung leaned in. “We told you,” he said, half-smiling. “He doesn’t need to speak to change a room. He just… exists.”

And they were right. Because now, more than ever, Seokmin was sure of one thing:

Jeonghan was a force, an ethereal human being sculpted by God himself. Hell, maybe he was God himself after all.

And then, just as the spell began to settle, Seokmin’s eyes caught movement at the far side of the venue, near the pillars, and past the cameras.

A man in a dark suit, with a sharp jaw, and arms folded. His expression is unreadable, and his body is still. The man’s eyes were only on Jeonghan.

Seokmin’s breath hitched.

He shows up only when Jeonghan does . He remembers Chan’s words.

That must be him. Scoups.

The man didn’t move, didn’t even seem to blink. Even from across the room, Seokmin could tell that the rumors are true: this man would snap a neck without hesitation, especially if it meant keeping Jeonghan safe. Scoups never looked away from Jeonghan. He looked less like security…And more like judgment.

Two other men flanked him, eyes scanning the room. One watched the crowd, while the other watched the press.

Far from the usual ones, the afterparty was a feast, an event in itself. This was apparently a quiet tradition that no one spoke about but everyone expected. 

The Empire was not one to celebrate with champagne showers or loud VIPs, rather, they did it like this. Long white tablecloths, polished cutlery, golden light bouncing off Baccarat glasses, dozens of dishes laid out buffet-style from the best kitchens in Paris. 

Seokmin could barely blink.

“What… is this?” he asked, half-whispering.

Soonyoung leaned over to grab a tiny fig tart. “Dinner.”

Minghao snorted. “Get used to it. It’s always like this at every shoot, every show, every event. Jeonghan insists on feeding everyone. He says he can’t eat properly until everything’s done anyway, so at least the rest of the team should.”

“He planned all this?”

“Of course,” Chan said, adjusting the flowers in a tall crystal vase. “He chooses the caterer, the wine list, even the color palette. You think the napkins match the Pantone color of Look 7 by accident?”

“But … where is he now?” Seokmin asked.

“Off doing press,” Jihoon answered. “Red carpet, photo calls, brand dinners. He’s probably still wearing Look 13 while we’re already in buffet.”

“And he won’t eat until that’s done?”

“Unfortunately, there are times when he doesn’t eat at all,” Minghao muttered. “I once saw him pass out backstage in Milan. He still went on the runway, though. He still closed the show.”

Seokmin stared at his plate. The world is really his runway, his kingdom…. And his life. Even God rested on the 7th day. He probably is more hardworking than him. Damn. 

The core team gathered around the long marble table, plates stacked with rare cuts and smoked cheeses. Despite the luxury, they looked like they could finally breathe.

“So, did you feel it?” Soonyoung asked, voice quieter now.

“Feel what?” Seokmin said.

“The silence. When he stepped out. The way everyone stopped breathing.”

Seokmin took a deep breath and thought back to the exact moment. That silhouette, that face, that voice that didn’t need volume to command a cathedral. Of course, he did. Who wouldn’t? Before he could even speak, Jihoon had taken over the conversation.

“You’ve seen it now,” Jihoon said with pride. Understandable . “That’s Jeonghan Yoon.”

“There’s something in him,” Chan murmured, eyes distant. “Something not quite real. Like he’s walking between two worlds and just visits us when it’s time to collect his applause.”

Amen to that.

“He’s exhausting,” Minghao said, then took a long sip of red wine. “But God, he makes it worth it.”

“No matter how tired we get,” Soonyoung added, “he appears, and it’s like everything resets. Like, okay. I’d die for that man, so I might as well do it the right way. Besides, he works harder than any of us, though.”

And Seokmin believed it. For once, he understood why people worshipped beauty, why they worshipped him, because if you were going to build your life around someone, Jeonghan was a good, no, the ONLY choice.

But just as he was settling into that wonder, he noticed something strange. A group of men by the corners of the hall, not in black tie, not in suits, not part of the security team either. Their eyes were sharper. Their stances were still. Their suits were darker, simpler, and they weren’t mingling with anyone.

“Uh… who are they?” Seokmin asked with a hint of nervousness in his tone.

Wonwoo looked up. “Not Empire guards.”

Jihoon smirked. “Those are Jisoo’s men.”

Seokmin nearly choked. “W-What? In Paris?”

“Yeah. Look at their cuffs,” Chan said. “They have no comms, no earpiece. They’re not coordinating with the press or security. They’re watching the room.”

“Watching for what?”

“For who, Seok” Soonyoung said. “Anything that could pose a threat. Creeps. Paparazzi. Business rivals. Just people who stare too long.”

Seokmin’s eyes widened. “They look like they could kill.”

“They could, and rumors say they already have,” Minghao said. “But they probably won’t tonight, unless you try something.”

Before Seokmin could respond, a butler wheeled in a small barrel, carved wood, metal details, and an emblem in gold.

Everyone went quiet. Minghao raised an eyebrow. “Oh well, speak of the devil.”

Seokmin frowned, seriously confused at what was happening. “What is that?”

“Wine,” Wonwoo said, almost whispering. “Rare. Expensive. Illegal in five countries.”

“From Jisoo,” Chan added, voice low as well, like they would get their ribs crushed if heard “You’ll know by the mark.”

Seokmin leaned in and spotted it: a small, minimalist fox curled into a crescent. Wealthy-looking. Sophisticated. Dangerous.

“What’s… the logo? I haven’t seen it before”

“Speakeasy,” Soonyoung answered, almost whispering. “Jisoo’s speakeasy beneath The Empire building in Seoul. It’s literally underground.”

“Wait...like a secret bar?”

“Not open to the public, no” Jihoon said. “Not even to the staff. The speakeasy has no signs, no door. Only a select few even know it exists, that includes us, but we haven’t been to it either.”

“They say it’s where underground meetings happen,” Chan added. “Negotiations. Deals. Debts. The Devil's ‘works’ if you may”

“Rumors say it’s where the mafia holds court,” Minghao said. “Though no one would ever say it out loud.”

“And it’s owned by Jisoo?” Seokmin asked.

“Every square inch.”

Seokmin sat back slowly. The wine had been uncorked, poured, and toasts were made, but he barely tasted it. His mind spun. He had just seen a God walk down the runway, an embodiment of grace, elegance, and light. Jeonghan Yoon. How could someone like that share the same blood with someone like Jisoo, at least based on the rumors he has heard so far?

Jeonghan walked in the light. Jisoo lived in the shadows. One is ruling the world with his beauty and greatness. The other is running it with fear.

And yet…Wait, don’t get him wrong! Seokmin was terrified. Everything they’d said about Hong Jisoo made his bones shiver , only it wasn’t the same kind of fear the others carried. It was a curiosity, a really dangerous one. For Seokmin, there was something about Jisoo, something behind the smoke and silence, behind the bodyguards and the rumors, behind the name that made CEOs stutter.

What kind of man loved his brother so much he erased worlds for him? What kind of person burned for someone else’s light?

God , Seokmin thought, clutching his glass.

He wanted to know. He had to.

His thoughts were cut short when two tall men entered the lounge. Another one?  They didn’t grab food or drinks, they were rather calm, quiet, yet close-grained looking. Seokmin recognized them instantly. He’d seen them earlier, flanking the man whose glare could split marble. The one who never took his eyes off Jeonghan. The one who had to be Scoups.

The two men approached a group dressed differently from the rest of the Empire’s uniformed security, less like staff, more like operatives, a.k.a. Jisoo’s, leaned in. A few of those men nodded, then peeled off, and followed them out. Before Seokmin could ask, Soonyoung was already beside him, sipping a glass of champagne like he hadn’t just witnessed what looked like an intel exchange.

“There they are,” he said. “Scoups’ men”

“Technically Jisoo’s,” Minghao added. “But Scoups was allowed to handpick his own team. That’s them.”

Seokmin’s mouth moved before he could stop it. “Was he the... scary-looking one?”

“The scariest,” Jihoon deadpanned.

“He doesn’t blink,” Chan added, nodding toward the door. “Literally. You’ll know it’s him because wherever Jeonghan is, that man is always three steps behind, or less. He never looks away, never walks ahead. He is always watching, always ready.”

“Never eats,” Minghao said. “Never smiles, and never leaves until Jeonghan does.”

Soonyoung leaned in, eyes forming these uneven crescent-moon slants, like two tilted half-smiles. “Here’s a secret, Seok. Wonwoo’s probably going to kill me for this but... he has a crush on one of them.His name’s Mingyu,” 

Soonyoung continued, grinning. “Taller. Muscular. Silent type. Wonwoo used his actual hacking skills to find out his name.” Seokmin turned around smiling. Wonwoo’s head didn’t move, but his death glare shot across the table like a sniper rifle. Still, his cheeks betrayed him, pink, caught, utterly doomed. Cute . Seokmin thought to himself.

Jihoon raised an eyebrow. “You hacked security?”

“Technically just the staff directory,” Wonwoo mumbled. Jihoon didn’t answer, and just sipped his wine like this was a normal exchange for them.

Wonwoo cleared his throat. “Jihoon, by the way, it looks like Soonyoung is gossiping about you.”

Soonyoung shot upright. “I am NOT!  Shut up, Jeon Wonwoo.” His voice cracked slightly.

Seokmin blinked. oh… OH! So Soonyoung has a crush on Jihoon. Noted .

Minghao cackled and raised his glass toward Seokmin. “Don’t mind these romantic losers. This is them whenever they’re not working. Pathetic. Thank God for Jeonghan Yoon, right? for making them normal again, even for a few hours.”

There was a soft chime on Chan’s phone. He immediately stood up after checking.

“Sales are in, everyone” he said.

All heads turned. Chan grinned. “Up. Again. Exponentially. We just broke another record. Expected, but still, Un.fucking.believable.”

Minghao whistled. “That’s the power of Jeonghan Yoon.”

“And proposals?” Jihoon asked.

Chan showed them the screen: an entire folder of emails, millions of brand headers, and millions of requests.

“They’re begging, as expected,” Chan said. “Every major house. All of them are throwing their budgets into the void for a chance. Some of them don’t even want him as ambassador anymore. Well, they can’t afford him anyway, so they are begging him to wear something from their brand, even just once.”

“A brooch,” Soonyoung muttered. “Hell, even a thread.”

Seokmin smiled to himself.

This was The Empire, and Jeonghan is its crown, as well as the God sitting on the throne that Jeonghan built himself (along with his brother, so they say).

Seokmin once again looked everywhere around him where Jeonghan’s face was plastered almost everywhere. It feels like a sin to be looking at something so ethereal, for free.

Recalling everything from the show, all Jeonghan did was grace the runway, and now brands are throwing all their fortune just to have him wear something from them. 

If Jeonghan ever decided to start a religion, the whole world wouldn’t even need time to convert. They already worship him anyway. 

Understandable, because Seokmin would even join in kneeling before him.

Chapter Text

rule no. 3 – salvation comes with leather seats (sometimes)

Seokmin wasn’t much of a believer in supreme beings. He wasn’t an atheist, but he never really practiced any religion. Faith, for him, had always been vague.

There was no altar in his apartment. No cross, no crystals, no candles. He considers religion... a thing other people had.

But after seeing Jeonghan walk that runway like he was parting the Red Sea, like every camera, every breath, every heartbeat stopped for him, Seokmin started to reconsider. Not in a traditional sense, of course, but in a more "Jeonghan is God" sense. Because really, if miracles existed, that man was one. 

Good things take time , someone once told him. Right now, Seokmin kind of wished they didn’t, because it had been exactly 48 hours since he fumbled his way through his first day at The Empire, and now here he was: in Paris, jetlagged, out of his mind, running on what seems like effluvium and a bit of wine, caffeine, and who knows what. He had been wondering if this entire 48 hours had actually happened or if he’d accidentally slipped into a coma and this was just his brain trying to cope. Yikes.

It was 11:30 PM in Paris, which means it’s 6:30 AM in Korea.  

Damn it. The adrenaline from the show is starting to wear off, and right now, the exhaustion, along with the (lack of) adjustment to the time difference is almost killing him. 

In his defense, he wasn't expecting to be sent halfway across the world 48 hours ago, right when he was just a mess getting ready for his first day. Hell he wasn't even sure if he would last nor did the fact that he's working at The Empire sink in at the time already, but here we are.  

Unbelievable. Seokmin could not help but smile as he thought about what happened.

A few drinks of the wine from Jisoo’s stash, the expensive, rare, and allegedly illegal barrel served at the afterparty, and his coworkers were all in diversified states of chaos. 

Soonyoung was trying to flirt with Jihoon in broken French. Minghao was aggressively adding skincare to his online cart. Chan was passed out across three chairs. Poor kid. Wonwoo, to no one’s surprise, was sober and actively trying to stop Minghao from buying $3,000 worth of serums.

Seokmin hadn’t drunk much. His head was still pounding from the jet lag, and he wasn’t brave enough to get wasted in front of his coworkers, not yet. So he sipped a bit before downing water, smiled politely, and tried not to panic.

The show and even the afterparty were over hours ago. The cameras had stopped. The velvet seats were empty. The cathedral, which had transformed into a temple of fashion, was now dim and quavering with the hum of distant traffic.

Now Seokmin was standing outside a staff exit, soaked to the bone.

It had started raining without warning. The sky cracked open like a curse, and Paris became a watercolor mess. Seokmin leaned against the brick wall behind the cathedral, trying to make himself small, trying to stay in the shadows. The Dior blazer he got from Minghao was not doing much. His phone was dead. His ride was long gone. He was alone. Wet. Cold. And lost. Pathetic.

Seokmin let out a hard groan. God, I’m going to sleep in the streets of Paris, aren’t I?  It was kind of funny, actually . Seokmin was starting to accept his fate, that he’d be spending the night on the streets of Paris, soaking wet, jetlagged, and shivering beside a cathedral dumpster. Maybe, if the universe was kind, or if miracles actually existed, one of his coworkers would eventually realize he was missing and come looking for him. But at this point, he wouldn’t bet on it.

And then, he heard it.

A low, smooth hum of a car engine. Expensive, unperturbed, and of course, powerful.

Seokmin wasn’t much of a believer in supreme beings. He wasn’t an atheist, but he never really practiced any religion. Faith, for him, had always been vague.

Ambivalent, if anything.

But that night, at 1 a.m., drenched to the bone and borderline delirious from exhaustion, something cracked in him. Because earlier, under cathedral lights, he saw Jeonghan Yoon walk like God through gold and smoke, and it made him question the existence of higher beings for the first time.

And now, right when his soul was preparing to ascend out of sheer rain-induced misery, an expensive sleek black car rolled to a slow, graceful stop in front of him.

It just… appeared. Holy shit. Is this a divine intervention on four wheels? 

The car's body was matte black, smooth as midnight, glistening under the streetlight like it had been cut from a block of obsidian. There was no logo. No plates visible. No need.

And maybe, just maybe, this was his second miracle of the night.

Inside sat Jeonghan Yoon which made Seokmin almost collapse.

Jeonghan, of course, looked unreal with his hair down, slightly tousled, still damp at the tips. He had changed into a cream cashmere sweater with a camel trench coat draped over his shoulders, a gold ring on one finger glinting like it knew it belonged to royalty, no, celestial being. Yes, Seokmin is getting fond of using that word. Right. Jeonghan is celestial . His skin is impossibly clear, poreless, moonlight incarnate, if you will. Even his lashes looked hand-placed by a divine being.

Jeonghan smiled.

"You look like a drowned cat," he said, voice warm and teasing.

Seokmin blinked, realizing he actually didn’t know what to do. “Oh my god! Jeong- Mr. Yoon, shit.. I mean.. I-I’m sorry.”

“It’s Jeonghan. Get in.” Jeonghan said gently. “You’ll catch a cold.”

Before Seokmin could even move, the car door opened from the outside. The man from a while ago, Mingyu, according to Soonyoung, stepped out. He was tall, stone-faced, holding an umbrella without a single word. His black coat fit like armor. Seokmin had seen him earlier at the afterparty with Scoups, and the memory alone made him straighten his posture.

He hesitated.

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, looking a bit worried but gave him a beautiful smile. “Yes, I have leather seats.” Jeonghan even managed to say in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. “Don’t worry. They’ll survive.”

“I- I’m not— I’m not scared. I’m sorr-” Seokmin mumbled.

“You are.” Jeonghan said with a soft laugh. Even his laugh sounds sweet and perfect. “That’s the second time today.”

“I—Maybe a little. Wait, wha-” 

"It's okay. Suit yourself, I’ll gladly wait," Jeonghan said with an assuring smile.

And really, who was Seokmin to make the Jeonghan Yoon, literal celestial being, the world's deity, and possible reincarnation of grace, wait in a car for him? Despite every hesitation screaming in his head, that one sentence was enough to make his feet move on instinct. He clambered into the car slowly, trying not to soak the seats, trying not to breathe too hard, trying not to exist too loudly. The moment the door shut behind him, the world outside disappeared.

Inside, the car smelled like heaven. No, not the kind of obvious, overpowering scent that screamed wealth, but something quieter. It smelled a bit of white vanilla, with a hint of cedar, maybe oud, and maybe something older, something sacred. The air reeked of the memory of a high-end perfume boutique tucked away in the Alps, or the inside of a silk-lined jewelry box passed down through royalty. Every inch of it smelled like it's worth a king's ransom… and of course, heavenly.

The seats felt like clouded velvet, thick, soft, and cushiony like they were made of condensed clouds spun in cashmere. The ambient lighting was a soft gold glow that made everything look warmer, cleaner, more surreal.

And then there was him . Oh. That man, of course.

Scoups.

"He shows up only when Jeonghan does."  Seokmin remembers Chan's words once again. Of course, he does.

Sitting in the passenger seat beside Jeonghan. Silent and perfectly still. Seokmin nearly screamed.

Dressed in a sleek black coat tailored within an inch of its life, Scoups didn’t move, the man didn’t even blink. He just… observed. His eyes flicked to Seokmin for a second, sharper than a blade. It was the same man from the show, the one everyone warned him about, the human embodiment of threat level red.

Seokmin immediately shrank a full inch into the seat.

Yep. That man would absolutely shatter his kneecaps without flinching if he so much as spilled Evian near Jeonghan.

The silence in the car was thick, loaded, and holy.

Seokmin’s heart was beating so loud it felt inappropriate, embarrassing even. Jeonghan, meanwhile, was looking out the window. His profile glowed under the passing streetlights, he was like a marble sculpture left behind by gods, touched only by moonlight. His lashes cast long, delicate shadows on his cheeks. His lips looked soft and delicate. There was not a single blemish in sight.

Up close, Jeonghan didn’t look like a person. He looked like silk and snowfall, like divinity in human flesh. Someone must’ve carved him from light, stitched in angel breath, and left him in the wrong dimension. He was, in a word, unreal, and Seokmin wasn’t even exaggerating.

And yet, Jeonghan wasn’t cold, as opposed to what most would probably expect. He wasn’t distant, too. He was warm, present, gentle.

He really was God. Did Seokmin mention that already?

“So,” Jeonghan finally spoke, voice soft, warm, smooth like velvet steeped in honey. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“I—I did,” Seokmin stammered. “It was… incredible. Everything moved so fast.”

You were the show. Seokmin wanted to blurt out, but may be too timorous to continue.

Jeonghan nodded faintly. “It always does.” He turned his head slightly. “Do you like working at The Empire so far?”

Seokmin tried his best to fight back the astonishment,  “I think I’m still… processing.”

“That’s fair.” A pause followed. It was soft, and actually almost comfortable now.

But Seokmin couldn’t stop himself.

“Can I ask…” he began slowly. “How did you know I was still out there? In the rain? Or that... I work at The Empire?”

Jeonghan turned fully this time, gaze steady, voice light. “I know the people who work for The Empire, Seokmin.”

Seokmin blinked. “You what?”

Jeonghan’s lips curled into a small, warm smile. “That face. Oh, don’t look so shocked.”

Seokmin blinked, still trying to process everything—this car, this scent, this man God.

“I mean, there’s no way I wouldn’t know about Chan, right?” Jeonghan continued lightly. “That kid is up at four every morning, has color-coded my calendar, and can memorize a whole investor list by scent.”

Seokmin laughed, remembering how good Chan is with details… rumors included. No, now isn’t the time. Jeez

“And Soonyoung,” Jeonghan added, voice warm now. “Sure, he may be loud at times, swears at printers…but he’s the reason half our commercial reels go viral.”

He paused, clearly fond. “Wonwoo Jeon. Hacker brain, and watches everything. Oh, that man pretends not to care but triple-checks every contract we sign. He would probably survive an apocalypse with nothing but an iPad and probably a knife.”

Seokmin felt his throat tighten. Every word Jeonghan spoke made his chest swell, made something crack open in his ribs.

“And you,” Jeonghan said, gentle and clear. “Seokmin Lee from Daegu. You graduated top of your class in visual arts at university, won three local design competitions, interned at a mid-tier agency before getting personally referred to our creative branch.”

Seokmin’s heart almost stopped.

“You also sketch late at night when you think no one’s watching. I’ve seen your boards.” Jeonghan gave Seokmin a soft smile. “We’re lucky to have you at The Empire.”

What? What did he just say?

Jeonghan Yoon, the man luxury brands worship, the face of an empire, the face of the world, telling him, Seokmin Lee from Daegu, that he’s lucky to have him ? This must be Jisoo's illegal wine, right? Seokmin started convincing himself he's just seeing pink elephants and hearing delusions.

Jeonghan leaned back. “I choose every person who works for me. The Empire doesn’t run on fame alone, but rather on loyalty, talent, and instinct.”

“And I hope you’re liking it so far,” Jeonghan added. “It’s fast-paced, yes. Brutal sometimes. But if you’re good, and YOU ARE , you’ll survive.”

“I…wow” Seokmin whispered. “I wasn-I wasn't expecting this.”

Jeonghan tilted his head but not surprised. “May I ask what did you expect?”

“Uh….I don’t know. Coldness, maybe. Distance? A place where people are… just tools. Disposable. That’s how these industries usually are, right?”

“You’re not wrong,” Jeonghan said quietly. “That’s how it is for most… unfortunately.” He turned back to the window, watching raindrops race each other down the glass.

“But The Empire… “ Jeonghan took a deep breath. “My brother and I built everything together. I was never alone in building all of this, my brother was always beside me. We have always had each other, as well as people who stuck around when it would’ve been easier to walk away. That’s why it’s successful.”

Seokmin fell silent. His thoughts pulled back to Jisoo. All those rumors. The fire. The threats. The speakeasy. The men in blac- No, now’s not the time. He tried to push his thoughts away, especially when there was something in the way Jeonghan said the word “brother,” so gently, like it was sacred, like it was loved. Seokmin made him think there was more to the story, so much more.

Jeonghan smiled faintly, unreadable but kind. The silence that followed was thick and Seokmin didn’t mean to speak, but it just… slipped.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Shit. His eyes widened in horror. “Wait. I didn’t mean— I mean I did, but not— Sorry! I just—!”

Jeonghan laughed. God , e ven his laughter sounded like it had been dusted in moonlight. Wrapped in silk. Woven into incense.

"Thank you,” he said, voice amused.

Seokmin covered his face with both hands. “Please pretend I didn’t say that.”

Jeonghan chuckled again, resting his chin on his palm, turning toward him.

“No need to apologize, Seokmin. I’d rather people speak freely. I hope you find the experience you’re looking for here, at The Empire.”

Seokmin peeked from behind his fingers, cheeks on fire, and that’s when he felt it.

The gravity and the presence: Scoups who was still in the seat beside Jeonghan, watching everything, occasionally glaring at Seokmin.

There was not a word, though, not a blink. Beside him sat Mingyu, posture straight, every move was aforethought and calculated. Seokmin felt their energy like cold air from an open window. Dangerous, powerful, ruthless . They didn’t speak nor react, but Seokmin could feel their role: protection.

Jeonghan smiled faintly. “I mean that.”

The car tapered off. Outside, the city blurred into shadow and stone, the night deepening with every block. It was quieter here. It felt more residential, ancient, yet filmic. And then, they turned a corner. A massive black iron gate rose ahead, more than twelve feet tall, steel and stone. Nothing visible beyond, though. When the car approached, the gate clicked open soundlessly.

Seokmin stared. The driveway was long, too long. Trees lined either side, cut to geometric perfection. Lights embedded in the cobblestone path flickered like stars. The manor at the end was mostly shadow, partly glass, warm light glowing from somewhere inside. Seokmin’s voice cracked as panic crept in. “Wait—are you… are you kidnapping me?”

Jeonghan blinked, clearly dumbfounded by the sudden question.

And then came Seokmin's spiral with tears in his eyes. “I-I’m sorry I got your seats wet. I’m sorry I called you beautiful. I’m sorry if I breathed weird—God, I definitely breathed weird—” Jeonghan laughed again, this time fully, shoulders shaking as he covered his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Oh my god,” Seokmin muttered. “You’re laughing. I-”

“I’m sorry,” Jeonghan said through a grin. “You’re just… really something.”

He exhaled, soft and fond, before turning to face Seokmin.

“No, Seokmin. I’m not kidnapping you. The hotel you’re sharing with Minghao is still an hour away. Between the shoot, the after-meetings, the fittings, and now the rain, you look like you’re close to passing out.” He tilted his head, eyes kind. “Trust me, I know.”

“So I thought I’d bring you home, just for the night. It’s closer and more comfortable.”

Seokmin blinked, obviously stunned and confused “You… want me to stay with you?”

“If you’d prefer the hotel, I can have Mingyu here take you there right now,” Jeonghan said.

“No! I mean—no, it’s okay. If it’s really okay with you. I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

Jeonghan cut him off with another smile. “Like I said, Seokmin. I consider the people who work with me my family. So of course it’s alright.”

The car turned into a circular drive lined with warm garden lights. The mansion stood tall now, three floors of modern stone and antique charm, soft light spilling from tall windows like the warmth of home.

Seokmin forgot how to breathe after seeing Jeonghan from up close, once again.

God , he thought, for the thousandth time that day. Jeonghan Yoon is really, really beautiful.

Seokmin barely remembered getting out of the car.

The rain had slowed, mist curling around the edges of the manor's private driveway like stage fog in a movie scene. Everything was quiet, save for the low crunch of gravel under their shoes and the quiet hum of soft, hidden lights flickering on.

"Oh, we're here," Jeonghan said gently.

Seokmin turned, and Jeonghan stepped out of the car with the kind of ease only people born, or maybe reborn, into grace possessed. He turned to Seokmin with that warm, soft gaze and smiled.

"This… is our Paris manor," he said so casually, like he was talking about a weekend cabin or a vacation home.

Seokmin smiled at him in awe, while looking around the place. Manor . He was a bit taken aback when Mingyu opened the passenger door and stepped back slightly, without smiling, and not even blinking. Scoups followed just behind, eyes still set on Jeonghan, occasionally shooting sharp and unreadable glares at Seokmin. There it was again, his entire aura: suspicion clothed in sleek black wool. 

Ah. Seokmin makes a mental note: Scoups is a walking threat with good posture. Right.

Jeonghan didn’t seem fazed. Well, why would he? He simply tucked a stray hair behind his ear and motioned forward.

"No media has ever stepped foot here, so don’t worry. You’re safe from paparazzi. No photos. No eyes."

Seokmin stepped out of the car like he was entering a simulation, a very expensive, filthy rich one. Every inch of this place reeked of old money, the kind of rich that didn’t need to say anything. Everything looks curated, handcrafted, custom-built, not loud, no, but absolutely impossible to ignore.

Fuck. I am stepping into Yoon Jeonghan’s private Paris home manor. On my first day, okay maybe second.... After my first show. God. 

He was too lost in thought to notice Jeonghan calling his name again.

"Seokmin? Are you okay?"

He looked up to see Jeonghan tilting his head, concern and worry softening his already delicate features. There wasn’t even a hint of pretentiousness.

Seokmin blinked, his throat tightening. Oh, how could anyone even try to hurt this man? Before Seokmin could say anything, Mingyu handed him a box, making him jump slightly.

"You can use those clothes for now," Jeonghan said gently. "Feel free to ask anyone here if you need more. Make yourself comfortable."

Seokmin blinked at the box, then slowly peeked inside, only to nearly stop breathing. Holy fu-. The box was like a curated capsule collection. He recognized a few labels: Maison Margiela, The Row, Tom Ford, but beside them were smaller details that made his soul leave his body.

Maison Margiela x Jeonghan Yoon
The Row – Private Collection, JY edition

One piece didn’t even have a tag. It had Jeonghan Yoon's initials stitched in gold. Seokmin didn’t know whether to be amazed or call security. This box alone could pay off his student loans, rent, and maybe buy his grandparents a house. He could feel the wealth radiating from the stitching. One coat alone probably surely costs more than his annual rent. Hell, the hanger might be worth more than his laptop.

Seokmin looked up, stunned. “Are you sure—these are… I mean, they’re—” Jeonghan just smiled like it was nothing. Right. Like he hadn’t just handed him a small fortune in wool and silk.

As they stepped inside, the manor opened like a dream. And the smell. God, the smell.

The manor is fuming with warm vanilla, white cedar, and something ancient, like if someone kept a bottle of hearts and flowers with remniscience and added a hint of heaven. No, it’s not overpowering. In fact, it’s intoxicating and addictive. The kind of scent you could never quite describe, only feel. Of course. Jeonghan.

Jeonghan Yoon really did smell like heaven.

A maid stepped forward, bowing her head. Jeonghan smiled and nodded politely.

" La Suite Rose, s'il vous plaît ," he said. " Merci beaucoup. "

Scoups leaned in, saying something low to the maid. Did he speak French as well?   Then, Scoups turned and said something even lower to Jeonghan.

Look, Seokmin didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He really didn’t but he swore he heard the neck-snapping man say it.

" Hannie ." Spoken with the faintest touch of care, then something about food?  Oh, right—

"He doesn’t even eat sometimes" Minghao had told him last night. Was this what he meant?

Scoups’ voice was too low to hear the rest, and Jeonghan’s reply was a whisper, but Seokmin could not stop his heart from swelling after accidentally hearing the endearment.

Hannie . Mr. neck-snapper calls him Hannie?

And if Seokmin’s heart melted at that, no one had to know.

"It’s been a long day, Seokmin." Jeonghan smiled. "You look like you need hot cocoa."

The tea room looked like something from a royal estate. Larger than his entire college apartment, the glass walls were arched and laced with ivy.  Rose vines curled around beams outside. Inside, the lighting was warm gold. The scent of fresh garden herbs mixed with something rich, maybe orange blossom? Sandalwood? 

Still, that constant hint of vanilla with a bit of heaven lingered. Jeonghan Yoon’s scent. The space felt holy. Is this what a cathedral's sanctuary feels like? 

"Sorry if the gates and security earlier felt a little dramatic," Jeonghan said, setting down a tray. He led him in with the ease of someone who had made this world from scratch. Scoups followed, keeping a bit of distance now, but still always near.

"My brother can be... overprotective sometimes. Most times, actually." shooting a fond smile at the thought.

Oh. His brother. Jisoo Hong. Seokmin froze slightly upon hearing the name.

“I heard he once poisoned a board member. Made it look like an allergy.”
“He burned someone’s name off their own company.”
“Didn’t he force a CEO to write a public apology while on his knees?”

Wait. Jeonghan's voice carried nothing but warmth, though? Maybe even love. He spoke of his brother like someone who had always stood beside him, like someone irreplaceable. Seokmin sat in silence, hands wrapped around the warm porcelain mug of cocoa Jeonghan had given him. The scent was sweet, rich, a little floral with vanilla undertones, of course it was. Even the drinks in Jeonghan’s manor smelled like heaven.

His fingers twitched slightly around the mug. It was a lot. All of it. The rumors. The day. The fact that he was literally sipping hot cocoa in a royal-level garden-tea room beside a man the world practically knelt before.

Jeonghan, who was oblivious, or perhaps politely choosing to ignore the gossip, just smiled gently, sipping his cocoa like they were talking about the weath-

“Seokmin? Are you okay?” he said, soft and warm.

And maybe it was the drink, or the jetlag, or the fact that Seokmin was in a literal palace of a manor with glass ceilings and garden scents.

“You’re so pretty,” Seokmin blurted.

A beat. Jeonghan blinked, then laughed again, a bit quieter this time, more to himself. “That’s the third time,” the beautiful man God said. “But thank you. Again.”

“I didn’t mean to—well, I did—but not like in a weird—”

Jeonghan waved a hand. “It’s fine, Seokmin. Really. It’s sweet.”

And it was. It was sweet because Jeonghan meant it. He never looked annoyed, never looked tired. He just looked like someone who carried too much, yet never let it show. Seokmin glanced down at his mug, heart beating a little faster than before. He opened his mouth, maybe to say something els—

Jeonghan Yoon’s shadow moved from a few feet away. And by Jeonghan's shadow: Scoups . He stood near the arched entrance of the tea room, back straight, eyes never leaving Jeonghan for more than a blink. He hadn’t touched a drink. He hadn’t spoken a word. Surprisingly, Seokmin didn’t flinch for the first time. B ecause now, maybe, he kind of understood them, Jisoo and Scoups.

He thought of what Chan once said. "Some people have tried to hurt him before. Even now. That’s what made his brother the way he is. You don’t touch Jeonghan. That’s the rule."

If someone like Jeonghan existed, someone this gentle, this beautiful, this strangely light in a world that could be so dark, it made sense why there were men like Scoups who would go to war for him. Why there were rumors about neck-snapping and erasing people’s lives for the sake of one man.

And if Jeonghan really did have a devil twin brother, the Jisoo Hong everyone gossiped about, the one who once burned down a building in silence, then maybe Seokmin got it too.

How could anyone, even try to hurt this man? 

How could anyone hurt someone so pure enough to remember every intern’s name, who personally picked out guest rooms, who smelled like the promise of safety?

Well, Seokmin didn’t have it in him to break bones or terrify boardrooms. 

But if anyone tried to hurt Jeonghan in front of him, even just with words, he’d sure as hell protect him like Scoups or Jisoo. 

Okay, maybe less harsh. 

Okay, much more less harsh. 

But he would.

Seokmin wasn’t much of a believer in supreme beings. He wasn’t an atheist, but he never really practiced any religion. Faith, for him, had always been vague. 

But today, Jeonghan Yoon made him believe in celestial beings. Three damn times.

And that… that had to count for something.

Chapter Text

rule no. 4 – never speak lightly of the divine

Five days into working at The Empire, and Seokmin had learned two things.

Right now, it had been exactly three days since he got back from halfway across the world, and Seokmin was still reeling from the chaotic mess that started his occupational trajectory, the morning when he was just choosing a tie for his very first day. Five days ago, he was brushing his teeth in his square bathroom, trying to fix his collar, and thinking about whether he should take the bus or hail a cab. The cheaper one won. Obviously.

Now, he’d been to Paris and back. Unimaginable , but true.

Don’t get him wrong, he loved working at The Empire. That wasn’t the problem, not even close. The people were great, welcoming, even. 

In fact, Soonyoung had already added him to his Netflix family subscription with Jihoon (which basically made him their emotionally third-wheeled Netflix child), Minghao sent him a full folder of Olive Young discount codes with expiration dates and emoji ratings, Wonwoo personally installed the entire Adobe Creative Suite onto his laptop (which Seokmin had dreamed of having since high school) so he no longer had to risk giving his poor system a malware disease from Piratebay. 

And Chan, bless his heart, gave Seokmin a full month's worth of Nespresso pods. There was just one small problem, though. Seokmin didn’t own a Nespresso machine. Now he was seriously thrashing out if he should just drop the equivalent of half a month’s rent in Gangnam just to make use of the four dozen caffeine bullets sitting on his desk. 

And maybe that was the exact problem.

Even with all the kindness, Seokmin still felt like he didn’t belong. Not because anyone made him feel small. After all, Jeonghan had let him sleep in a Paris manor that no media outlet had ever even seen, let alone entered. The others shared skincare tips, ran interference when he looked too close to a breakdown, and made space for him in untroubled ways. Nobody ever made him feel less, or out of place. It was never the treatment that made him feel out of step, and definitely not the workload either.

You see, everyone at The Empire felt larger than life. Perfect, almost. The kind of people who probably had headshots in Vogue’s internal archive or showed up in Pinterest moodboards under “luxury,” looking like they were airbrushed, edited, or carefully arranged by the universe itself.

Well, Jeonghan was the one who built this world, which made sense, really. Of course the place felt unreal. It was his. The golden god who breathed The Empire into existence, alongside his brother . And if Seokmin felt something tug at his chest at the thought of his boss’ brother, no one has to know.

If he is being honest, though, part of him really wants to understand the kind of man this Jisoo Hong was, the man who could guard Jeonghan Yoon so ruthlessly, the kind of man people called the devil . 

What kind of person loved his brother so fiercely he carved out an entire underwo- Woah. What the hell. Was he really romanticizing Jisoo Hong ? Again? 

Seokmin rolled his eyes, feeling a full-body cringe ripple through him. Oh, his ears were definitely red. Okay, focus.

With all the perfection surrounding Seokmin at The Empire, could you really blame him for short-circuiting?

At The Empire, everything moved at the speed of light and expectation. You could go from zero to a billion and back again in a single breath. 

One minute he was walking through revolving glass doors for orientation, trying not to wrinkle his only decent suit, the one he had proudly bought full price. The next, he was on a private jet with velvet seats and touchscreen water menus, which he didn’t even know existed. Has the rich always been this violently allergic to effort? No offense to his boss. The Empire’s crest embroidered into the pillows, and a chandelier swaying in the lounge.

Before he could even process that, he was already back in Seoul,sitting alone in his apartment under a flickering kitchen light, enjoying his expensive gourmet dinner of the night: three leftover baby carrots and a half-eaten jar of peanut butter he’d forgotten in his bottom drawer. He still had 200 won left in his Coupang Pay balance , which is enough for one fish cake stick.

Luxury, he thought. Pure luxury .

It was only his second day back. Seokmin was barely awake, spiritually missing, and lifelessly staring out the panoramic glass of the elevator. Seoul at dawn was cold and chrome, all mirror-glass towers and a sky too blue to trust. From this high up, even the clouds probably fought for an RSVP.

The elevator ride up to the core team’s office, where Seokmin also worked, was kind of a slow vertical crisis for him. It was existentially long, giving you enough time to reflect on your résumé, your financial choices, and whether or not you’ve emotionally recovered from your last Jeonghan sighting. It had always been dramatic, but nothing could ever fully prepare you for the fact that their office was on the 98th floor. 

Ninety-eight. At this point, Seokmin wouldn’t be surprised if the clouds above had their own door passcodes, or if heaven had an annex office right above them. Maybe they do?

Jeonghan, naturally, occupied the 100th. Of course God’s corner office is the actual sky. Duh.

Seokmin was mid-trance (and possibly mid-nap) when the elevator doors dinged open, and he was immediately assaulted with:

“THERE YOU ARE!” Soonyoung Kwon. 

It was 6:42 in the morning and he’s fully awake, with so much energy and bright eyes. It looks like there is already caffeine in his system, judging by the speed at which he waved a folder in the air, while wearing the VETEMENTS No posts graphic-print hoodie Seokmin immediately recognized.  Let’s just say he once saw that exact hoodie while doom-scrolling a resale app at 2 a.m, and the price tag had punched him straight in the soul: $600, which is about the cost of a round-trip flight to Japan or two months of groceries, depending on your priorities.

“Morning.” Seokmin managed to say, eyes still feeling heavy.

“Morning is halfway over, buddy” Soonyoung said. “Chan has been up since five. Wonwoo too. Minghao tried to argue with one of the investors in French for fun. Jihoon has been in a call since the moment he opened his eyes. And you—"

He poked Seokmin's forehead.

"—have been missing in action. Come on. You have to see this."

He grabbed Seokmin by the wrist and practically tugged him through the glass doors.

Five days into working at The Empire, and Seokmin had learned two things.

One, The Empire never sleeps.

Across the room, Soonyoung wasn’t kidding. Chan was already flipping through a new batch of call sheets with frightening speed, and Minghao was lounging against a designer couch that probably cost more than Seokmin’s entire college tuition.

"Oh, he’s back!" Chan greeted, looking up.

Soonyoung, on the other hand, was too busy showing off his new onesie. It was covered in animal prints, raccoons? Maybe lemurs? Seokmin wasn’t sure. For someone who ran The Empire’s choreography department with such ferocity and finesse, Soonyoung’s obsession with animal patterns was borderline concerning.

“I think I’m still figuring out which species you’re trying to represent here,” Seokmin said as he squinted at the onesie.

“Tiger! It’s my spirit animal,” Soonyoung declared.

Not even a full minute into inspecting the alleged animal kindred spirit, and Seokmin glanced up to find Chan already holding up a sleek black envelope.

Gold-etched logo. Familiar weight, as it was the same kind they received during the Paris Fashion Week prep.

Oh… Oh.

“Is that—”

“Yep,” Chan deadpanned. “The Holy Scripture has arrived. Only Jeonghan Yoon would send abstruse, yet neatly done, business directives on thick cardstock with an actual wax seal.”

Right.

“He’s not even in the building, is he?” Seokmin asked.

“Nope,” Minghao replied, not even looking up from his magazine. “Milan shoot today. Then Tokyo for the Empire technology drop. Then probably dinner with three investors and a meditation retreat after.”

Unbelievable . Was that even physically possible? Was he teleporting? Time-bending? Cloning himself on the side? Seokmin could feel his brain buffering. Again.

Omnipresent . 

Seokmin first experienced it back in Paris when Jeonghan, who wasn’t even in the building, somehow managed to correct the entrance pacing, adjust the lighting angle on Look 7, and change the backdrop color temperature from across the city. One staff member said he was still in a business meeting. Another insisted he was filming a brand segment. Someone swore they just saw him at dinner with a creative director. Whatever version of the truth was closest didn’t really matter, because his notes still came in. In real time, adjusted to the second. 

And now, hearing his day-to-day schedule spoken out loud felt... supernatural. Unnerving . It didn’t matter where Jeonghan physically was, because somehow, he was always present. All-present.

Jeonghan Yoon, who made “omnipresent” feel less like a compliment. Honestly, Seokmin wouldn’t be surprised if he one day learned that Jeonghan was secretly the international liaison for global weather affairs or the silent consultant behind the moon’s night after night schedule.

Chan opened the envelope carefully.

Two papers. Both were arranged with unsettling precision, read like sacred manuscripts, because of course, they did.

COLLECTION: VEINS OF GOLD.
LAYERING: TWO BASES, THIRD DISRUPTION
COLOR STORY: MIDNIGHT, BONE, SAGE
MUSE: FRACTURED DIVINITY

   LONDON 2023 NOIR EDGE COL (underscored in red)
   SLEEVE DETAIL ON PIECE 14 (handwritten beside: Seokmin)

Seokmin almost choked. “Is th—Is that his handwriting?” he asked, eyes wide.

Omniscient.

The black envelopes were an Empire staple, phenomenon, even internally dubbed The Divine Scripture. So to have your name scribbled in one was basically canonization. However, the notes were only fragments, phrases, and sequences of thoughts that looked cryptic at first glance. Abstract, even. The color pairing, for example, was too deliberate. The layering sequence was architectural: two bases, third disruption. Every phrase was minimal, but was too specific. Uncomfortably so.

There was no way anyone could write like that unless they already knew everything. There was something terrifying about how all-knowing he was and something even more terrifying about how right he always turned out to be.

And the worst part was the handwritten note beside "..piece 14. S eokmin." He stared at the note almost long enough to make it evaporate under his breath. What did that even mean? The note made no sense. And yet, alarmingly so, it did. 

Seokmin was starting to think omniscience wasn’t even a stretch, because if Jeonghan told Seokmin how his next five years would go, Seokmin would believe every word.

The envelope contains annotated sketches attached to this note, still faintly smelling of pencil and clean leather. The sketches were even clean enough to scan and send directly to manufacturing, and Jeonghan’s handwriting was painfully elegant.

The second page was a bit sharpened. It held bullet-pointed rollouts for digital features, complete with estimated timelines, UI prototypes, algorithm notes, and even a social campaign sketch. Seokmin read both pages twice. Then a third time. Just to make sure he hadn’t imagined it. He hadn't.

“He really… does everything, doesn’t he?” Seokmin asked quietly, almost to himself.

“Well, he is The Empire,” Jihoon replied from his desk.

“He does like 40% of each of our jobs,” Chan added, “and I’m pretty sure he keeps it at 40 instead of 60 out of pure kindness. Like… to let us feel useful.”

“Don’t forget, he’s also the face of the brand.” Minghao said, counting on his fingers. “Jeonghan Yoon. The CEO. The main model. The business planner. Product dev supervisor. Launch curator…and those are just the ones I personally know about.”

“He even approves the holiday designs in person,” Chan let out a soft yet self-conscious laugh 

“He manages shoot direction too,” Soonyoung said, sliding into the circle. “He storyboards at least half of them, and rewrites campaign captions when they’re too boring.” 

“God, he never even misses pitch meetings,” Minghao continued. “He reviews investor decks, signs off on launch materials for every international branch. He once redesigned a perfume bottle because, and I quote—”He made air quotes with his fingers, “‘it was missing emotion.’”

Seokmin nearly dropped the sketch sheet again.

Omnipotent.

Look, the whole Jeonghan is God belief system started as a lighthearted shrine Seokmin built out of pure admiration, all because of that face. That unreal, hyper-sculpted, painfully ethereal face.

It was too beautiful to be called human.

Yet somewhere along the line, the god persona stopped feeling like flattery, stopped being a nickname for Jeonghan. It started sounding like the only accurate description of him, because as appaling as it sounds, Jeonghan had always lived up to it. All-knowing. All-present. And now, blatantly obvious: all-powerful, because he could do everything, and somehow, he still did more than everyone else. Omnipotent.

Sure, none of it was his fault. Jeonghan didn’t ask to be this extraordinary, but did he really have to be this rare?

Five days into working at The Empire, and Seokmin had learned two things.

One, The Empire never sleeps.

Two, the divine attributes of God are known as Omnipotent. Omnipresent. Omniscient. And somehow, all three showed up in the form of a man called Jeonghan Yoon.

And Seokmin believed it, especially when he turned the paper and saw more neatly scribbled notes in the corner. Jeonghan had dated it.

Sent: 4:12 a.m. Of course he did.

Chapter Text

rule no. 5 – not every prayer needs to be answered out loud

It’s ridiculous, really, how obvious everything becomes when you’re in love. Even the smallest moments start meaning everything.

To recap, Seokmin arrived at the office at exactly 6:42 a.m., and now it was nearly 10:00 p.m. Yep, fifteen hours later. Fifteen.

On a regular weekend back when he was still jobless, that would’ve been enough time to: wake up at 10 a.m., eat brunch (if you can call baby carrots dipped in peanut butter a “meal,” but hey, he got through college with that sumptuous combo, didn’t he?), binge three and a half episodes of some random show he swore he’d finish (he never did), do laundry and maybe forget to fold it, scroll for three hours doing absolutely nothing productive, eat some leftover stale chips while watching someone build a cabin in the woods on YouTube, cry a little for no reason, and a bonus 2-hour nap! Sweet .

Most of the team had packed up and left hours ago. He, on the other hand, had been told, no, begged , to go home, multiple times. 

Jihoon told him. Minghao even paused mid-sip of his hibiscus tea to give a single deadpan, “Sweetie, you look like death .” Soonyoung, too, in the most unhelpful way possible, saying “go home, Seokkie, before the gates of heaven open and you get recruited as a guardian angel,” while casually stuffing kimchi into his mouth using a pair of Hermès chopsticks: gold-trimmed, stupidly exquisite, with Jeonghan Yoon engraved near the tip. 

The Empire’s office has quite the collection of designer tableware Seokmin didn’t even know existed. Hermès tableware, for example. Chan once mentioned that these brands literally send them to Jeonghan as gifts. Well, more like bribes, really, if you think about it. All these brands are practically on their knees begging the Jeonghan Yoon to wear even a single thread of their existence. 

And just so it’s on record, for everyone’s knowledge or future HR inquiries, Soonyoung Kwon casually eats kimchi as a snack. The man can’t live without it.

Now the entire floor was quiet. Too quiet. Jihoon had gone home hours ago after muttering something about render times and possibly throwing his mouse at the wall. Soonyoung left right after, announcing he had to go feed his pet, which Seokmin couldn't for the life of him remember. Was it a hamster? A goldfish? Or a cactus he allegedly overfeeds? Seokmin has been running on goldfish memory lately. Sorry, Soonie.

Minghao, of course, floated out with his usual kind of poise, like someone auditioning to be a Chanel ambassador, and vanished into the night, maybe to a facial appointment, or to some secret gallery opening. You never really know with Minghao, really.

One time, he offered Seokmin a special blend from his herb stash and Seokmin, being Seokmin, spiraled so hard he genuinely thought this was the moment his bloodstream was about to be corrupted forever and he'd fail some random drug test five years from now. Until Minghao, clearly unbothered , explained it was for tea. Since then, Seokmin could proudly list off hibiscus, jasmine, sencha green, and a few others he still couldn’t spell without checking the label first.

And then there was Wonwoo… well, Wonwoo’s afterwork life might as well be classified. The man is kind and decent, yes, but when it comes to oversharing like the rest of them, absolutely not. Seokmin couldn’t even tell you what type of milk he liked. Almond? Oat? Regular? No idea.

Now Seokmin is still staring blankly at the screen, fingers hovering like he had something to do ( he didn’t) , pretending he wasn’t re-reading the same lines in the project files for the 47th time. His actual tasks were done hours ago, but his brain and gut, and possibly, moral compass, refused to shut up. Something about Jeonghan’s directives was bugging him. Something about the London 2023 Noir Edge Collection wasn’t sitting right. 

Not sleeve 14, no. Seokmin immediately spotted that the moment he laid eyes on it, and honestly, he was kind of floored that  Jeonghan even caught that in the first place. Again, that man God really lives up to the whole deity thing.

Well, at least he wasn’t technically alone. Chan was still here, too. 

“That kid is always up at 4 in the morning, ” Seokmin remembers Jeonghan’s words and he was right.

No one questioned Chan’s loyalty or his energy or his ability to power through the day on three hours of sleep and a yogurt drink. Sometimes Seokmin genuinely wondered if the kid actually installed a battery pack inside him during onboarding, because at this point, Chan might actually be a machine.

Wonwoo, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. The man is composed, steady, and always one breath away from being labeled the most emotionally stable lifeform on the 98th floor, possibly the entire building. 

Which is exactly why what happened earlier was enough to throw the whole floor off its axis.

Sometime around lunch, Seokmin was just stretching his back, trying to survive another hour in front of his monitor, when his eyes accidentally landed on Wonwoo, who, of all people was oddly… adjusting his posture, not once but twice. He first sat up taller, then smoothed his shirt down like he was getting ready for a job interview, which he wasn’t. He also blinked faster than usual, and Seokmin would bet his newly bought limited edition (well, not really, but a man can dream) Dong-A ballpen that Wonwoo's ears actually turned red.

And wait… was that perfume?

A fragile-looking orange glass bottle with a matte gold cap, looking like it would shatter if you stared at it wrong. Yep, definitely expensive . Seokmin thought. He didn’t know what brand it was, but for the record, Seokmin has been planning to upgrade his Bath & Body Works soon, too! Maybe during Black Friday sale, or if Minghao gives him another coupon (he usually does when he's in a good mood).

Seokmin being the curious ( nosy ) creature that he is, was just about to ask Soonyoung, who was busy drawing something that might’ve been a tiger in a spacesuit, if he was witnessing this too. But before he could even tap him, Seokmin followed Wonwoo’s line of sight, and saw him .

A man walked in, dressed in a sharp black suit tailored within an inch of its life. The fabric hugged his arms and shoulders perfectly, making sure not a single muscle went unnoticed. The tag on his coat was hard to miss, neatly stitched: Dior Homme – J.Y. Edition . Of course. Jeonghan’s collab line. What else did Seokmin expect?

His hair was jet black, glossed, and slicked back as if he just walked out of a burning building that he may or may not have set himself, completely unscathed. Honestly, if you didn’t know who he was, you’d probably mistake him for a model fresh off a Paris runway. 

But Seokmin did know. 

He saw him in Paris. Mingyu.

Mingyu Kim. One of the three personal bodyguards of Jeonghan Yoon, who are not technically on payroll, not listed under The Empire’s security roster, and not even under Jisoo’s syndicate , though people say that he trained directly under Jisoo, like Scoups… which is enough of a description. The less scary one, apparently, but still scary enough.

The man effortlessly carried an insulated tray filled with what looked like… a literal buffet? Seokmin should be used to it by now, how Jeonghan takes care of them. He could’ve just ordered Coupang Eats or had someone grab a cheap takeout, but no. 

You know it’s personal when the deliverer is one of Jeonghan’s off-the-record bodyguards. Every dish looked homemade. From what Seokmin heard, Jeonghan didn’t have a personal chef, and according to Chan, he was still in Berlin. So who even cooked this?

Seokmin watched as Mingyu placed the trays down in the common space. Inside was grilled beef slices, well-plated vegetables that looked like the kind Seokmin only ever saw in commercials, rice that clearly hadn’t come from a steamer based on the quality, and banchan that had definitely been made with more care than his last three birthdays combined.

Everyone was now sniffing the air like starving sims. Well, everyone except Wonwoo. Oh, r ight . Seokmin finally understood why the ever-composed, fire-won’t-faze-him Wonwoo Jeon started acting like a broken printer earlier. Right now, Wonwoo hasn't moved. Correction: he couldn’t move. 

Seokmin watched as the most composed, most frighteningly focused, most minimal-syllable-using coworker he knew… stuttered . Yes, f ull-on, voice-cracking, syllable-repeating kind of stutter.   And not just that, Wonwoo spoke . He actually initiated a conversation with muscle tank. No, wait. Walking puffer jacket. No, sorry, Seokmin meant man. Wonwoo initiated a conversation with the man. Right.

“W-Would you… maybe… want to join us for lunch?”

Seokmin choked on his juice box, while his eyes nearly fell out of his face. Soonyoung dropped his stylus. Chan’s jaw unhinged, and Jihoon, who hadn’t moved from his station in 3 hours, actually turned around. In case it wasn’t obvious already, Wonwoo had never initiated lunch. Never. Especially not with someone outside the core team.

Just when Seokmin thought the scene couldn’t get more romantically loser-ish , Mingyu, the muscle tank man with muscles threatening to tear through the expensive Dior suit, nodded . And w-was that … a teeny tiny smile? Seokmin looked around, but it seemed like no one else caught it, except for his nosy (sorry, observant ) eagle eyes… and maybe Wonwoo.

“Sure.”

Oh?…Ohhhhh. Cue collective cardiac arrest.

The lunch scene that followed was kind of like a fever dream, the only way Seokmin could describe it.

Wonwoo tried . He really did, but his hand trembled so much when he put forward a bowl. The man tried scooping rice but ended up scooping shame, as well as his dignity. Poor man . Seokmin was stunned to watch the ever-so-calm Wonwoo Jeon couldn’t even hold his chopsticks properly, hands trembling.

God, it gets weirder, you see, because Mingyu sat right beside him without saying a word. He just quietly started eating, casually scooping side dishes onto Wonwoo’s plate without asking. He even refilled his rice without even pretending to look at anyone else. Nope, just him .

He was looking at Wonwoo. Like, really looking, with the type of stare that feels like it burns through skin but in a weirdly affectionate way. And Wonwoo, who always wins those dumb little staring games at the office, couldn’t even glance back? Damn.

Every bit of noise Seokmin’s stomach had been making earlier out of pure, raging hunger vanished. He, along with the rest of the 98th floor, could barely process the taste of the homemade meal sitting in front of them. How could they?  When right there, right in the common area, were two fully grown, emotionally constipated, romantic losers—sorry, men —serving a live mutual pining during company lunch break.

Jihoon was the first to speak. Still chewing, not looking away from the two, with his voice low. “Are we hallucinating? No, wait. Are we even existing for them right now?”

Chan nearly dropped his spoon. “Look! He just scooped radish onto his plate. Wonwoo hates radish, and he’s eating it.” Seokmin had to choke back a laugh while Minghao blinked slowly, eyes narrowed. “Oh my god. He’s sacrificing taste buds for love. I hate it here.” 

Soonyoung, on the other hand, clutched his chest like he was watching his own child get married. “Aigooo. Our little Wonwoo is a grown-up boy now,” he whispered, wiping an imaginary tear off his cheek using his rice spoon.

Jihoon squinted again. “I feel weird. I feel like I shouldn’t be seeing this.”

“For once, I agree,” Minghao said, arms crossed, tone as dry as his under-eye area. “That man is wearing Tom Ford, which means this  is a serious situation.”

Meanwhile, Wonwoo took the tiniest sip of soup while Mingyu, dead silent, refilled his plate again . Chan was now half-standing from his chair, looking like a kid trying to get a better look. “This is like those dramas you only see on Viki.”

“Chan, sit down before you get us caught,” Jihoon snapped. And just when Seokmin thought it couldn’t get worse, Mingyu finally said something to Wonwoo.

“You’re not allergic to anything, are you?” 

And Wonwoo. Oh God. Wonwoo, who usually speaks like he's being asked to pay for every word spoken, answered. “Only shellfish,” he said, quietly and softly.

Mingyu nodded, a really faint but definitely there smile tugging at his lips, the kind that didn’t escape Seokmin’s nosy observant eyes. “Noted.”

The team nearly exploded. Silently , of course, but exploded nonetheless.

Flirting.
That was obviously flirting.

Wonwoo , of all people, was flirting. Poorly . With Mingyu, though Mingyu didn’t even seem to mind. Well, he was doing just as badly, but somehow looked better while doing it. Okay, maybe not that badly. At least Mingyu could hold eye contact.

And maybe it was because of Mingyu’s reply that Wonwoo, now trying to chew through a piece of galbi, missed his mouth, just slightly, though, but enough to count. Mingyu immediately reached over, gently turned the plate without saying a word. Then Mingyu wiped the corner of Wonwoo's mouth with a napkin, except the second Wonwoo glanced up, they both looked away. 

Minghao blinked twice. “This is worse than any horror movie I’ve seen this year.” He said it, but his eyes never left the scene.

“I feel like we’re painfully watching two losers try to fall in love without dying,” Jihoon muttered.

Soonyoung scribbled something on his notes app and turned it for the table to see. “ Do we give them privacy or do we film this for future blackmail? ”

“Don’t be stupid,” Minghao said. “We do both . ”

It’s ridiculous, really, how obvious everything becomes when you’re in love. Even the smallest moments start meaning everything.

For someone like Wonwoo Jeon, who rarely speaks in full sentences, simply initiating a conversation probably meant more than anyone could imagine.

Seokmin let out a quiet laugh, the kind that slipped past his lips before he could catch it. He had been lost in thought way longer than he intended. He got too busy reminiscing about how his normally composed, eerily calm workmate became an absolute loser in front of a tall man with sculpted arms and a bone structure sharp enough to cut diamonds. 

Wonwoo Jeon, a certified genius and a man of three facial expressions, had folded like a paper crane the moment Mingyu Kim stepped into the office earlier with enough muscles and menace to trigger half the fire alarms . To everyone’s surprise, though, the man who looked like he could bench press an SUV, did flirt back, and just as badly. Dorks.

Seokmin was about to lose himself again in the imaginary episode titled Two Buffoons in Love when Chan appeared in front of him, now handing him a perfectly rolled kimbap.

"Here," Chan said. "Last one. Mingyu left it for you."

Seokmin blinked. Shit . Is this what being in love does to man? Because that... was very un-Mingyu. Or maybe it was very Jeonghan , because at The Empire, kindness always had a name, and it was usually Jeonghan Yoon.

Seokmin accepted the kimbap with both hands and a little nod. While eating, Seokmin almost wanted to shout at the top of his lungs when a light bulb figuratively appeared above his head. 

Oh. That’s what’s been bugging me! He didn’t even realize how fast he scarfed down the rice roll when suddenly, the elevator dinged. His thoughts were cut off on the spot. Seokmin assumed it was just Chan coming back, or maybe finally going home. But no, the kid had left after handing him the kimbap.

The lights didn’t flicker. The ground didn’t shake. But the air, God, the air changed. Seokmin swore the atmosphere got colder, then warmer, then somehow frozen and sharp all at once. Then came the smell, which Seokmin has quite memorized by now. Soft vanilla laced with a hint of sandalwood and bergamot, layered with warmth, sweetness, and something just expensive and heavenly, the kind of scent that lingered in silk sheets. 

Wait, this is familiar. Seokmin thought. The elevator doors opened. Oh. That explains it.

Standing inside the elevator, with sleep still caught in his lashes and weariness in his shoulders yet somehow glowing, was Jeonghan Yoon. In the flesh. At 11 p.m.

What the fu- Wasn’t he supposed to be in Berlin? To be fair, he didn’t look like someone who just got off a 14-hour flight. Not with that skin, and definitely not with that face. 

If the tiredness in his body didn’t say it, the faint crease between his brows somehow did, but the man still looked like he had been sculpted out of porcelain and divine light. No dark circles, and no dullness. And Seokmin here, who, for the record, had not flown across time zones or walked ten fashion runways, was described as “looking dead” earlier by Minghao. Not fair.

Walking across the hallway, Jeonghan looked like heaven after a long, violent storm. Naturally . 

Not even two steps behind him was Scoups, still looking like everyone and everything annoyed him, except for Jeonghan, or should Seokmin say Hannie. Oops hehehe . He almost laughed to himself, remembering the soft way that endearment rolled off Scoups’ tongue when they were in Paris (and no, Seokmin did not mean to eavesdrop, okay, his hearing was just... unfortunately excellent).

Jeonghan stepped inside the office, eyes widening slightly at the sight of Seokmin.

“Seokmin?” he called out, voice gentle as ever as he walked toward him. “It’s 11 p.m. Why are you still here?”

Oh . Still warm, and laced with concern, still looking impossibly godly. Seokmin scrambled to sit straighter, like he wasn’t losing his entire mind from just being looked at by God.

“I—I was just finishing some notes for the collection—”

Jeonghan stopped right in front of him, brows still gently furrowed, lips curling into that empathetic smile that always made Seokmin feel like he was witnessing a miracle happen in real-time.

“Your health matters more than the notes,” Jeonghan said. “It’s late. Have you eaten at least?”

Seokmin nodded, gesturing to the kimbap wrapper on his desk. “With what Chan gave me.”

Jeonghan gave a soft laugh. “I was just about to check if he went home. Like I said, that kid usually stays ’til dawn.” He turned, reached into the black paper bag that Scoups was holding, always a few steps behind but never far, and pulled out a wine bottle.

“Let me offer you something better .”

Jeonghan uncorked it with the precision of someone who’d done it a hundred times. He probably did. The wine looked vintage, rare, the kind of wine that sits inside those temperature-controlled vaults. The deep burgundy label Domaine de la Romanée-Conti glowed under the office lights, the glass bottle cool and heavy. 

Wine. Oh. Was this another one from Jisoo? Seokmin eyed the bottle. No sigil. No seal. Not from the speakeasy, then.

The smell was rich, earthy, layered with notes of black cherry, rose petals, spice, and something else Seokmin couldn’t name but could already feel sinking into his bloodstream.

“Tell me your honest thoughts,” Jeonghan said, as he poured the shimmering liquid into a delicate Murano glass from the Dolce & Gabbana x Barovier collection . Swirling floral etchings curled around the stem, and at the base, just barely visible in the light, was a custom engraving in delicate script: Jeonghan Yoon . Must be another gift. No— bribe —from the brand.

“My brother and I have been debating. He says this one’s overglorified for its value. Let's just say, I disagree.” Jeonghan turned to him, smiled. “Looks like you’re our tiebreaker tonight.”

He handed a glass to Scoups, then one to Seokmin. “Answer wisely.” He grinned.

Oh god. For someone fresh off a 14-hour flight, Jeonghan still looked like he descended from the heaven straight onto a runway, handpicked by the ange- Focus.

“Well, only if you’re comfortable,” he added, settling down on the velvet couch across from him. “It’s from Burgundy, by the way. I only bring it out when I want to celebrate.”

“Celebrate?”

Jeonghan let out a quiet, breathy laugh, barely making a sound but still curled at the corners of his lips. “Surviving a long day is reason enough. And also... to prove my brother wrong.”

Two mentions of his brother. And if Seokmin felt something flutter in his chest just at the sound of it, well. No one needed to know. They sat in the lounge area, low lights humming quietly above them. The wine tasted like velvet and secrets.

“You know,” Jeonghan said after a sip, lounging back with Scoups beside him, honestly looking like his spouse for a decade with whom he had childr—“you’ve done good work. I saw your draft this morning.”

Seokmin blinked, disrupting his own thoughts about the undeniable tension he keeps sensing between Jeonghan’s ever-present bodyguard and his Jeongh—no. Hannie. Seokmin, once again laughs, internally. Okay. Enough of that. “Y-You did? Already?”

Jeonghan turned slightly, eyes warm. “Of course.”

There was a pause. And then Seokmin said, almost without thinking—

“There’s something off.”

Jeonghan tilted his head. “Hm?”

“About the new collection,” Seokmin added quickly. “I was reviewing the layering suggestions. I think the problem might be in the second base, specifically in the folds. I’m afraid it’ll trigger the same collapse issue from the London 2023 show, not that anyone else was able to notice it back then. The weight distribution doesn’t flow into the third disruption properly. It flattens the silhouette instead of amplifying the texture layeri-” Seokmin looked up, clearly startled by his own words.

Jeonghan just smiled. And it was, oh, so beautiful . So beautiful that for a second, Seokmin completely forgot where he was, what his own name is, and sort of how to breathe.

“There he is,” Jeonghan said, wine glass balanced between his fingers perfectly. “I was wondering when you’d notice.”

Seokmin nearly dropped the personalized Murano glass. Jeeez. The thought of dropping Jeonghan Yoon’s personally curated wine glass in The Empire’s lounge made him dizzy. 

“Wait. You knew?”

Jeonghan only smiled again, eyes crinkling at the corners, then lifted his glass and took a slow, unbothered sip of wine, as if he wasn’t shattering someone’s emotional stability in real time: Seokmin’s .  He swirled the glass once, the deep red catching the light, and for a second, Seokmin swore he was watching a deity do something as mundane as drink, and yet somehow making it look sacr-

“Never doubt yourself, Seokmin. You do belong here.” That was it, Seokmin's last straw, which made him almost drop the glass for the second time. He really needed to put the glass down. It was not safe for the glass, especially with Jeonghan looking at him like that, and definitely not with those words .

Seokmin's throat tightened. It was too much. This man, this literal godlike being, this impossibly kind, overworked, stupidly flawless miracle of a man, had just looked him in the eye and said he belonged. So to say that Seokmin nearly cried wasn’t even close, because that would be giving him too much credit for holding it together.

That morning, Seokmin had been full of doubt, endlessly wondering if he was good enough to be here. He even thought maybe he was just lucky. 

And Jeonghan, who is beautifully sitting across him right now while swirling his wine like nothing happened, didn’t say he knew. He obviously didn’t hear the spiraling mess in Seokmin’s brain, or see the hesitations in his drafts. But for some reason, Jeonghan knew.

Of course he did. Because if there’s one thing Jeonghan Yoon had proven again and again, it’s that he has the face and the heart of a God. He always shows up, and somehow, that was always more than enough.

It’s ridiculous, really, how obvious everything becomes when you’re in love. Even the smallest moments start meaning everything.

And no. He wasn’t in love with Jeonghan, but Jeonghan did just make him realize something he hadn’t in a long time.

The relief and sense of belonging Seokmin felt in that exact moment, may be small to everyone else, may have seemed like nothing, but to him, it meant the world.

Seokmin loves Seokmin. Jeonghan Yoon just made him realize that that’s enough.

And Seokmin could feel the weight of tears slowly forming in his eyes. Heavy in his chest, stinging behind his eyes, like something had been loosened, until Jeonghan poured him another glass. With a soft smile, he asked, “So... do you think this wine’s overglorified for its value?”

Seokmin then gave the safest answer known to man. “I would like to plead the fifth and save myself from being dragged into a sibling feud.” Jeonghan laughed. Laughed. And Seokmin took that as a win.

But that night, though (and this is something Seokmin would never publicly admit) he did, in fact, find himself typing into his browser:

  domain deromanize wine burgundy 

Nope. What was that again.

  burgundy bottle red fancy expensive???

Nothing. Seriously, what was that again?

  domaine—

Oh wait. He stared and clicked on the suggested search bar.

  domaine de romanée conti

There we go. It took him several tries (the spelling was hard, okay?). And when he finally found it, he almost wanted to march right back to Jeonghan and say: Yes. It’s overglorified! What the he-

$558,000. Five hundred fifty-eight thousand dollars. Seokmin stared at the number, that is worth more than ten years of rent, or twelve years of student loans, or even his entire life.

Damn. Rich people are insane. Seokmin thought. 

Good thing Jeonghan isn’t people, though. Jeonghan Yoon is god.

Chapter Text

rule no. 6 — never underestimate the grip of the waist

In copyright law, it takes 70 years after the creator’s death before a work enters public domain. Some things are legally required to take time, so not everything’s meant to be resolved today. That’s a tomorrow clause.

Seokmin learned that during an internal Empire seminar on branding and intellectual property, sandwiched between a crash course on global trademarks and a thirty-slide deck titled Why We Sue.

Another successful launch worthy of divine praise , at least that's how the headlines would probably put it, or rather, another successful launch under the Holy Name and Hand of Jeonghan Yoon, whose touch might as well be canonized at this point. 

A single magazine issue had been released by The Empire, yet businesses around the world held their breath, brands nearly tossed out bribes disguised as gift boxes just to land a slot on the guest list. Some people might think that’s an exaggeration, but Seokmin knew better. 

Anything The Empire touched turned to gold, sales skyrocketed, popularity exploded, and even science, frankly, cannot possibly provide an explanation. 

Jeonghan Yoon was a living miracle. Jesus cured the sick, while Jeonghan cured low engagement, bankruptcy, every business problem known to man, and even things that weren’t technically broken to begin with

Even without the numbers, Seokmin would’ve sold his soul just to have Jeonghan wear, touch, or even glance at something he made. If you think about it, no parasocial relationship could top the actual God wearing your product, right?

Now the team was back in their unofficial HQ: The Empire’s private lounge . Well, naturally , in true Jeonghan Yoon Fashion (yes, capital F), an afterparty exclusive to the team was non-negotiable , irrevocable , and pretty much mandatory .

File that under The Empire’s permanent brand DNA.

Obviously, the afterparty wasn’t open to the public. And by obviously, Seokmin meant never . The place was hidden, like actually hidden unless you worked under one of The Empire twins, you wouldn’t even know it existed. 

Luxurious didn’t begin to cover it. Every hairsbreadth of the space was drenched in flawless taste. Gold trimmings framed the walls, chandeliers hung low but never too low, lighting was warm and flattering in that J eonghan knows his angles kind of way. The Empire's crest was stitched into the velvet of the armchairs, engraved into the base of the crystal flutes, barely present but impossible to overlook. 

It reminded Seokmin of the Paris manor, yes, the one he miraculously got to see. He had to admit, Jeonghan really has flawless, impeccable palate. Seokmin was once again reminded that there is truly nothing this man can’t do. How unfair.

The room was also heavily secured, which only added to its exclusivity. So exclusive, in fact, that it housed several rare, and allegedly illegal to own bottles (yes, Seokmin was referring to Jisoo’s rumored speakeasy cask), and a constant smell of bergamot, old wood polish, and wealth.

Noticing Seokmin’s amazed expression, probably because his mouth was half-open, Chan pointed to a dark green bottle quietly resting on the third shelf of the bar. It didn’t look particularly grand nor special, until Chan casually said, “That one’s from the actual Titanic.”

What. “There’s NO way that’s real,” Seokmin muttered.

Chan, ever the walking Empire encyclopedia, just sighed, then grabbed Seokmin’s head and tilted it toward the bar’s side display. There, mounted in what looked like a temperature-controlled, bulletproof glass frame, was a small, but official-looking certificate. Next to it was a faded handwritten note, an authentication letter with wax stamps, and an original ship registry page. Signed, dated, and verified.

Holy shi-. Seokmin should’ve been used to this kind of rich-person trivia by now, but no. Absolutely not.

Everything was also custom-designed, all personally picked and approved by Jeonghan himself.

For an employee aftercare event, this felt way beyond what any employee should ever expect. For Seokmin, this was ten leagues above those overpriced outlet mall launches or book signing events, or even those idol fanmeets he got dragged into before. In his defense, tickets for those were hell to get. Hmp .

The afterparty had a literal wine fountain, an actual multi-tiered wine fountain, drizzling with red and white blends imported from vineyards he was 90% sure didn’t even publicly ship. There were plated hors d’oeuvres lined with edible gold flakes. Ice spheres served in sculpted crystal glasses, a caviar station, a fresh pasta bar with truffle shavings the size of leaves. 

There were even cigars. Not that anyone was smoking, but just having them there in a crystal case felt like the definition of wealth.

Around him, the team was comfortably falling into their own post-launch bubble of a mess. Chan, ever the overworker, was halfway through reciting next quarter’s engagement report as if he wasn’t literally sitting on a gold-stitched couch. Minghao was fixing Seokmin’s collar mid-sentence, "No offense, dear, but you look like you got dressed in the dark," he said, sipping tea out of a champagne flute. Wonwoo was typing, probably writing code or hacking into something for fun. 

If Seokmin was being honest, The Empire’s private lounge could count as an employee benefit on its own. Probably more valuable than the free designer items they got from time to time, courtesy of their ridiculously powerful boss.

About an hour after, Soonyoung, Chan, and Minghao had already sampled almost every liquor on the shelf. Jihoon was tucked in a corner with a plate stacked with unidentifiable steak.

“Free protein,” he shrugged when Seokmin asked what kind of meat that even was. 

As expected, Wonwoo wasn’t drinking anything alcoholic. However, he was casually eating …strawberries? What . He was dipping them delicately into a bowl of vanilla ice cream with the calmest expression on his face. And because this was Wonwoo, Seokmin was once again caught off guard.

Just days ago, the man was flirting, flirting, with Muscle Tank Mingyu, and now here he was, composed and unreadable, quietly indulging in strawberries at an exclusive afterparty overflowing with allegedly illegal whiskey, wine fountains, and foie gras flown in from god-knows-where. Well, God does know.

It made no sense. And yet, Seokmin found it weirdly endearing.

Meanwhile, Seokmin had claimed his spot at the sushi bar, with absolutely no regrets. And if there were still a few more servings of uni left, he was fully prepared to throw hands, unless, of course, it’s one of Jisoo’s men. He also made a mental note to grab a scoop of ice cream before it ran out, because yes, there was an ice cream bar too. And no, not the children’s party kind. This one was artisanal , nitrogen-churned, served in gold-rimmed crystal bowls, topped with flakes of edible gold and crushed pistachio freshly imported from Italy. 

Everything was light, easy, and stupidly warm, until the lounge, well, it didn’t exactly go silent, but there was, once again, a change in the weight of the air. Seokmin couldn’t explain it. Hell, not even science probably could. 

How on earth did everyone, all at once, seem to stop breathing? At that moment, there was what felt like a collective sixth sense fired off in the air.

Jeonghan Yoon had entered the room.

Oh.

To this day, Seokmin still didn’t know how they, himself included, all knew. It’s not like someone announced that he'd be entering the room. There was no warning, and Jeonghan didn’t even tell Chan what time he was arriving. And yet… the moment the door opened, there was a soft but unmistakable change in the room. A collective gasp that felt reverent, as if admiration had a sound.

The air thickened, and gravity had politely reminded everyone that yes, God had arrived.

Jeonghan walked in with that same quiet power. His long black coat moved gracefully while his hair, his unfairly beautiful hair, fell around his face in soft waves that looked impossibly healthy. It framed his features so perfectly, and while walking, he casually tucked a piece behind his ear. Oh, so devastating. 

His shirt was black silk, unbuttoned just enough to hint at clavicle, with subtle embroidery along the cuffs and collar. If you looked closely, you’d see the design spelled out J.H. Yoon , woven into the thread. From the way it fit, it had to be custom YSL.

And then there was the scent .

Seokmin liked to think that maybe that’s how everyone (himself very much included) always knew Jeonghan was around. The scent of vanilla with a hint of bergamot and something he still couldn’t name, but would absolutely associate with heaven , silk sheets, and those upper-floor penthouses. 

Vanilla with a pinch of heaven, that’s what Seokmin called it. Addictive, unmistakable, and so distinctly Jeonghan, you could probably smell him from an entire floor away. You can .

And for someone so divine , for someone so admired and worshipped by the world, Jeonghan Yoon remained one of the purest souls Seokmin had ever encountered.

Instead of heading straight to the front table or soaking up the spotlight, Jeonghan did what he always did, he personally thanked people. 

Stylists, editors, camera crew, backstage managers, even the florists. Every single person received a sincere thank you, a smile, and a brief moment of his full attention. Nothing over the top, yet definitely nothing about it has a crumb of pretentiousness. He hadn’t even eaten yet. Still, he made time.

“He really does that every time?” Seokmin whispered, obviously stunned.

Minghao, adjusting Seokmin’s collar again without looking up, replied, “Every time he can.”

Soonyoung leaned over, whispering, “You should’ve seen him at the Tokyo launch last year. He stood in four-inch heels for seven hours straight and still bowed to the backstage janitor.”

"Dear God," Seokmin murmured and Jihoon deadpanned, “Amen.”

Eventually, Jeonghan made it to the front. He stood at the small center stage of the lounge and began his speech to thank everyone.He was probably mid-sentence when something near the door caught Seokmin’s attention: a suited man whispering something discreetly to Scoups. 

By the looks of it, the man wasn’t part of The Empire’s official security roster, and definitely not one of Jeonghan’s personal bodyguards. From what Seokmin could recall, he seemed like one of Jisoo’s men, judging by the gold cufflinks shaped like thorned crescents. It was not exactly Jisoo’s sigil, but close enough to notice the resemblance that was too painstakingly familiar.

Seokmin’s eyes narrowed. The man’s hand twitched once at his side, then Scoups gave the smallest nod in return. The man slipped away without another word. Seokmin, however, noticed the frown that was barely there, but it crept between Scoups’s brows.

You see, Jisoo’s men, especially the three assigned to personally guard Jeonghan, were known for keeping their composure no matter the circumstance. Jeonghan, too. 

But while Jeonghan probably came out of the womb with the grace of a natural-born model , Jisoo’s men were trained for it. Silence, rigor, unreadable expressions, they were professionals through and through.

Still, Seokmin had gotten good at reading them, or at least spotting the cracks. 

Well, he didn’t spend most of his childhood binge-watching detective shows and reading every translated Nancy Drew he could find for nothing.  And in this case, the agitation on Scoups’s face was visible for Seokmin.

Then came the black box. Oh, that must be why.

Black, matte, and expensive-looking box from even a few feet away. Seokmin couldn’t make out all the details, not clearly, at least, especially since Scoups was doing his best to keep it discreet.  But Seokmin could, though. Probably because of his deeply ingrained, I-see-everything kind of nosiness. That, and because half the people in the lounge were already halfway drunk, though still awake enough to be conscious. 

A delivery for Jeonghan was just handed directly to Scoups.

By The Empire standards, that was already suspicious. No one sends things to Jeonghan without going through layers of clearance. If it were a gift from a brand, a sponsor, or even one of those soft-bribey PR kits, Chan would’ve been the first to know. 

Personal things like that, delivered straight to Scoups without going through the usual layers, are almost unheard of. And when it did, it almost always pointed to one thing: family.  

And family, as far as anyone in The Empire knew, only ever meant one person, Jisoo Hong.

Except… this wasn’t Jisoo. Seokmin could tell. 

If there’s one thing Seokmin learned quickly, it’s that anything sent by Jisoo was always marked. Seokmin seemed to have been programmed at this point to immediately look for the sigil he first saw during the afterparty in Paris, the one Chan pointed out, now buried somewhere in his mental book of Empire encyclopedia, and confirmed to be Jisoo’s personal sigil.

So, of course, when the black box was handed to Jeonghan, Seokmin's eyes scanned for it out of pure reflex.

Don’t ask why he seemed so invested. It’s not like he was romanticizing Jisoo or anything. Okay. Maybe just a little. But that wasn’t the point!

Now, back to the box.

Scoups' expression was already slightly off with his tight jaw, slight furrow, and none of his usual calm, but more than that, the box itself was clearly lacking something. 

There was no mark. No sigil. So far, Seokmin didn’t see any signs of the gold fox with fangs shaped into a crescent.

Out of pure nosiness (and maybe a little concern, but mostly nosiness), Seokmin looked back at Jeonghan to see if he was, by any chance, looking at the clearly agitated man by the door. And just in time, too, because right at that moment, Jeonghan locked eyes with Scoups. 

For a second, the entire room was gone. As if the two of them were communicating telepathically, eyes locked in a way that made time relatively frozen. He glanced around to check if anyone else noticed, but judging by the lack of reaction, nothing. Maybe they didn’t grow up obsessing over detective shows or didn’t have it in them to channel their inner Pink Panther. Whatever. Their loss.

And as expected from the universe-appointed face of the nation, Jeonghan’s expression didn’t budge at all. His smile was still soft, posture still perfect without a hint of twitching, while delivering his speech. 

Like Seokmin said, if Jisoo’s men were trained to keep their composure, Jeonghan was simply born with it. And yet, his eyes, those obnoxiously beautiful eyes with lashes so devastating Seokmin might sue, were saying something else. Seokmink Panther could tell .

With that single glance exchanged, Jeonghan already knew something was off. Seokmin didn’t know how he knew, but he surely knew.

This is probably why, out of everyone, Scoups was the only other person Jeonghan trusted with his life besides his brother. Seokmin thought.

The air around them felt impenetrable now, like it was being wrapped around whatever that damn box was carrying and squeezing just enough to make Seokmin forget how to breathe properly. 

And no, this wasn’t the customary domestic sexual tension (not that it ever truly left the room, let’s be real), but this was downright something else. It didn’t seem to register with anyone else, but Seokmin felt it immediately . Maybe it was the way Jeonghan’s shoulders leaned ever so slightly or how his eyes grew just a little more gripped, while somehow keeping that exact same soft smile like nothing had changed at all.

Around a minute after the speech, Jeonghan stepped down from the stage and started walking across the lounge floor with that same godly, calm confidence that made people instinctively move aside without even realizing it.

Damn it. T his must be what the disciples felt like when Jesus walked on water.

And okay, maybe it was the lighting or the sushi food coma or that whole god-level aura Jeonghan just naturally radiated, but Seokmin swore even the air made space for him.

He walked straight toward Scoups, who, to no one’s surprise, looked like he was fully ready to body-block the box if it so much as breathed wrong near Jeonghan.

Scoups didn’t hand the box over, no . From the way his body angled, how his fingers gripped the side of the box a little too tightly, Scoups clearly didn’t want Jeonghan opening that thing unless he checked it himself first. God . That man is down bad protective. Bless his gay soul.

From this angle, with almost nothing blocking his view now, Seokmin could finally take in the box properly. It was heavy matte black, with edges too clean and corners too sharp to be anything off-the-shelf. It didn’t even look that big, really, but his brain went straight into autopilot, scanning every inch for the goddamn gold crescent fox sigil. 

Still nothing, which somehow, made the whole thing feel worse.

Except… hold on. There was something.

Tied around the middle of the box was a braid, black and gold threads woven tightly and evenly with no fraying at the ends. The braid ended in a small rose-shaped knot , symmetrical, flawless, and a little too precise to just be decorative. At the very center was a single red stitch, almost too small to notice unless you were really looking.

Everything about the knot, no, the braid, or whatever it was supposed to be, was too methodically clean. Definitely not something you’d throw in as a decorative trinket. And Scoups wouldn’t be in this level of near-meltdown (okay, more like composed agitation) if it were just some arts-and-crafts detail.

It had to mean something. But if it wasn’t from Jisoo, then who the hell sent it?

The necksnapper’s tight grip on the box probably wasn’t enough, because now Seokmin could see it, clear as day, Scoups leaning in and saying something, voice low, something only Jeonghan could hear. Based on the way his brows drew in, he was probably asking if he should check it first, maybe his final attempt at protecting Jeonghan and staying in control before the beautiful deity got anywhere near it.

Yet Jeonghan, in all his calm godlike glory, stubbornly gave him a faint, soft, and assuring smile. Well, ridiculously infuriating, as far as Scoups was concerned. The poor man clearly just wanted to keep the celestial being safe.

And as if things weren’t already tense enough, what happened next made Seokmin want to crawl into the floor . 

Scoups’ hand, which had only been hovering near Jeonghan’s back a second ago, moved slowly and carefully, until it wrapped around Jeonghan’s waist. The grip looked gentle, sure, but also somehow way too natural for Seokmin’s sanity.The necksnapper then leaned in, like this wasn’t a room full of people, like he wasn’t holding the world’s most beloved face against his body, and whispered something directly into Jeonghan’s ear.

No, Seokmin didn’t catch a single word but it didn’t matter anymore because his soul already left his body from witnessing what was easily the most concentrated blast of sexual tension this lounge had ever been subjected to.

Just to clarify, they were already standing close, with Scoups’s hand still firm around Jeonghan’s waist, holding him in a way that should’ve already set the entire room on fire, but Science said it wasn’t . The necksnapper somehow found a way to make it gayer worse.

With the same hand still wrapped around Jeonghan’s waist, Scoups pulled the celestial being in, that now ninety percent of their bodies were touching . The only space left was whatever microscopic gap existed between their faces and maybe their feet, though even that felt like a stretch.

Jeonghan’s chest pressed against Scoups’s, their arms grazing, while their hips were practically stuck together with clearly no room for hetero interpretation.

Seokmin had to repeat it to himself, slowly, because his brain couldn’t comprehend what he was witnessing. This man named Seungcheol Choi, just physically pulled God into his arms.

Seungcheol Choi wrapped an arm around the most worshipped man alive, the celestial being the world kneeled for, and still had the nerve to pull him even closer.

And just so it’s on record, for every gay’s knowledge and future gay biblical scriptures, Jeonghan did not resist and naturally let himself be pulled in.

Oh, Sweet Yves Saint Laurent.

What happened to training? Was this considered professional? As far as Seokmin was concerned, this was bordering on religious gay tension. Sorry, concerning religious gay tension

And just when the tension should’ve reached a ceiling, Jeonghan turned, and faced Scoups with that maddeningly beautiful smile still on his lips. 

Now their faces were too close, proximity-level dangerous. If either of them so much as exhaled a little too hard, Seokmin was pretty sure the gates of heaven would split open. He didn’t know if he wanted to look away or measure the distance down to the millimeter.

Every time those two stood next to each other, the sexual tension infallibly sent him into a trance. It was always domestic , frustrating, and unreadable unless you paid attention, which Seokmink Panther unfortunately did. Too much. And this time, like every other time, he just watched them eye-fuc—

“Thank you for your hard work, everyone,” Jeonghan said, snapping Seokmin out of it with that effortlessly beautiful voice of his. “I’d love to have a drink with you all, but I’ll have to step out for now. Please enjoy the rest of the night.”

Oh. Okay. Casual.

Not everyone probably caught what happened earlier, since most of the guests were either halfway into their third drink or too busy taking selfies near the glowing champagne tower.

Seokmin glanced around. No one else seemed particularly shaken. Though, the entire thing took place in the slightly darker, more tucked-away part of the lounge. Just enough that you had to be nosy to catch it. Seokmink Panther, of course, was nosy enough.

In copyright law, it takes 70 years after the creator’s death before a work enters public domain. Some things are legally required to take time, so not everything’s meant to be resolved today. That’s a tomorrow clause.

Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try speeding up tomorrow’s clause to today, even just a bit, right?

So Seokmin turned to Chan quietly. “Hey… are there any other sigils or whatever for the twins? Aside from the gold crescent fox? Like... a flower trinket maybe?”

Chan blinked, visibly sifting through his brain archives. “Not that I know of. I mean, Jeonghan mentioned a flower once, it wasn’t a sigil or anything like that. I think it was a really rare one, something that only grows in one specific place. Sorry, I forgot the name, but he said it kind of looked like… I don’t know… a blue-purple-ish flower, or something close to that?”

“But that was forever ago. And he never brought it up again. I’ve never heard anyone else mention it either.” Chan added.

A purple flower. Interesting.

The trinket wasn’t blue, but it did look like a flower. And if it wasn’t some decorative knot, then clearly, whatever was inside had something to do with Jeonghan, something personal. That flower might be the clue. Seokmin thought about this quietly while chewing on his salmon roll, the rare one from the premium sushi station that he totally pretended not to hover near for ten minutes.

Hmm. A rare blue-purple flower?

“Vesper irises,” Jeonghan murmured after seeing the strange bouquet of blue-purple flowers carefully arranged inside the expensive black box, almost gasping out loud.

He inhaled sharply, then slowly sat down on the couch in front of the fireplace, his body slack with disbelief, hands resting still on his knees. His expression stayed composed, but inside, his pulse was unbridled and wild under his skin.

After several attempts of Seungcheol trying to convince him to let him open the box first, they both decided it was better done in private.

And so they brought it upstairs, to the Penthouse floor of The Empire, the space only the twins and Seungcheol had access to. It was the only place that felt secure enough, where whatever came out of the box wouldn’t put anyone else at risk.

It had been quite a while since Jeonghan last saw The Bloodline Rose , sometimes called The Rosebind, or the family threadmark , as they once called it.

The Rosebind is a thin braid of black and gold threads, interwoven accurately, and the braid ends in a single, perfect rose-shaped knot. At the center of the rose is a single red stitch, nearly invisible unless you look close.

Family threadmark. Jeonghan scoffed quietly at the word family.

When he and Jisoo were starting The Empire with only themselves, they kept the Rosebind as their code. It was the only thing they ever borrowed from the family that "raised" them. Only now, it didn’t mean them, it meant the two of them . 

Family, for the twins, had always meant each other.

The threadmark allowed packages to pass through without clearance, without flags, without going through Chan, or scans, or signatures. It was subtle and of course, immediately understood. The men under Jisoo knew what it meant, and so did Jeonghan’s personal bodyguards. So naturally, the box had landed in Seungcheol’s hands, without needing any clearance.

Jisoo had used the threadmark a few times before, but over time, his hatred toward the family that raised them, especially their father, grew too heavy to ignore. His brother couldn’t stand the reminder. So he stopped using it altogether, and started using his own sigil instead.

And the last time Jeonghan had received something with the Rosebind ended rather roug-

“Hannie~” The soft nickname pulled Jeonghan from the spiral. Seungcheol’s voice reached him like warmth in a snowstorm. He turned his head slightly, felt that brief, grounding comfort settle in his chest. “There’s a note.” Seungcheol added, gently holding out the card.

Jeonghan rose to his feet, accepting the paper without a word:

    Congratulations on the latest winter issue!

Jisoo? Jeonghan immediately thought.

He could only close his eyes, more from frustration, after reading the note and realizing what it meant. He then let out a long exhale, the kind that had been sitting too heavily in his chest all evening, before passing the note to Seungcheol.

Jeonghan honestly felt bad for not being able to spend the night with the team, especially after clearing out his schedule just to be with them. He’d meant to be present, to show up, and to celebrate what they’d all built together. But now, guilt had started to settle low and quiet in his chest.

And it all started because of this box.

The black box contained a bouquet of Vesper Iris, also known as Iris dichotoma. They were small-flowered blooms with narrow petals, usually in soft purples or mauves with bluish tones, and faint yellow or white markings running through the center.

“Aren’t these the ones you told me about?” Seungcheol asked, brows furrowing as he studied the flowers from behind Jeonghan’s shoulder. “The ones you said were rare, but grew near that place you and Jisoo...” he hesitated, “...grew up in?”

Jeonghan didn’t look up from the box. “Yes, Cheollie. They are.” His voice was too calm and soft

Seungcheol stepped around slowly until he was standing in front of him. “So these were from your—?” he asked.

Before Jeonghan could respond, Seungcheol reached up and gently brushed the strands of hair that had fallen over his face, tucking them behind his ear. Jeonghan felt the familiar warmth settle over him. For a moment, the exhaustion, the frustration, and the guilt, quietly pulled back. Jeonghan gave him a faint smile before answering and meeting his eyes.

“Uncle.” Jeonghan finally said.

He remembered the flowers clearly. They only grew in a few places, one of which was near the property they had lived in. And the only person who ever knew about how rare they were, who remembered how much Jeonghan loved them, was their uncle.

Seungcheol nodded once, slowly, piecing it together.

“But Hannie~ ” he said very softly, eyes flickering back to the card, “...why would he send these just to congratulate you on—wait.” Seungcheol looked at the card again. The realization slowly creeped in through the detail he hadn't noticed until now. 

“Except your magazine wasn’t a winter issue” Seungcheol said, voice low.

“Exactly.” Jeonghan replied, reaching out and taking the card from where it sat. His fingers brushing over the word winter.

“He wants my brother.”

"Hannie~"

Jeonghan didn’t even realize he hadn’t touched the food Seungcheol cooked for him until the older gently called out his name. Jeonghan's spoon had stayed perfectly still, hand resting at the side of the bowl, untouched. The warmth from the fire didn’t even reach him since he was too lost in his head. 

But the soft, familiar voice calling him by that name, always laced with fondness, was enough to pull him back into the room.

"Eat even just a little," Seungcheol said, eyes soft. "Please?"

Jeonghan looked at him with eyes still weary and distant from the earlier spiral. "What do you think... he wants, Cheollie?" Jeonghan murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Seungcheol placed his hand over Jeonghan’s, thumb brushing gently across his knuckles. Along with it came that familiar, reassuring smile that had always kept Jeonghan grounded. 

“We’ll figure it out, Hannie~ ” he said, voice low but certain. “For now, eat what Cheollie made.” He gave his soft hand a light squeeze before adding, “You’re not the most worshipped person on earth for no reason, right?”

That earned the tiniest smile from Jeonghan.

In copyright law, it takes 70 years after the creator’s death before a work enters public domain. Some things are legally required to take time, so not everything’s meant to be resolved today. That’s a tomorrow's clause.

Not everything gets settled in a day. Whatever questions Jeonghan still has today, that's tomorrow's clause.  

Besides, the world always works out in his favor. He’s not the Jeonghan Yoon for nothing, right?

Chapter Text

rule no. 7: without which, not

Science can tell you a lot of things, but not everything. Sometimes, for the answers that defy logic, you need to look at Mathematics.

Like right now, technically, if Seokmin’s resting heart rate is 78 bpm, and the average spike from receiving high-stress news adds about 30% per minute, then he has exactly 5.2 minutes before either his nervous system collapses or he accidentally throws up on his coworker.

“C-Copenhagen?” Seokmin stuttered, his voice pitching as he blinked at the group in front of him. 

Did he hear that right? He was being sent to Copenhagen… on a random Tuesday?

He stared harder at Chan, who, as usual, was all smiles. Seriously . This kid still had the audacity to smile like this despite being informed, mid-meeting, about a casual international assignment, which obviously, not so casual for Seokmin. Definitely not when the word Copenhagen murdered his post-work dinner plans in cold blood.

Despite being more overworked than the rest of the team (except maybe Jeonghan ), Chan somehow always looked like he ran on sunlight and spare energy drinks. The built-in battery pack theory Seokmin had about him was probably not so far-fetched after all.

Seokmin glanced at the two men loading a weekender bag, definitely not packed by him, into the trunk of a Bentley limousine, as though it was just another Tuesday. 

Of course, in true trained Jisoo enthusiast informed employee, Seokmin scanned the men for familiar tells. And yes, these were indeed Jisoo’s men, Seokmin thought after successfully eyeing the gold crescent cufflinks attached to their black suits.

He looked down at his hands, still clutching his original post-work plan in the form of a folded food truck flyer containing a coupon that was barely hanging on. A few hours ago, he was planning to splurge a little, treat himself to a full kimbap roll with a side of kimchi, and maybe even a bingsu if he felt rich enough… or if the food truck coupon actually gave him change.

Welp. So much for the dream of a luxury dinner that wasn’t his usual gourmet of baby carrots and peanut butter.

“We’re seriously going to Copenhagen? Like... the one in Europe?” he asked again, wide-eyed, because no one was confirming if this was maybe a secret local branch or a Jisoo code (Seokmink Panther lives) or literally anything that didn’t involve airplanes, another continent, or cold sweat.

What about the rest of the team? As far as Chan knew, there wasn’t even a fashion week in Copenhagen. Jeonghan wasn’t supposed to be there either.

Wait.

Wait.

Were they being deported? Was this Jeonghan’s godly way of firing them? More importantly, why was there a bartender inside the freaking Bentley limousine , calmly mixing liquids Seokmin could only assume were all alcoholic?

Okay, sure. He’s been inside Jeonghan’s Rolls Royce once before, in Paris, when he was saved mid-thunderstorm and mental breakdown by the celestial being himself. But back then, he was too busy absorbing the divine presence, and was maybe a little drunk, to pore over the amenities.

Now, fully sober (well, sleep-deprived but sober) and in daylight, he was very much aware. And yes, that was definitely a bartender, inside a freaking limousine. 

His thoughts were interrupted when the bartender, whom Seokmin may or may not have been eyeing too long, handed him a red drink, saying a name far too long for a Tuesday. The only word Seokmin caught was cranberry .

Holy shi-. Was this a trap?

Seokmin’s spiral deepened until Chan casually laughed beside him, already halfway through something neon and probably fraught with danger, while still somehow reading through what looked like Jeonghan’s files.

“It’s a mocktail,” Chan said, smirking. “You’ll survive. Trust me. You won’t lose your dignity… At least not yet.”

Fine. Here goes noth-. Seokmin was only mid-sniff when Chan tipped back another shot of what Seokmin could only describe as either a forgotten Star Wars side character or a security code Wonwoo might’ve casually blabbered about. “Another B-52, sir. Thank you.”

Right. B-52 . Such a weird name for a shot . Seokmin flickered at the drinking kid beside him. Is Chan gonna be okay? Oh god. This kid, for heaven's sake, cannot be drunk.

Seokmin had already survived more than enough encounters with Drunk Chan™ to know he wasn’t emotionally qualified and prepared for another one, especially not tonight, and especially not when he still had no idea what they were even supposed to be doing in Copenhagen. 

Seokmin wasn’t sure if he should be more worried about where they were going… or what version of Chan he’d be stuck with by the time they got there.

Still, he took a cautious sip of the cranberry-long-named drink. There was definitely a sting of alcohol somewhere in there, but Chan was right, it wasn’t strong enough to cause a dignity collapse. At least, not yet.

Seokmin held the envelope in his hands, its weight suspiciously heavier than it looked, and the gold wax seal at the back caught the light. It looked so clean, it probably had been manufactured in a divine vacuum chamber or something, with the seal sitting dead center without a single flaw.

Obnoxiously perfect like the sender.

Every time he saw one of these, he wondered if there was some ancient ritual involved in the sealing process or if the man just had supernaturally steady hands and an internal leveling tool built into his wrists. 

At one point, Seokmin had seriously considered getting wax seals for himself, despite not really having anything to seal in the first place. He had no letters to send, no directives to hand out, but Jeonghan just made everything look so elegant and important that even the most mundane things felt sacramental . 

It was a sickness, honestly . But if being mildly obsessed with beauty, precision, and god-tier stationery was part of knowing Jeonghan Yoon, then maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. One he was starting to accept, reverently.

Still, the envelope had to be opened. Inside were three matte black cards, expensive-looking, firm but feather-light, with a thin gold border exactly one centimeter from the edge. The Empire's crest was laser-burned into the center, and one of the cards had Jeonghan's name on it.

For the nth time, of course it did.

Across from him, Chan was lounging with a tiny gold teaspoon (yes, engraved with Jeonghan’s name), lazily scooping caviar into his mouth, which to this day, Seokmin still didn’t understand the hype, or the price. Or even the fact that people willingly paid for saltier rice pops disguised as fish eggs?

"Are they that afraid we would lose our hotel keycards?" Seokmin asked innocently and genuinely confused. Who needs three keycards for a single stay?

To his surprise, Chan laughed, almost hysterically. And if Seokmin had to describe it, the kid’s laughter was the personification of HA-HA-HA, with every syllable clearly enunciated. Chan’s laugh was almost contagious, one might say. A perfectly spaced ha-ha-ha, loud and bright enough to cut through whatever existential crisis Seokmin had going on in his head.

“You’re so pure and innocent that I sometimes forget you’re older than me,” Chan said between snickers, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Anyway. The one with Jeonghan’s name is for building access to get you through the private entrance. The one with the three-digit number on top, that’s the suite key.” Then he held up the last card, matte black with gold details.

“And this last one with the gold edge and Jeonghan’s signature embedded, well, that’s technically your very own company black card, but let’s not lie to ourselves. That’s Jeonghan’s card. He  wanted us to have it, told us to splurge on anything we want, I believe those were his exact words.” He slid it toward Seokmin with a smirk. 

“We all have one, by the way.”

Seokmin almost choked on his sparkling water, which, to be fair, was probably the least alcoholic liquid on the menu, but still had more chemicals than actual water. The flute it was served in was Tiffany & Co., customized, no less, with Jeonghan’s initials engraved near the base. 

Just how rich was Jeonghan Yoon?

Apparently rich enough to hand out unlimited black cards to his employees with no restrictions, to spend on whatever they needed, or wanted , whenever they felt like it. This kind of wealth shouldn’t even be humanly possible. But then again, Jeonghan wasn’t exactly bound by human rules anymore.

Seokmin didn’t need to be reminded he was operating under all three omnis. Cue the worship songs. 

Not long after (okay, thirteen hours later, give or take a meal and three naps) the private jet finally landed. Technically a domestic flight by Jeonghan’s standards, but for Seokmin, this was royalty. 

The only time he’d ever “flown” an airplane before Paris Fashion Week was in Lotte World, through a theme park ride. He’d gotten lucky enough to befriend the son of a restaurant owner in elementary school and was invited to tag along for the kid’s birthday party.

That was his first taste of being airborne, well, strapped to a plastic seat, circling above fake clouds, living the dream.

True to what Chan said earlier, the luxurious building where they were staying, one Seokmin didn’t even have time to catch the name of, had no signage, no reception, and no entry unless you had a keycard. They were picked up from the private jet and driven straight through a gated underground entrance that bypassed all the usual areas. 

Based on insider intel, aka Chan, who was the living and breathing footnote of the Empire, this place wasn’t something you could casually book. The place didn’t work like hotels or clubs with online listings and reservation links. Even regular rooms here weren’t available to just anyone, as you had to be a member.

And unlike most private hotels where memberships were bought or inherited, this one, which, to this point, Seokmin still didn’t know the name of, required something more: You had to be chosen and invited into membership before they even let you throw money at it.

But in Jeonghan’s case, needless to say, none of that applied, since the deity didn’t need to lift a finger or purchase anything. His membership was gifted, or to be more accurate, given as a bribe. From the way they were being ushered in, Seokmin was starting to get the feeling Jeonghan was granted access to the whole building, other than just a suite or two.

God bless his outrageously overpowered, custom YSL-wearing boss that half the world would probably offer blood to serve under.  They had been, honestly.

After what felt like an hour in an elevator ( seriously, why were all of Jeonghan-related properties located at near-celestial altitudes ? ), they reached the 70th floor.

The second the doors opened, Seokmin immediately felt the unexplainable change in the air’s density, as well as that telltale soft vanilla with a hint of something sweet and heavenly floated into his lungs.

He didn’t need anyone to say it. God is here.

They were led to a comfortable, airy, furnished room, but no Jeonghan in sight.

Until he was. Because five minutes later, the pressure in the air changed even more, the pull of gravity from the center of the Earth corrected itself, and time spoke haltingly for everyone to turn.

God has entered. 

Dressed in a custom black blazer with faint gold embroidery along the collar, paired with pressed slacks and what goes without saying, his unattainable glow that made him look like he’d descended from Mount Olympus using his private jet. And right behind him, the dark force, sorry, Mr. Necksnapper, Scoups. 

"Glad you made it safely. Have you eaten?" Jeonghan asked, smiling so transcendentally .

There wasn’t a single encounter Seokmin had with this man where he didn’t look like a walking, breathing oil painting. And he always asked if Seokmin had eaten every single time. Somehow, it still warmed him to his core. Endearing .

A few polite exchanges passed, still with no clear explanation of why they were flown here in the middle of the week. 

Seokmin, who might’ve had one too many sips of liquid courage in the form of brightly colored mocktails, a dangerously sparkly glass of champagne, one shot of kamikaze, and a whole bottle of Fiji water as his last-ditch attempt at cleansing his sins, finally worked up the courage to ask the glowing deity in front of him.

“Why… uh… I—sorry, please believe me—I uh… I don’t mean to be rude but… w-why were we sent here, uh, sp-specifically? Just us, I mean?”

He was definitely tipsy. The addicting vanilla scent of Jeonghan wasn't helping his nervous system from spiraling at all. “S-sorry. Are you mad? I’m so—”

Jeonghan, as beautiful and godlike as ever, simply turned to him in the soft natural lighting, looking like he was about to recite the modern-day Ten Commandments or announce a celestial prophecy. Which, in Seokmin’s defense, felt about right, because what he actually said next might as well have been chiseled onto a glowing tablet by angels.

“Congratulations!” Jeonghan said, practically radiating. “Both of you have been promoted.”

Science can tell you a lot of things, but not everything. Sometimes, for the answers that defy logic, you need to look at mathematics.

A simple math breakdown of his employee record, right now, such as time in company, average campaign success rate, praise-to-error ratio, would at least explain statistically why Jeonghan Yoon himself just promoted him. 

Not even a year in, and he’s already halfway to being canonized.

Jeonghan must have either felt guilty or just genuinely wanted to give them some form of break (not that Seokmin would ever assume a divine being capable of something as mortal as guilt, but it did cross his mind), because tonight, they were granted something that bordered on a miracle: a work-free evening. 

There weren’t any briefings lurking by the hallway, no slide decks reticently threatening their peace, and thank every force above ( Jeonghan included) , none of those matte black envelopes sealed in gold wax, a.k.a. the Divine Scriptures , lying in wait to test their memory anamnesis or their capacity to not spiral from inexplicit bullet points neatly written by God himself.

The itinerary, for once, only had dinner written on it, an exclusive reservation at the rooftop restaurant of the ridiculously luxurious building they were currently in, which, judging by the utensils alone, probably had its own Michelin constellation. Well, the place wasn’t technically on the rooftop, since the penthouse where Jeonghan would be staying was still above it. 

After all, in the celestial floor plan of things , God needed to live closest to the heavens.

Dinner felt like something out of a documentary he wasn’t wealthy enough to relate to. Seokmin had seen fine dining on food shows before, or had heard the phrase tossed around before, but this was the first time the phrase actually made sense. 

What made it fine , you might ask? Perhaps it was the gold-leafed truffle foam served on a spoon carved from Himalayan salt. Who even thinks of that?   Maybe the lamb, or was it veal?, that had apparently been slow-cooked for so long it nearly melted on Seokmin’s tongue before he even got a chance to chew. There was also something green on his plate that he’d never seen in real life, much less eaten, and the tiny flowers on top of his salad were edible, or so he’d been told.

According to Chan, they were safe to eat and were handpicked from a biodynamic greenhouse that follows the moon’s emotional calendar or something equally ludicrous. Seokmin didn’t even ask for clarification, since he just nodded while chewing whatever multicolored leaf was in his mouth and hoped it wasn’t a centerpiece.

Chan, who was now somehow perfectly sober despite what Seokmin would classify as an Olympic-level intake of alcohol earlier, took another sip of wine and let out a sigh that could only be described as satisfied .

“Okay, admit it. This twelve-course miracle tastes better than anything we’ve ever had at brand launches. You know it.”

Seokmin snorted softly, barely glancing up from his tiny portion of... something silky and citrusy that was allegedly a palate cleanser . 

"Careful.” he muttered, stabbing his fork into what might be his third round of lamb. “You’re starting to sound like you worship the food more than Jeonghan.”

Frankly, Seokmin had to internally and very begrudgingly admit that the food did, in fact, taste like what could probably be classified as an aphrodisiac . Though that might’ve just been the case because he was actually dining with God himself. Well, that, or the gold flakes were starting to get to his brain.

And really, considering the only thing he’s ever seen enter Jeonghan’s system were wines with at least five to six digits in their price tag, this was saying something, seeing him eat actual food. For a while, Seokmin had genuinely believed that wine was the sole force keeping the man’s divine organs functioning. 

He was even starting to buy into the whole “wine is the blood of God” thing, because if anyone could make that statement biologically accurate, it would be Jeonghan.

On Jeonghan’s left, as expected, sat Scoups, who had spent most of the evening looking like a threat to everyone, with his posture quite whetted enough to cut through the golden tomahawk at the table. And Seokmin, who unfortunately always noticed things he wasn’t supposed to, looked just in time to see Scoups lean over and gently wipe something off the corner of Jeonghan’s mouth. 

Wait . Did the necksnapper just-. Seokmin had to repeat what just happened to himself. Scoups wiped something off the corner of Jeonghan’s mouth.

Good gays. Good actual gays. Seokmin was going to need another drink, and maybe an actual oxygen tank.

He’d honestly lost count of which meal course they were currently in, could’ve been the seventh, maybe the ninth, but judging by the table now being filled with more than ten types of cakes, he could only assume dessert had begun. 

Which would be fine, except there were more cakes than there were people in the room, and currently, there were only four of them present. It was just them... and Scoups.

Seokmin found that odd and strangely rare. Jeonghan was usually surrounded by at least his three personal guards at all times, sometimes even with Jisoo’s men shadowing from a distance. But tonight, only the necksnapper was with him.

Now, staying true to his part-time detective alter ego, codename Seokmink Panther, he casually started counting the number of times Scoups had looked at Jeonghan, even while chewing, which frankly, wasn’t even subtle.

Not that Seokmin could blame him. Let’s be real, if the divine face card that was Jeonghan Yoon were sitting beside anyone, they’d probably look at him too a lot, possibly even write a dissertation. 

Because Jeonghan, in all his soft-lit glory, was a full-course meal himself.

But even so, they were literally eating food, real, expensive, twelve-course food. And the necksnapper wasn’t even trying to tone it down. This man was as always eye-fucki—okay, calm down. Seokmin sipped his wine and tried not to combust. Again .

You see, there were probably ten different kinds of Danish cakes already served at the table, along with a whole array of dessert options Seokmin wouldn’t even attempt to pronounce. Well, not because he was lazy, but because the last time he tried to pronounce a dish from a gourmet menu, the waiter blinked twice and said, "Oh, you mean the saffron mousse?" Which... wasn’t what he said at all. 

The important point is: everything on this table had been carefully singled-out to be handpicked, licensed, and exclusively served at this rooftop restaurant. Not a single item on this menu existed anywhere else. That’s how tightly guarded the restaurant’s recipes were (which felt very on-brand for The Empire, anyway).

So when a bowl of mint-colored ice cream arrived on a silver platter and was silently placed in front of Jeonghan, everyone, and Seokmin meant everyone, at the table seemed to momentarily lose the ability to breathe, or function, or exist properly, really.

Seokmin, being Seokmin, didn’t really think much of it at first. It was mint chocolate, wasn’t it?  Weird choice for dessert at this level of fine dining, maybe, but not life-altering.

That is, until he noticed how Chan, seated just across from him, went visibly pale , as though the blood had just exited the kid’s system completely.

“S-something… something’s wrong," Chan whispered, his voice was clearly shaking and barely audible.

Seokmin furrowed his brows, confused. He leaned in a little. "What do you mean? Isn’t it just—"

"J-Jeonghan... Jeonghan hates mint chocolate."

Oh . Something was definitely wrong.

Couldn’t it have just been a mix-up, or a miscommunication in the kitchen? Except, this was an ultra-exclusive rooftop space, reserved solely for The Empire during this trip, with security layers, which was honestly more complicated than the Department of Defense. 

This menu was exclusive for this place, so the chefs were vetted, the ingredients were even traced, and no outside party should have been able to insert anything.

So how the hell did a bowl of mint chocolate, which was Jeonghan’s least favorite thing, end up here? Seokmin initially didn’t think it was... that deep? 

However, the severity seems to be much deeper than that, because Chan, who normally thrived under an omnishamble, was now visibly pale with his lips parted and his entire posture frozen. The kid’s eyes were locked on the dessert plate in front of Jeonghan like he was seeing a murder weapon.

From Seokmin’s seat, he could clearly see how Scoups’s hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening against the tablecloth in a way that looked controlled but absolutely threatening. The way it looked, the man was about two seconds away from launching himself into a full-blown bone-crushing rampage (if that was even physically possible in slacks), and yet his face stayed unnervingly composed.

The only thing giving it away was the dagger-like stare he kept throwing toward what Seokmin could only guess was either the restaurant entrance or an accomplice of the ice cream server hiding behind the tinted glass (Seokmin wasn’t about to check). And honestly, at that point, he couldn’t even tell anymore because the entire mood in the room had just... tilted .

It was unexplainable, really. Something about the sudden change in the atmosphere, specifically the tension. It wasn’t the usual godly presence Seokmin had grown slightly accustomed to whenever Jeonghan was in a room, that made people stop and stare, and occasionally spiral. Again, s omething was definitely not right .

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, as if the mint chocolate wasn’t already weird and suspicious and obviously wrong in every context possible, a childhood nursery rhyme began playing through the speakers of the restaurant, one that didn’t match the fastidious elegance of the setting, and definitely had no business resounding through the walls of a Michelin-star dining experience.

Seokmin froze, nails digging into the velvet upholstery of his chair as he racked his brain to place the song, fingers twitching with urgency because the familiarity of the tune was maddening. He didn’t understand the lyrics, since they weren’t in English or Korean, but the melody was right there on the edge of his memory, clawing at him.

Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques
Dormez-vous, dormez-vous—

Shit . Seokmin’s stomach dropped when the English lyrics finally played inside his head. 

Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping?
Brother John, Brother Joh-

Brother? Seokmin thought. Is this related to Jis—

His realizations were cut short when the man beside Jeonghan moved swiftly, with a flex of his hand, but it was enough to make Seokmin fully believe someone was about to die.

Oh God. All hell was about to break loose.

But before the ice cream server could even notice Scoups’ movement, and before Seokmin could squeeze his eyes shut (because no way was he about to witness a live murder), the beautiful, divine, ever-unshaken celestial being that is Jeonghan reached out, soft, poised, and gently rested his hand atop Scoups’ clenched fist, with a soft gaze right into the necksnapper’s eyes.

That was all it took to stop the mess that was about to disentangle.

In the thick, oppressive atmosphere of the room, where Chan sat frozen, Seokmin was mid-breakdown, and the eerie melody still floated through the air like some kind of omen, Jeonghan looked absolutely radiant. 

He was untouched by the tension, and glowing like a divine being sent to silence every unholy presence in the room, which, honestly, he might as well have been, because nothing about this felt remotely normal anymore, especially right now . 

Then Seokmink Panther noticed Scoups and Jeonghan were looking at each other.

Oh . He suddenly realized something familiar.

This was the same thing from the launch party, with the mysterious box, the unresolved trinket, and the thick tension. Damn . This was probably connected. 

The mint chocolate, Jeonghan’s most hated flavor in the universe, and Frère Jacques, the nursery rhyme that had no business playing in a luxury fine dining restaurant weren’t random.

They were… they were threats. Someone had been threatening Jeonghan. That would explain everything, including Scoups’ fury.

For the record, Jeonghan, even at this point, did not lose any of his composure, not once. If anything, he looked the opposite of shaken. 

This wasn’t the first time Seokmin witnessed that rare flicker of something behind Jeonghan’s eyes, that barely-there tension, no. Yet, there were no signs of agitation this time, it was different. This time, Jeonghan was... genuinely calm and unperturbed. Serene, even. 

And if Seokmin didn’t know any better (which, frankly, he wasn’t sure he did), he’d say Jeonghan had been expecting this...this threat .

Seconds after his successful attempt to prevent Scoups from doing anything, with his left hand resting lightly atop the necksnapper's still-tense fist, Jeonghan raised his right hand, without any jolt, but with perfect poise,  high enough to summon the ice cream waiter without even needing to speak. 

Jeonghan's fingers weren’t fanned too wide, nor too stiff. It was rather an elegant, deliberate lift of his hand.

"Sine Qua Non" Jeonghan said. Damn.

The phrase was crisp, falling from his lips so deliberately in a voice grounded in his own power that carved the words straight into the air around them. He didn’t even look at the waiter, no. Jeonghan was still staring at Scoups, who looked physically composed, as always, but was now clearly lost in whatever code Jeonghan had just spoken aloud.

With the silence thick and the power of Jeonghan suffocating, everyone’s eyes were on the celestial being.

The waiter, however, was visibly flustered, eyes blinking while their hands were shaking. And truthfully, Seokmin didn’t blame him, because not even he or Chan or the necksnapper could grasp what Jeonghan had just uttered, but something about it felt sharp, followed by a strange pull in his chest and a sudden weakness in his knees, 

It was as though they were being reminded who the God in the room was.

“I... I beg your pardon, M-Mr. Yoon?” the server asked, confused and nervous, clearly thrown off by the strange string of syllables that had just cut through the restaurant’s silence.

No one at the table understood what the deity in front of them had said, not a single soul, but all eyes were now fixed on him. 

Jeonghan only smiled then, finally breaking his gaze from Seungcheol to look directly at the waiter, and damn, even Seokmin froze. 

He has always thought Jeonghan’s eyes were windows to some unreachable truth, because they never lie. Right now, those very eyes were sending something sharp, powerful, and also threatening, straight at the man who had dared serve what was clearly not meant for them.  Or rather, meant for Jeonghan as a threat. And the waiter wasn’t from the restaurant. That much Seokmin could guess.

Before Jeonghan could even repeat himself after the waiter's question, not that he would’ve, another waiter came rushing over, almost stumbling, carrying a bottle, and Seokmin’s eyes immediately caught the label. Sine Qua Non

“Without which... Not.” Jeonghan’s frangible yet elegant words fell out of his mouth once again, with strong emphasis on each word. Seokmin genuinely thought he was about to pass out on the spot because never in his life had he heard a phrase sound so devastating, so calm, yet so terrifyingly elegant that it could only be described as the kind of tone you’d imagine God would use.

Jeonghan accepted the bottle from the second waiter without ever breaking eye contact with the ice cream server, and then he added with a seemingly impending threat, “In Latin, Sine Qua Non. ”

Then there was his smile. Yet this time, it wasn’t warm nor sweet, no. Jeonghan's smile was laced with poison, deadly in its tranquil, while sending out a threat wrapped in silk and sugar, and it hit so hard that even Chan, well, everyone in the room, looked like they forgot how to breathe, while Scoups’ jaw twitched for the first time that night. 

The necksnapper was clearly gone for Jeonghan, eyes nearly melting in full-on worship. Which, to be fair, was the correct and only acceptable reaction. Even Seokmin’s knees felt like they were giving out, especially with the next words that came out of Jeonghan's mouth.

“My brother...” Jeonghan began, pouring the wine into his glass with a grace that didn’t belong to mortals , “...used to pretend to hate this.”

Seokmin didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until his ears started ringing at the sound of Jeonghan’s voice, his whole body slowly folding in on itself because the second Jeonghan spoke again, in that godlike tone, everything else ceased to exist. The wine bottle hit the table with a faint clink.

Then Jeonghan looked up directly at the pale-faced waiter once again.

“But only I. ..” Jeonghan continued while swirling his glass slowly, in the most exquisite way possible,“...get to Call. Him. Out. for it.”

Each word landed like a bolt out of the blue and yet he made them sound like sacred texts, ending it all with the most graceful sip of his wine before standing up, letting the eerie silence wrap around him, untouched and divine. 

And as if the devastation wasn’t already absolute, he paused mid-step, turned back slightly, just enough for everyone to see him, and said,

“Oh, and... c’est la nuit.”

Holy shit. It wasn’t technically a threat, but it was Jeonghan’s blowback to what Seokmin is now sure were threats, the ones that had probably been brewing since the launch party. Seokmin swore he saw the tiniest smirk pull at Jeonghan’s lips. Then he turned to them, Seokmin, Chan, and said, with the same divinity he carried wherever he went, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then he graciously and untouchably left. His divine glow followed him out, along with Scoups, who Seokmin was sure just fell in love a hundred times more with the celestial being. Well, it was just impossible for everyone in the room not to.

Meanwhile, the hands of the ice cream waiter were jittery, yet no one dared to stop or question God, not when everyone else was clearly still taken aback by the godly scene they had just witnessed. 

You see, Seokmin has always lived by the now-doctrined, borderline-canonized belief that Jeonghan Yoon is, without a doubt, God. 

And in the countless times he’s stood in the same physical vicinity as the man, he’s always felt his godliness. But even then, despite all the moments he’d witnessed, despite all the divine instances where Jeonghan had simply existed in front of him, this one was different. 

This wasn’t the usual soft, forgiving kind of God that people liked to believe in, the one who turns the other cheek or blesses the meek. No. 

This was Jeonghan Yoon in his full glory , reigning in his rightful divinity, standing in the center of the universe he clearly owned, armed with nothing but grace, certainty, and a face carved to be worshipped.

The entire time, Seokmin swears, everyone in the room wanted to just kneel and worship him, not out of fear, but because there was something so ruinously beautiful about watching Jeonghan like that. It made sense. It all made sense, why the world worships him, why he’s the most successful, most glorified person not just in Asia, but in the world.

Jeonghan Yoon may be good, but never the kind of good that gets stepped on. He was never soft out of fragility, and never kind out of weakness.

And goodness gracious, Seokmin thought. That made him even more worth worshipping.

Science can tell you a lot of things, but not everything. Sometimes, for the answers that defy logic, you need to look at mathematics.

Wrong! You need to look at Jeonghan Yoon.

Chapter Text

rule no. 8 - fear what serves no heaven

Isaac Newton established the relationship between an object's motion and the forces acting upon it through three fundamental laws of motion.

"Cheollie, don't~"

Seungcheol froze the moment Jeonghan spoke ever so softly, as his finger was hovering right above the dial screen, thumb halfway through the digits that would connect him to one of Jisoo’s men. He needed someone to act, to fix this goddamn mess before it turned into something that couldn't be undone.

For the first time in a long while, he genuinely had no idea what Jeonghan was thinking, and that terrified him more than any of the threats they’ve been getting. 

This wasn’t how they did things. This wasn’t how Jeonghan did things.

There was really nothing unusual in Jeonghan’s behavior, nothing off or strange. There were no cracks in the way he spoke or moved or presented himself, because Jeonghan, as Seungcheol had seen, no, memorized since they were kids, was always composed. He was always divine, always five steps ahead, and if anything felt strange lately, it was the fact that the world around them had started to grow quieter in all the wrong places. Not him, no.

Seungcheol could only sigh in defeat, as Jeonghan’s soft, smooth, almost fingerprintless (from how unfairly perfect his skin was) hand, rested over his, stopping him from dialing.

Had things gone according to schedule, they were supposed to be in Thailand right now for the Empire’s skincare division gauging, then Vancouver for textile contracts and supplier negotiations, followed by a press event in Australia. Yes . Seungcheol had memorized that itinerary down to the second, because he needed to be ten steps ahead if he was going to keep Jeonghan safe. 

To Seungcheol’s dismay, Jeonghan had abruptly scrapped everything, looked him in the eye, and said they were going to Copenhagen for two days. And Seungcheol had known better than to question him, not publicly, of course, but privately, inside his head, every single alarm had gone off.

Yet Jeonghan still hadn’t called his brother after the first threat, hadn’t even informed Jisoo about what happened (from what Seungcheol could tell), and as far as he knew, not a single name had been added to the Empire’s active security roster. Hell, he didnt even bring any of the empire's security team for this trip other than Jisoo’s men. No additional clearance had been set, and not even his personal guards had joined them tonight. 

Jeonghan brought no one but him. 

And maybe that’s what scared him the most, because Jeonghan had never once hesitated to let Jisoo step in before, not when it came to security breaches, not when it came to threats, not when it came to protecting what they built, but now he wouldn’t even let Seungcheol make a goddamn call. 

And while Seungcheol would’ve gladly burned the city down for the honor of protecting him alone, he couldn’t help the way his stomach sank at the realization that his most beloved Hannie … was in danger.

Seungcheol hated how useless that made him feel, hated how much he wanted to gently shake Jeonghan, to beg him to just let him do what he was born to do: protect him. If Jeonghan would just let him, none of this would’ve—

“Cheollie~”

God. There it is . Jeonghan’s sweet and golden and soft in all the wrong places voice, as though it was dipped in something warm and gentle just to make it sting even more. The endearment that was imbued with honey and the only tone of calm that always managed to disarm Seungcheol no matter how tightly wound he was. 

Suddenly the cold edge he was about to fall over melted into warmth.

“I know you,” Jeonghan said, thumb now tracing delicate, calming circles against Seungcheol’s knuckles, the very same hand Seungcheol had been holding back from destruction during dinner, now caught in the gentlest trap of all. 

Oh God , the way Hannie looked flawless from every angle, every line of his face drawn with cutthroat perfection. How was Seungcheol supposed to think, much less breathe, or even focus on the words spoken to him when perfection himself was holding him like this?

“None of this is your fault.” Jeonghan added.

The words landed somewhere between the part that blamed himself and the part that knew better, and yet both bowed down to the softness of Jeonghan’s voce and perfection of his face. 

Jeonghan’s hand now left Seungcheol's, only to reach up and gently cup the latter's cheek, cold fingertips brushing just under his jaw. Oh the kind of touch Seungcheol only ever wanted to sink into forever. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, leaning into the deity's soft hand on instinct, and when he opened them again, Jeonghan was smiling.

Seungcheol’s hands, without even needing to think, found their place at Jeonghan’s waist, barely there because the man was so painfully slender it would be an abomination to grip too hard, like his sweet Hannie would vanish into mist if he wasn't careful.

For a moment, every bit of terror and worry had left his body, like it had never lived there to begin with, by the simple act of being held, graced, touched by the world’s most worshipped being. God himself . 

Oh, my ever so sweet and beautiful Hannie . Seungcheol thought, nearly breathless as he reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Jeonghan’s ear, his fingertips trembling from the contact before instinctively finding their way back to Jeonghan’s waist (because that’s where they belonged). 

In that brief moment, Seungcheol understood what Jeonghan was trying to say. Not that he didn’t before, no . If anything, Seungcheol knew Jeonghan better than anyone else ever could, save for his brother .

Jeonghan was asking him to trust, to believe, and to hold his hand and stand still in the middle of this storm without needing to know where it came from or when it would end, because that was what faith was. 

And when Jeonghan looked at him like that , how could Seungcheol not bow in his own way and say, Yes, I trust you. Yes, I believe you, even when the thought of you getting hurt, even the idea of a single scratch on your flawless skin terrifies me... I will put my faith in you (as I always have).

“I am not the Jeonghan Yoon for nothing, remember?”

It was almost cruel, the timing really, because Seungcheol could swear, Jeonghan had just heard every single thought, or profession of faith , rather, he didn’t declare out loud.

It was like Jeonghan had looked straight into his head and chosen that exact moment to remind him who he was, and Seungcheol almost laughed, but it caught in his throat, because instead of amusement, all he could feel was the unbearable tightness in his chest and the unshakable realization that he had fallen harder, deeper, more ruinously in love, no, admired , he corrected, his most adored Hannie even more.

Hannie’s right.

That face is so divine, so flawless, so tragically perfect. It was impossible not to believe in something this Holy when looking at it head-on, up close, in a room that no longer seemed to contain them both.

Sweet Jesu- His beauty was unbearable.

Fine . Point taken.

Seungcheol gave him a timid, almost helpless smile (something halfway between surrender and devotion) and breathed, “Just... just let me protect you, Hannie~”

He didn’t mean to sound so wrecked, but he knew it came out that way. And maybe that was fine too. Maybe Jeonghan needed to hear it like that. To understand that no matter what threat hovered around them, no matter what twisted game was being played, Seungcheol would set the entire world on fire if it meant Jeonghan would remain untouched and unscathed.

Jeonghan nodded, and his gaze slowly, willfully, and devastatingly dropped to Seungcheol’s lips. Oh no. Seungcheol’s heart stuttered, as if the rhythm had lost its footing just from that suffocating look alone.

Don’t do this, Hannie. Please.

Their faces were slowly, almost unconsciously, finding their way toward each other, gazes fixed on each other’s lips like they were searching for an answer neither of them could speak first. The air had thickened around them, but not in a heavy way. It felt fragile (just like them), like if either of them exhaled too sharply, everything would collapse into something irreversible .

Jeonghan leaned forward, lips parted slightly, gaze flickering downward as he seemingly let his guard down and was now deciding whether to cross the line they never talked about. 

Hannie, please don’t make me lov- want you more than I already do.

Seungcheol wanted to stop, well, he told himself he should. That whatever dangerous, holy thing they were toeing toward, it wasn’t supposed to happen, not like this, not now. Maybe, not ever.

But he didn’t stop… He didn’t have to.

Because just as Seungcheol was about to close that last bit of distance, just as everything inside him surrendered to whatever this was becoming, Jeonghan suddenly looked him in the eyes, and Seungcheol saw it. He saw the flicker, the actual moment Jeonghan snapped back into himself and pulled his guard back up. 

At that distance, at that impossible proximity, there was no mistaking it, he saw the hesitation , the restraint, the way Jeonghan held himself still, fighting something neither of them could name.

And yet, Jeonghan still leaned in.

His lips landed, soft, warm, and careful. But not where Seungcheol had expected, not where he had braced for, not where he had hoped. Jeonghan kissed his cheek. It was kind, yet it was oh so cruel . It was everything Seungcheol didn’t know how to prepare for.

If he ever tried to convince himself that it didn’t hurt, that it didn’t do something permanent to his chest, then he’d be lying, and not even well. Because that almost , that sliver of a second between what could have happened and what was given instead, somehow hollowed him out more than silence ever could. 

Seungcheol didn’t want this, or maybe he did, and maybe that was the problem. 

He didn’t want to fall any deeper than he already had. He didn’t want to drown further in his love no, his admiration, his goddamn admiration for Hannie, but he was already too far gone. 

And the more Jeonghan pulled away, the more every inch of Seungcheol wanted to follow.

Just when he was still cradling the ache in his chest from that missed moment, Jeonghan spoke again, voice dipped in that same gentle velvet he always used when he wanted something to stay unbroken.

“Will you stay the night, Cheollie?”

Seungcheol was once again pulled from the edge of his own spiraling by that honey-wrapped voice. He swallowed everything he couldn’t say. Every I love like you , every I’d die for you , he suppressed them all and let them settle low in his chest.

He nodded without hesitation, and tucked everything behind a reverent smile.

“When did I ever not?”

Jeonghan only smiled, like he had been waiting for that exact answer all along. Then he reached out, tugging Seungcheol forward by the wrist, pulling him softly toward the bed, fully trusting he would follow, which of course, Seungcheol did. 

When did he ever not?

He took a second to arrange the pillows, the blanket, even Jeonghan’s side of the bed, like he always carried out, without needing instructions. His hands just proceeded in the way they always had, with dexterity and unspoken care, smoothing the sheets, fluffing the sides, adjusting the weight of the covers so that Jeonghan wouldn’t be too cold or too warm. He waited until Jeonghan was already beneath the blanket before he slipped into the other side, and within seconds, they found each other again in the dark. 

They never talked about it. They never had to.

Seungcheol settled behind him naturally. Jeonghan had already turned to his side, so Seungcheol moved closer until his chest was against his back, his arm draped over Jeonghan’s waist. His palm rested over Jeonghan’s stomach, fingers spreading gently as if to shield him from anything that could come close. His legs found their way between Jeonghan’s, one tucked under and one curling around, so they fit together perfectly as though they were made for this exact shape.

Out of habit, Jeonghan exhaled softly when he finally felt the warmth behind him, the weight of the arm, the steady breath against the back of his neck. Then, instinctively, he curled himself back just a little more, pressing himself closer to Seungcheol until there was no space left between them. 

Their hands met somewhere in the middle. And just like that, their fingers intertwined, palms pressed so firmly it felt like they had been this way forever. Well, they had been.

Seungcheol could feel the slow rhythm of Jeonghan’s chest rising and falling beneath his hand, the delicate weight of Jeonghan’s body melting against his, the slope of his waist where his palm rested, and the subtle dip of his spine as he curled into him. 

He could feel the softness of Jeonghan’s hair brushing against his jaw and, without thinking, he leaned in slightly, close enough to breathe in that familiar scent, the same scent Jeonghan had always carried since they were kids. 

Twelve . Seungcheol remembered being twelve and catching it for the first time, thinking, even back then, that there was something heavenly about the beautiful man. And now here he was, years later, holding him in his arms in a room that had grown too quiet to lie to himself.

The night stretched on.

This wasn’t new. It had been happening for so long that Seungcheol couldn’t even tell when it started. He only knew that it had become something they never acknowledged, not even defined, just… naturally did. Before he could practice saying no, before he could build the boundaries he was supposed to have, it had already become tradition, a comforting one for both of them. And who was he to break it?

How could he, when he was the only one who got this?

Seungcheol was the only one allowed to crawl into bed behind him, to hold him like this, to breathe in his scent and memorize the shape of him in the dark. He was the only one trusted enough to see God this close. 

Jeonghan may have belonged to the world by day, but this…this was his at night.

And Seungcheol smirked and felt proud. Right . He had always carried the job most people envied, the impossible task. The sacred one.

If only his heart could stop folding deeper and deeper into itself every time Jeonghan curled into him like this. If only it didn’t swell with every breath they shared beneath the blanket, or flutter the way it did when Jeonghan reached back slightly in his sleep, just enough to hold Seungcheol’s wrist like he didn’t want him to leave.

If only he could keep lovin , no, liking Jeonghan at just the right distance. Not more than he should.

He carefully reached up, brushing a few strands of hair from Jeonghan’s face, tucking them behind his ear with a touch so gentle it barely stirred him. And then, with his chin tucked just above Jeonghan’s shoulder, arm wrapped around his waist, legs tangled beneath the covers, he held still.

For the nth time, Seungcheol vowed to stay. No matter what happened, and no matter how much it hurt.

Isaac Newton established the relationship between an object's motion and the forces acting upon it through three fundamental laws of motion.
The first law states that an object at rest will remain at rest, and an object in motion will remain in motion, unless acted upon by an external force.

Seungcheol had been trained all his life to be that external force, to act without hesitation, stop every danger before it began, and take control before things spiraled.

But when it came to Jeonghan, he never moved .

If staying in motion meant keeping whatever state of almost they had been in, and staying close to him, then he would rather not stop it. Not ever.

Because if this, this sacred closeness , this god-touched quiet, this breath they shared in the dark, was all he’d ever get, then he’d take it. Every night, over and over.

Because some people prayed . But Seungcheol held God in his arms.

01:45 a.m.

Seokmin had lost count of how many times he had twisted, turned, rolled over, flipped his pillow to the cooler side, adjusted his blanket, and checked the time only to groan again. 

Yes , it was almost two in the morning and his body, or maybe more accurately his mind, absolutely refused to let him sleep, which kind of made sense because how could it, really, after everything he had just witnessed only a few hours ago.

There was no way a sane person, even one without a god complex (or at this point, a god crush), could possibly lie in peace knowing that not only had someone dared to send a threat to God, through the Michelin-starred air of a restaurant God himself picked. But that same someone even had the audacity to serve mint chocolate of all things to the person who despised it most in this world, and worse, add an obscure French-coded nursery rhyme into the pandemonium, and then try to pretend that it wasn’t all intentional.

Seokmin knew, well, suspected , ( okay, strongly suspected) that someone was clearly targeting Jeonghan. And if the threats were truly as coded and terrifying as they appeared to be (and by now, there was no way they weren’t), then there was something bigger at play that even Jeonghan, despite his godlike composure and devastating calm, had oddly anticipated. 

But that didn’t make it any less terrifying. Because who? Who would dare?  

Who would even think to go against Jeonghan Yoon, much less send threats that implied wanting his brother. His brother. The one person whose name people mumbled almost similar to a cursed rumor, the one person whose presence didn’t even need to exist for fear to settle into the room. Jisoo Hong, alias, the Devil.

But if the rumors really were true about him , about Jeonghan’s brother, about the way people allegedly disappeared without a trace, then why wasn’t anything happening? Why was the waiter still breathing? Wait, did Jisoo even know? Because if he did know and hadn’t done something, then maybe the rumors were just empty lies created to protect an empire of glass. 

But if Jisoo didn’t know… oh God.

If Jisoo didn’t know, and this had all happened under his radar, then something was even more wrong than Seokmin thought. Because nothing, nothing , was supposed to get past him. Not even a f-cking scoop of ice cream!

Seokmin didn’t know what disturbed him more, the fact that someone was threatening Jeonghan or the fact that Jeonghan clearly expected to be threatened, or was Jisoo Hong really freaking hot scary.

He lay on his back, staring at the dark ceiling of the suite he never thought he’d get to sleep in (well, sleep was now an idea more than a reality), trying to understand why none of this felt like business anymore and why … a deity CEO was sent to earth to teach mortals how to simultaneously collapse and rise in awe.

Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep altogether, pushed off his blanket, shuffled to his desk, opened his laptop, and typed in one thing: Frère Jacques lyrics translation.

The words appeared as soon as he hit the button. Well, nothing too fancy or even suspicious at first glance, except the word Brother . That’s it. But it felt too shallow, too easy, too obvious to pin everything on just that one line from the nursery rhyme. There had to be more, something layered, or something coded.

Seokmin racked his brain a little harder than usual, scrolling, reading, staring. 

Wait .

One line from earlier, Jeonghan’s calm, weaponized, venom-laced clapback, came rushing back to him, “Oh, and c’est la nuit.”

His fingers moved before he even realized it, opening a new tab and typing in the words for the translation of the phrase, c’est la nuit . The translation blinked back at him, plain and simple.

It’s night.

What? “ Oh, and it’s night”   What did Jeonghan mean—Wait.

Wait. Oh my God.

Morning bells are ringing.
Morning bells are ringing.

Seokmin leaned back slowly with his eyes wide open and his pulse unsteady, as the realization crashed over him. 

Jeonghan had indeed threatened someone earlier with his calm grace and literal biblical composure, but more than that, he had also deliberately countered a literal nursery rhyme in the most destructively brilliant way imaginable.

Oh sweet merciful face card in the sky, Jeonghan Yoon. 

Just when Seokmin had foolishly, delusionally, naively believed that he had already reached the peak of divine admiration, that there was no higher point of reverence to feel for this man, Jeonghan had taken that fragile illusion and shattered it cleanly as he always did.

He once again reminded Seokmin exactly where he belonged: firmly and irrevocably on the ground, where mortals knelt in humbled silence while watching a celestial being move through the world. Blessed be the bone structure, indeed . And the terrifying part was that this might not even be the most powerful thing he’d ever seen Jeonghan do.

In the name of all things unholy. Jeonghan Yoon, my Lord and contour.

For someone who was running on 30 minutes of sleep and maybe four and a half rounds of Michelin-grade espresso (nespresso pods, not that it helped with anything), plus two cups of tea courtesy of the building’s room service, Seokmin was surprised that he still looked a lot more decent than he expected.

They were now inside another private lounge, one that was slightly bigger than the one yesterday, though still marginally smaller than the Empire’s, which, to be fair, could house an entire indoor parade, but it was just the right size to make you feel important without removing the exclusivity.

Jeonghan, of course, was looking glamorous and godly as always, not a hair out of place, not a single crease on his tailored black coat, blessing the air with that unexplainable density that seemed to make the air around him thicker, warmer, and impossible not to inhale. The deity, as always, smelled exactly like Seokmin remembered: s oft vanilla with a touch of something divine .

"Again, congratulations on your promotion.”

The espresso may have started to kick in by that point because although Seokmin didn’t pass out (thankfully) , it didn’t change the fact that Jeonghan may have just rewritten the modern-day commandments, engraved them in gold tablets, or worse, offhandedly dropped a new Gospel right there.

Surely this had to be a mistake, right? He probably misheard. Maybe the nespresso pods were expired, or worse, the tea had been laced with illegal herbs. Damn it . He should have only trusted Minghao when it came to steeped leaves and other leafy things you can’t pronounce.

"P…promoted? Shit . I me—I’m sor—I didn—I—" Seokmin sputtered, already fanning himself with his sweaty hands and trying to string together a coherent thought without combusting. "Sorry. I—I thought that—that was just a m—mistake. Wait. Am I halluc—"

He was about to spiral deeper into his mental descent until he turned to the person beside him. The ever-collected, ever-composed, human manifestation of The Empire’s entire operations manual, Chan, was staring straight at Jeonghan with the same exact look of confused reverence that Seokmin genuinely believed was exclusive to him. It wasn’t .

"I… wait," Seokmin whispered slowly, blinking at the boy who could probably run a 200-slide presentation from memory. "Chan, y-you heard it too? For the second time? So… so I wasn’t… I wasn’t imagining things, right?"

Chan nodded very, very slowly, like his brain was trying to buffer through the announcement. Even the genius, overachiever, encyclopedia Chan was caught off-guard. "No. You weren’t. He really… He really said that... again."

And because the universe was cruel, Jeonghan chose that exact moment to turn to them again, smiling like a celestial being who just gently announced the arrival of peace on earth, and Seokmin swore the air quality changed again.

He smiled, a soft, sincere curve of his lips that made Seokmin think maybe the flowers were blooming from the walls or maybe that was just the caffeine kicking in. "You both deserved it," Jeonghan said, voice so gentle, eyes knowing, before sipping from his glass of something expensive and clear. "You earned it."

The deity finally pulled out what the team liked to call The Divine Scriptures, matte black, sealed with the Empire’s gold-stamped wax crest. Seokmin once again felt that irrational, compelling need to write himself a letter just to have an excuse to use wax. So this is really not just the caffeine, then . He opened the envelope with more reverence than he’d ever admit.

The Empire: Opulent 

Internal color theory dev, layered thread response, saturation weight drop (Q2) - Seokmin

Macro sequence timing, retail range pulse, stockholder resonance (Pre-merge) - Chan

What . Opulent? No, it can’t be.

Chan looked up from his own card, eyes squinting as if something had clicked in that terrifyingly organized brain of his. “Wait, is this the same Opulent?” he asked, brows drawing together. “One of the three developers that have licensing to reactive silk-thread engineering?”

Jeonghan gave a single nod, serene and elegant as always, hands folded on the table, even his posture was way too perfect. Seokmin had to look away as he could only stare harder at the document. 

Opulent . Damn right it was that Opulent. The same Opulent Seokmin went through a whole creative obsession phase last year. He remembered scrolling through their fiber patents just for fun. He even made a few sketches pretending he’d submit one day. That “one day” never came, obviously, since the designs were never submitted. Hell, he barely remembered where he kept the file. Some were probably half-finished.

“T-Their biosynthetic weaves retain true color depth in a single dye cycle,” Seokmin blurted, eyes wide, words catching up to his own brain. “Their membranes are cross-threaded for temperature-sensitive dyes, so they don’t need heat reprocessing. The saturation weight drop’s under point-three grams per cent—”

Oh my god.

Chan was blinking at him. Jeonghan, however, looked very much pleased. The faintest curl of his lips was enough to make Seokmin short-circuit. No. No, there’s no way.

During his late-night experiments with the Opulent silk set, he’d mocked up a few dual-blend overlays that behaved exactly like what Jeonghan just listed on the sacred paper. He even remembered testing those with a stress distribution tool he downloaded for free.

“D-did y-you…” Seokmin’s voice cracked halfway. “How d-did y…I-I mean… you remembered that?”

Jeonghan, radiant in the way he always was, didn’t flinch or look surprised. “The dual-blend ratio overlay, and the reactive lift at the seams,” he said, voice smooth and certain. “That was yours, wasn’t it?”

Seokmin choked on air. “But I didn’t even… I didn’t put my name on that.”

He once again gave that serene smile that somehow reached his eyes without changing his expression much. Something warm flared up in Seokmin’s chest, that usual awe and affection reserved only for the celestial being that is Jeonghan. 

Oh, and there it was again, the quiet, unshakable proof. All-knowing . Maybe the God persona everyone had built around him was really not just a product of admiration anymore. Holy shi-. Seokmin was going to need to lie down for six to eight hours, maybe more.

Meanwhile, Chan was still staring at his own sheet. “I… I only made that macro because I wanted to color-code the graphs better,” he said, voice smaller than usual.

Jeonghan gave him a soft nod. “And now you’re doing Q3 macro sequencing.”

Chan looked down at his drink. “Shit. But I—I didn’t mean to be—”

“Wait, so…” Seokmin jumped in again. “Did you… buy Opulent? Or is this… like, a licensing thing? Or a full partnership? I’m sorry. I-I don’t even know how any of that works.”

He remembered something Minghao said once during their uncalled-for gossiping sessions.

 “Jeonghan doesn’t do partnerships, unless it’s a capsule feature, and even then, it’s limited and time-bound. He doesn’t let his name, or The Empire’s, get attached to something he doesn’t fully believe in. If he’s not all in, he’s not in at all. That was the rule.”

Now, Seokmin was reminded of that again, especially when the deity himself leaned forward in the most graceful, most painfully perfect way possible, eyes locked on the documents, his scent haunting the air around them.

“I refuse to attach our name to anything subpar,” Jeonghan said.

The discussion on their promotion barely had time to settle before the jarring, impossible to ignore interruption happened. A man, who was probably a hotel staff (because there was absolutely no way anyone from The Empire would dare interrupt Jeonghan Yoon mid-sentence unless they had a death wish), barged in through the private doors with all the grace of a mistake. 

But whatever urgency he carried didn’t get him far, because Scoups was up within seconds, unmoving and firm, the solid wall of his body halting the man so abruptly that the poor guy actually stumbled backward, clearly not expecting the impact. Seokmin winced at the sheer bluntness of it.  Damn, that’s how hard his body was?

The man, now halfway on the floor and halfway trying not to look like he’d just made the worst decision of his life, opened his mouth to explain, but nothing came out. One sharp, unrelenting glare from Scoups, however, was enough to drain every ounce of resolve from the poor man and extract a confession from him as he clutched a red envelope to his chest like a shield.

“T-the annual g-global auction. Maison-” the man stuttered, clearly shaken but still clinging to the edges of duty, holding out the envelope that Seokmin now realized had a familiar thread. Black and gold, woven into a tiny symmetrical knot with a metallic trinket in the center. Seokmin recognized it far too well. His stomach dropped.

The man continued, voice cracking, eyes flicking between Jeonghan and the literal wall of intimidation standing in front of him, whose left brow was now raised. “It—It was moved to tonight. Under… under the new host’s instructions. I-I was just asked to deliver the new invitation. I swear… I’m sorry—I didn’t know—I was just—”

On his knees now, presenting the envelope to Scoups with trembling hands, the man looked like he was on the verge of passing out. The necksnapper simply glanced at Jeonghan, and it was so subtle Seokmin barely caught it, but Jeonghan nodded. Permission granted .

The dark force Scoups opened the envelope, slowly undoing the thread holding the trinket, slipping the contents out without letting his guard drop. The red paper shimmered, embossed with dark gold ink. 

"T-The auction... i-is now called..." the man stammered as Scoups handed the card to Jeonghan. "The Red Auction."

The man was just starting to push himself off the ground when two of Jisoo’s men, who had been silently stationed nearby, entered from behind. They were as per usual terrifying in that way Seokmin had come to associate with everything Jisoo-related.

The sheer force of their presence alone was enough to freeze the man where he stood and walk himself out of the room. He was escorted out without a finger laid on him. 

Maison Noire? During one of their not-so-innocent gossip sessions (knowledge exchange sessions, as Minghao would insist), Seokmin remembered the annual global auction, or also known as Maison Noire , had come up. 

Maison Noire, which literally translates to The Black House , was this highly exclusive annual gathering where only the most powerful names in fashion, art, and design were allowed through the doors. 

And according to Chan (who, for some reason, seemed to know way too much about what went on behind closed doors, suspiciously so), the event let them trade unreleased collections, swap archival pieces, and struck deals that decided what everyone else would be wearing next year whether they liked it or not.

One segment in particular, the Noire Auction, or the Black Auction, is broadcast publicly under the guise of “honoring and celebrating fashion history.” But everyone knows it’s really just a way to remind the public who gets to decide what’s worth anything at all.

Seokmin remembered Minghao’s dry and unimpressed words 

“Sure. That’s why they auction off things like the dress worn by a dead monarch, or a perfume bottle that was seen near Jeonghan. Whatever. We all know there’s always a bidding war over something Jeonghan wore once, or didn’t even wear. Just something he happened to be standing next to.”

And then Soonyoung, bless his topsy-turvy little heart, had thrown in,  

“And in true Jeonghan-worshipper fashion, the whole thing’s basically just an excuse for the host to brag that Jeonghan Yoon showed up.”

Yet now the auction was being moved and renamed without warning, on the same night Jeonghan was in Copenhagen, and under a new host? The red invitation was even wrapped in a thread with the familiar trinket hanging from the center.

Seokmin couldn’t even finish piecing the timeline together when Jeonghan stood poised and unbothered. If anything, the man looked just as unshaken as ever, not even a flicker of worry behind those usually too-honest eyes. On one hand, Seokmin could see the sharp agitation behind the Necksnapper’s stare, clear as day. 

He gave them a serene, addicting smile, and somehow his scent was still wafting into Seokmin’s already-fried brain. Not a single trace of anxiety, which, ironically, made Seokmin feel very anxious.

“The theme is … predictable ,” Jeonghan said, probably resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the sheer lack of imagination. “Well, red. I’ll see you at the event.” Then walked out in full grace and glory, his glowing aura and god-tier air trailing after him as though he hadn’t upended everyone’s nervous systems. And naturally, his dark shadow Scoups followed. 

Seokmin hadn’t even fully recovered from the dinner, from the mint chocolate incident, from the promotion announcement, and now this. He hadn’t even had time to compose another mentally deranged poem of praise for Jeonghan, and now he was hours away from attending yet another one of Jeonghan’s absurdly privileged events

The only thread of sanity he was holding onto right now was the kid beside him, who Seokmin had seen survive both literal and figurative storms without flinching, also looking just as flustered and mildly horrified. 

That, and the fact that Seokmin could now officially brag to Minghao about being invited to the Maison. Because apparently, despite all his cosmic beauty and terrifying influence, Jeonghan Yoon had never brought anyone else before other than necksnapper.

“And I thought things couldn’t get any weirder,” he heard Chan mutter before downing a full glass of what Seokmin could only assume was yet another alcoholic attempt at coping, then immediately asked for a refill.

Isaac Newton established the relationship between an object's motion and the forces acting upon it through three fundamental laws of motion.
The second law defines force as the product of an object's mass and acceleration. The greater the mass and the faster it moves, the greater the force.

From what Seokmin had heard, threats (at least the few that had ever dared) never lasted longer than a single day. In all of The Empire’s history, there had never been a second attempt, as Jisoo never gave room for one.

So the fact that Seokmin had now witnessed not one, but several attempts, all from the same source, only meant one thing: something was wrong. Very wrong.

The weight of these threats had been building. And if Newton’s second law was right, then the impact would be far greater than any of the ones spoken in rumors.

Seokmin may joke around about Chan's encyclopedic brain with that usual teasing grin and occasional poke, but tonight, inside this cathedral of captalism unfamiliar faces, he was nothing short of grateful that the human Google beside him knew more about everyone in the room than they probably knew about themselves. 

They were seated among designers and industry elites, and while Chan was easily blending in, Seokmin was trying not to drown in his own awkwardness, repeating greetings he had long run out of, trying to hold conversations he had no credentials for, all while pretending to know the exact tone difference between crimson and carmine . 

He wanted to disappear every time someone brought up thread count or historical textile value or named a designer who, according to Chan, only released one piece per continent. Seokmin’s social battery had died somewhere between the second glass of champagne and his third attempt at describing his position at The Empire without sounding like an intern who got lost.

The Maison Noire was being held in a private estate not too far from their hotel. The entire lounge was saturated in shades of crimson, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, the rose-glazed hors d’oeuvres being passed around on trays. Everyone was wearing red. Or at least, their own interpretation of it: rubies, burgundy, oxblood, scarlet, maroon, and whatever Chan called the red that Valentino trademarked. 

Seriously, God bless this kid and whatever brain factory made him.

Seokmin had been trying (and failing) to socialize for what felt like an eternity (realistically, maybe ninety minutes) and had gone through all acceptable greetings, polite smiles, but apparently, hello wasn’t good enough for this crowd. 

And still, no Jeonghan Yoon in sight.

Almost ninety minutes in, and not a single flash of that godlike glow. Almost every person they spoke to had either subtly or bluntly mentioned how out of character it was. Jeonghan Yoon, the deity himself, was known for his punctuality. He never arrived late, not once, not even when flying in from another country, not even when walking out of a plane straight into a gala.

Everyone was waiting for Jeonghan, so the entire atmosphere was tense in that expectant way. People pretended to look at the pieces on display, only to glance at the entrance every few minutes.

That “people” included Seokmin who also glanced toward the doors every so often, every few minutes actually, growing more and more antsy. Seokmin tried asking Chan what it could mean, but the kid’s encyclopedia ran out of indexed answers the moment things entered the territory of unpredictable.

Something didn’t feel right. Did they abandon them? Oh God, did something happen to him?

Eventually, the crowd settled as the auction officially began. Seokmin noted from Chan’s hushed explanation, that this was the only portion being aired to the public and broadcasted live to maintain Maison Noire’s air of secrecy. 

The broadcast was supposedly about honoring fashion history and artistic legacy, but everyone with half a brain knew it was meant to tease the outside world.

And yet, despite the official start and the cameras that were very clearly running, despite the lights and the pomp and the rehearsed signaling of every assistant and staff member involved, the room hadn’t truly come alive. The crowd, though quiet, was still distracted. Their gazes continued veering toward the entrance, readably searching for someone.Or rather, they were waiting for someone who, curiously, still hadn’t arrived.

Well, like every event that ever had the name Jeonghan Yoon attached to it, the guests knew better than to treat anything as officially started until Jeonghan Yoon had entered the room. That was the unspoken rule.

A man in a red velvet suit walked onto the stage to start the auction. He was unfamiliar and unapologetically confident, and his presence was instantly unsettling, not least because even Chan didn’t know who he was, which in itself was already cause for alarm considering Chan had basically memorized half the industry’s organizational tree. 

Nonetheless, the auction began and Seokmin could already feel his brain slipping into mild disorientation when the first item was presented with flourish, and to his absolute horror, the opening bid was casually declared at six digits. Holy shi-

According to Chan, the auction was going far drier than usual, and Seokmin could see it for himself. The crowd was, without a doubt, uninterested. There were half-hearted murmurs, a few polite acknowledgment, and one slow, painful bid that was merely a pity gesture rather than genuine desire. 

No one was really engaging, as everyone was still waiting for someone. The one.

The second item to be auctioned was rolled out, and to Seokmin’s growing confusion, it was a horrendous mess that looked like it was made by a bored child who accidentally stepped on a palette. The room responded with a few confused murmurs, but mostly silence. There was still no glimmer of excitement, other than a collective indifference.

Seokmin was already leaning toward Chan to rustle a thousand questions that all boiled down to what the hell is going on , when the man in the red suit casually spoke again.

“This next one was meant to be privately auctioned for Mr. Jeonghan Yoon.”

Seokmin felt the actual cold sweat that ran down his neck, the unmistakable shiver upon hearing the name that told him something was definitely, terrifyingly wrong. 

Oh my god. That was why the man was unfamiliar even to Chan. Something was wrong, seriously wrong, and it all pointed to one thing: Jeonghan was still nowhere to be found.

The man in the red suit kept talking, except there was now a trace of smugness, a quiet disrespect laced into his words that irked Seokmin and everyone else immediately. He had begun to lightly, almost carelessly, badmouth the celestial being in front of a crowd that clearly wasn’t impressed.

“But as you can see, he’s not here,” the man said, his smile curling in the wrong way, clearly building toward something insulting. “Maybe Mr. Jeonghan Yoon is not at all seri—”

Before the words could fully fall from his mouth, Seokmin instinctively smiled, as he noticed and felt the slow, familiar change in the air’s density around them. Finally . If Seokmin was being honest, this was probably the closest thing he could describe as hope in the middle of an unraveling catastrophe. 

The collective sixth sense fired off in the room once again. The very air seemed to grow heavier and more divine , as though it was folding in on itself to make room, the way it always did when the universe needed to announce and remind everyone that God had arrived.

Seconds after the familiar, addicting scent of vanilla laced with something otherworldly, reached Seokmin’s nose, the doors parted. And then through it walked the most beautiful, most worshipped being everyone had ever laid eyes on. Oh my god.

In his ever-untouchable, almost celestial magnificence, Jeonghan Yoon appeared like he had been sculpted directly from light, dressed in all white almost cleansing the crimson-drenched room with something so blinding, so divine. 

The entire hall, rich in red lighting, velvet seats, and warm amber reflections, seemed to bow in reverence as Jeonghan entered wearing pure white from head to toe, untouched by the color of blood that surrounded him

His hair was pulled back into a neat low ponytail, soft strands left intentionally loose at the sides to frame his face in a way that could only be described as shattering. Jeonghan was draped in custom-tailored white from head to toe, a high-necked inner top paired with structured wide-leg trousers, and over it, a pristine, textured ivory trench coat that moved like falling snow every time he took a step.

And Seokmink Panther naturally caught the barely-there embroidery along the inside of the hem, gold-threaded and subtle, the initials J.H. Yoon delicately stitched. 

Though he was walking at a completely normal pace, Jeonghan somehow still looked like he was moving in slow motion. He made his way directly to the center of the auction floor, each step resounding against the tension in the room, and when he finally turned to face the crowd, he smiled. 

Seokmin immediately knew this was another one of Jeonghan’s divine retaliation , his counterattack to the threat that was the man in the red suit. Jeonghan, in turn, had delivered a clapback with his mere presence. And as if responding to some internal instinct, Seokmin’s eyes quickly scanned the crowd and locked onto Scoups, stationed close, just out of direct view, watching from near the center with a presence as heavy and ready as ever. Seeing him somehow allowed Seokmin to feel relieved and breathe again.

“I’ll take it.”

Jeonghan’s crisp words rang through Seokmin’s ears similar to thunderclouds splitting open over still water. The man in the red suit looked visibly rattled, clearly caught off guard, and though he tried to mask it, his displeasure painted across his face with every second. He looked offended, no, more than that, he looked disarmed . 

Well, what else did he expect? God had arrived.

Around Seokmin, the crowd was already losing composure. Some had their mouths slightly agape, some were reaching for their phones in awe, and others were whispering quietly, as if afraid to speak too loud in the presence of something too beautiful. 

“Change of plans,” the man in red announced, his voice sharp and imbued with something far too smug for someone standing on borrowed time. “We’ll now begin the bidding for what everyone waits for every year… yes, the Jeonghan Yoon items.”

The moment Jeonghan’s name left his lips, the room snapped back to life. The crowd, previously stunned into breathless silence by the living deity in front of them, now scrambled to reach for their auction paddles. Seokmin watched in disbelief as grown, powerful, terrifyingly wealthy people fumbled like children, as if hearing Jeonghan’s name activated some primal urge to worship. In Seokmin’s case, it did.

Jeonghan, being the naturally born icon of perfection that he was, remained completely unfazed. Even with all eyes on him and a clear threat uncoiling in real time, he didn’t so much as blink. The celestial being stood tall, as if nothing in the world could touch him , still radiating that impossible light that made it hard for people to remember how to breathe. 

The man in red had been watching him closely. His stare, sharp and unscrupulous, had not left Jeonghan once. And then, with a restfulness that bordered on deranged, he spoke again.

“All right. Let’s start with…”

Before anyone could process it, and with no warning, the man suddenly stepped forward and yanked Jeonghan by the collar. In one swift, ruthless motion, he pulled him close and pressed a knife directly to his ethereal face.

The gasp that tore through the room was nearly deafening. Some guests stood from their seats in shock. Chan jumped forward without thinking, and Seokmin’s heart dropped straight into his stomach as he also surged forward out of instinct, ready to throw himself between Jeonghan and the knife if needed. He caught Scoups moving too fast, a blur of black about to strike.

Yet all of them stopped at the deliberate, impossibly graceful raise of Jeonghan’s hand, without flinching and breaking eye contact. It was a command . And it held back everyone, including Seokmin, Chan, and even Scoups, who had already been mid-step.

Even with a literal knife against his flawless skin, even while held by the collar, Jeonghan looked unfazed and composed, and not even his breath had quickened.

“...with Jeonghan Yoon’s blood , drawn directly from his face. ” the man in red continued, his voice filled with venom, as he turned his head to face the camera. Right. The world was still watching .

“The face considered the most expensive in the world. The face of the nation. The face of... God ” he paused for emphasis, letting the words hang with cruelty before looking back at Jeonghan, “ isn’t that what they call you?” He scoffed. The blade in his hand inched closer as everyone held their breath even more.

“Well, he clearly has no flaws, and not even a single pore in sight.” The red man tilted his head, speaking slower now, deliberate and cold, as he dragged the knife along Jeonghan’s cheek with terrifying rigorousness.

“But I’m curious. Does the flawless God of the world… bleed ? ” Seokmin didn’t realize how long he had stopped breathing until his chest began to ache. His eyes were fixed on the blade, on the slow movement, on the surreal barbarousness of it all.

The man in red kept going, voice low but debauched with triumph.

“So... how much would the world be willing to pay for the blood of God?” he muttered, then gave a smile so off-putting it annoyed every bit of instinct in Seokmin’s body, and everyone else’s too.

“Jeonghan Yoon. God of the world. Twin brother of the devil.” The red man leaned closer now, his words dropping heavier and sharper with each breath. The mention of the devil seemed to have triggered something volatile within him, as though even the mere thought of Jeonghan’s brother ignited something he could no longer control.

“Oh, that fucking brother of yours!”

The man in red’s voice was cracking with fury that comes from losing control. And it was probably the last straw, because Seokmin saw the way he tightened his grip, while his body coiled with the intention to move forward. 

Oh no. The blade was going to cut.

“THE DEVIL—”

A violent high-pitched sound suddenly pierced the room, ​​ringing through the marble hall as glittering shards of glass exploded outward, scattering in every direction. The crystal tower beside the red man had just shattered. 

The man in red recoiled in shock, as blood began to trail from the edge of his ear where something sharp had grazed him. His hands, previously full of threat against Jeonghan, were now bound tightly behind him, though no one in the room had seen who had moved, or how it had been done.

What the hell is going on. Seokmin couldn't comprehend a single thing.

The silence that followed was thick and alive with something far more dangerous than panic. An eerie stillness abruptly swept across the auction floor. Even Jeonghan’s familiar scent of soft vanilla with a trace of something divine, had been overtaken by something far heavier. The air was now laced with the bite of expensive leather, the sting of steel, the burn of gunpowder, and the sharp musk that seemed to settle into every corner like smoke that refused to fade.

Yet still, no one was visible, and only the sound of sharp and unsettlingly loud heels clicking reverberated through the hall. With each click of the heel, the air felt tighter and heavier, much the same as the walls had inched closer. 

A man in all black finally emerged beneath the lights.

He looked like the complete inverse of Jeonghan’s divine white. His black long coat was structured and heavy, and cut with the sharpness of his muscular build, draping over broad shoulders and a solid, well-built frame. Underneath, he wore structured black layers with pressed slacks, a high-collared shirt, and a slim vest tucked immaculately beneath his coat. 

His face was just as sharp as the rest of him, further accentuated by the undercut hairstyle that framed his features. And to be fair, he was handsome, dangerously so, but where Jeonghan was sculpted with divine light, this man looked carved from shadow.  

But that didn’t make him any less beautiful. No, not at all. There was no warmth in his beauty like Jeonghan’s, but there was something so striking it could make you shiver from just the sight of his face. Each ear bore multiple silver piercings, studs and small hoops that glinted under the luster, but on his right ear hung a single black cross, moving in synchronicity with his motion.

He was terrifying, yet he looked stunning. 

“Is here.” the man in black finally said, his voice low and dry, edged with something mischievous . 

There was a hint of a smug smirk on his face, as though the fear thick in the room was expected, earned even. He kept walking forward with the same composure, though whereas Jeonghan moved with elegance and divine ease, this man walked with the dark force of consequence. 

“And he is dressed better than God.” he said, stopping directly in front of Jeonghan, the smirk on his face now fully visible.

Everyone’s eyes had already begun to tremble, so had their breathing. The weight in the room had grown unbearable. 

Jeonghan, who was no longer being held, adjusted the collar of his coat upon hearing the statement. And despite almost being cut only seconds earlier, he stood tall and untouched, looking as composed and unbothered as ever. 

Then, with a single breath that carried the softest sound (a short exhale that might have been a laugh, if not for the timing) he turned to face the man now standing before him and spoke with a quiet glint in his expression, almost like a smile but the kind of knowing curve that belonged only to the divine.

“You’re late.”

Oh?

Oh.

Jisoo Hong.

Seokmin finally understood what had cut off the red man's words,“The devil—” which had technically been interrupted by the sudden shattering of the crystal tower beside him, glass bursting outward from a silent gunshot that had grazed the man’s ear just enough to bleed. 

It had been arrogantly, deliberately finished by the very man the entire world only ever muttered about, Jeonghan’s twin brother, who had said it himself.

“—is here.”

Right.

The devil is here.
Jisoo Hong had arrived.

Isaac Newton established the relationship between an object's motion and the forces acting upon it through three fundamental laws of motion.

The third law states that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

Initially, Seokmin assumed that every divine retaliation or clapback Jeonghan made was the equal reaction to the threats around him.

But after seeing Jeonghan’s ever-so-infamous twin brother with his own eyes, Seokmin couldn’t help but be amused at the striking contrast between them, striking, yet just as equal.

While Jeonghan radiated a divine presence that made people feel as though they were being lifted into light, this twin of his radiated something of equal, yet entirely opposite , reaction, an unholy presence that made people tremble from fear of the dark.

The rumors were true, after all. 

Jisoo Hong was indeed hot as fuck blood-curdling even from his face alone.

Chapter Text

rule no. 9 - worship is owed, but fear is due

Fight, flight, or freeze are involuntary defensive responses activated by the sympathetic nervous system. The body moves or freezes before the mind can process why.

150526.

It was supposed to be a simple code. Six digits was all it took to activate the keycard access panel, which would then allow the actual keycard to work, which would then (finally) open the stupid high-security door that honestly didn't even look that important in the grand scheme of all the other haunted shit happening lately. 

But by fair means or foul, Seokmin had made the simple act of pressing those numbers feel like a life-or-death decision. 

For thirty minutes now ( actually thirty-four, because he glanced at the top corner of his phone screen, and yes, he’d been standing here for that long), he’d been stuck in that exact spot. His finger was still floating uselessly above the pad, ostensibly waiting for approval from a divine being or maybe a higher clearance from whatever god ran this place (probably Jeonghan).

Blessed be the goddamn mess.

The code wasn’t even hard to remember, yet his brain and his body were clearly in some kind of miscommunication crisis, because while his limbs remained completely immobile (he was one step away from full rigor mortis), his mind had been running an endless marathon. 

There was not even a semblance of normalcy inside his skull with every passing second, other than a mental Armageddon trying to process every single life-altering event that had happened since yesterday.

To be fair (to be fair!) you couldn’t blame the man. 

It hadn’t even been thirty-six hours since the goddamn dinner where mint chocolate and children’s nursery rhymes were weaponized into garbled threats, or since a random man sprinted into Scoups (and quite literally fell flat on his ass the moment he bounced off the necksnapper), or since Jeonghan oh-so-casually dropped a surprise promotion onto Seokmin’s already overworked and quite frankly, over fried soul.

And if those three things alone weren’t already difficult enough to cram into the brain of a regular mortal employee (who still occasionally forgets his own email password), what followed was an entirely new category of psychological damage.

The annual exclusive event reserved for the wealthiest, most powerful names across the globe, the Maison Noire, had suddenly been pushed forward to today, even though it wasn’t originally scheduled and absolutely no one had been informed until it was too late to question anything. 

Seokmink Panther immediately suspected that the sudden rescheduling had something to do with all the chaos from the night before. It wasn’t a coincidence, no. It couldn’t be. Maybe Jeonghan’s divine (and upsettingly attractive) clapbacks had struck a nerve so deep that the threat dispatcher needed to up the game just to keep the momentum going.

In the middle of the auction, a man in a red suit dared (yes, dared) to badmouth and even pull a knife on Jeonghan Yoon, the face the entire world worships regardless of what religion they practice (well, spoiler alert: he was also the sender of the threats, or at least Seokmin was 78% sure, though the exact reason behind remains unclear). Seokmink Panther could only guess so much before collapsing from stress.

Just when Seokmin had genuinely started convincing himself that things had finally peaked, the crystal tower beside the man in red suit literally exploded into shards, grazing the man’s ear in an instant.

And of fucking course , because apparently life had not finished torturing him, Seokmin had the honor (trauma, most likely) of witnessing the arrival of the Devil himself in the flesh, stepping out of the shadows with an entrance that involved undeviating structural damage. 

Somewhere in between the physical threats, the bleeding ear, and Jeonghan’s angelic smirk of disapproval, Seokmin had started short-circuiting. But honestly, Jesus take the wheel, because he wasn’t the only one.

Everyone else in the room had metaphorically (and in some cases literally) fallen to their knees, either from fear, admiration, or a spiritual amalgamate of both. Honestly, can you blame them, when they were in the literal presence of a god and a devil?

Good fucking grief. No, holy shitballs on a designer platter. That insanely attractive man in black was really the Devil. The very same person who, in over a decade of The Empire’s existence, had never shown his face to the world, not even once (not even to Chan, the human database).

He shut his eyes for a moment to force his mind to replay it all again, as if repetition would help him make sense of it (it wouldn’t). But still, his brain dragged him back to that moment anyway.

“You’re late,” Jeonghan, dressed in pristine white, had said it with a tone so casually divine . 

Even now, Seokmin could still hear it clearly in his head, how it somehow managed to sound both amused and ominous. His expression wasn’t quite a laugh, but it wasn’t far from it either, since only Jeonghan could pull that off in the face of actual insanity.

“Late is a mortal word, brother.” Jisoo had responded, his words ringing out like the cracking of thunder right after the sky flashed, while sending real-time shivers down Seokmin’s spine (and also butterflies in his stomach? No, now’s not the time. Jeez ). 

His veiny hand was tucked into his pocket as he slowly redirected his sharp, narrowed gaze (without blinking or moving his head) toward the red-suited man, who was now visibly rattled. “Time doesn’t tick until I say it can.”

Holy Lord of the gays

Seokmin swore the air got heavier (not like Jeonghan’s divine presence which always smelled of vanilla and heaven), but something darker, carrying the scent of cold steel and rain and earth after thunder (with danger wearing cologne and the perfume practically stamped with the name Fear). Yes, it was that specific .

Jisoo eyed the man up and down, and Seokmin’s insides did a full somersault (though he tried to convince himself it was just his fears). 

“J-Jisoo?” The red man, who somehow managed to hijack the annual auction and single-handedly put everyone on edge, was bleeding from his ear and still had his hands bound behind his back (which no one really saw happen?), and was clearly stammering under the weight of something far beyond his control.

Wow, so this guy actually does know who he’s messing with.

“Fear really does make people forget their manners.” Jisoo had said, head tilted just enough to let the light catch on the silver of his piercings. His tone was ice cold and yet so eerily playful it made Seokmin’s soul itch. “Let me remind you: It’s The Devil. Say it properly.”

And that should’ve been the moment the man either begged for his life, cried for help, or passed out cold from the blood steadily dripping down his face. That would’ve been normal. But instead, to the confusion of absolutely everyone watching, the bastard just... scoffed?

Wait. Did he just scoff?

Seokmin’s head lagged about five seconds behind his body because his brain couldn’t fully accept what his eyes and ears had just confirmed. This walking red flag in a literal red suit, had the gall to scoff in front of Jeonghan and Jisoo, after everything that had just happened. 

At this point, Seokmin was around 96% certain that this was the same man who had been sending the threats. Yet, that still didn’t explain who he really was or why he thought he could stand there, bleeding and bound, and have the nerve to speak to God and the Devil like this, let alone scoff at Jisoo , the man feared by name alone.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Jisoo. You expect me to tremble before someone who can barely land a shot?” the man said, tilting his head ever so slightly, almost smugly , revealing the side of his face where the blood was still leaking steadily from his ear.

Jisoo laughed in the most fanciable, handsome way Seokmin had ever heard. And to be clear, that sentence didn’t make sense even in his own head. How could a laugh be handsome? 

Not that it made it any less terrifying, no. The laugh still sent three separate ripples of shivers down everyone’s spines. While everyone else flinched or froze or turned pale, though, Seokmin was also dealing with that strange, unplaceable itch settled into his body. 

God. May the power of gay panic compel him.

“A clean shot would’ve been merciful ,” Jisoo finally said, each word painstakingly delivered, and the weight of it was making even Seokmin’s knees feel like jelly. “Unfortunately for you,” he continued, each step sending a new waft of dread down Seokmin’s back, “I’m not the brother dressed in white.”

And then (oh, god) , he tilted his head, eyes moving to the side. His stare locked onto the bleeding ear, and almost immediately, the slow trickle of blood began to speed up. Seokmin felt every hair on his (recently shaved) arms rise at the same time.

“And you did say the theme was … red ,” Jisoo continued as a playful grin pulled at his lips emanating the arrogance that could only come from someone who had never once been on the losing side. It was the kind of handsome expression that radiated the Devil the most, making Seokmin’s stomach twist again for reasons he really didn’t want to unpack. “Horrible choice, by the way.”

While Jeonghan brought reverence and awe, Jisoo brought terror. And somehow… he was beautiful, too.

The man in the red suit, who at this point seemed to be holding back any visible signs of rattling with a face that tried to look brave, was clearly cracking at the edges, and Seokmin could tell. 

Well, of course he could. He had been under the tutelage of the godly presence known as Jeonghan Yoon, who could remain as pristine and untouchable as a statue even in the midst of chaos, and not to mention, had been recently trained through trauma by the devil himself (which, let’s be honest, was probably worse than any special ops course). 

So yeah, he could tell. The man was rattled.

"Now, don't flatter yourself too much” the red man sneered, “did you forget the cameras are rolling?" He turned his head toward the lens as if he had done something impressive, despite the clear looks of irritation and secondhand embarrassment being exchanged across the room. “People are now seeing the other half of The Empire for who he truly is.”

If Jeonghan could keep that godlike composure even in the most threatening situations, Jisoo was his exact opposite, or rather, the perfect counterbalance. 

There was nothing calm about Jisoo. He was neither chaotic nor volatile. He was cheeky, sure , that smug grin was practically carved into his face, but it was the kind of expression that never gave away what he’d do next. 

Jisoo was not the evil kind of devil that people imagined, not the mythical being made of fire and rage (though rumors say he did burn places and people who dared hurt his brother). He was the kind you did not mess with, because everything about him blared power and consequence . 

Jeonghan radiated peace, Jisoo radiated provocation.

Nothing appeared to shake him, and even if it did, he never showed it. He would grin, strike back harder, and look excruciatingly good while doing it. His smirk alone could make people flinch.

Seokmin was already losing grip on his mental composure every time Jisoo so much as shifted his weight and the sound of his boots rang across the floor. Every step was unfairly attractive.

“And who said I didn’t want to be seen?” Jisoo said, lips curling into a lingering smirk, that immediately sent tremors through the walls, let alone the crowd. And then he turned his head slowly toward the nearest camera, gaze sharp enough to slit throats, every angle of his face catching the light in all the wrong ways (because he looked too awfully enticing and hot, it was distracting Seokmin a bit too much). 

His cross earring swung gently against his jaw as he tilted slightly forward, and his cheekbones were cut like sin itself. Jeonghan looked like divinity sculpted into human form, while Jisoo looked like temptation hand-delivered by the universe.

He stepped forward until he stood in front of the lens, leaning just close enough to sharpen every line of his face.

“People deserve to know how handsome the devil is,” he said, deadpan, before shooting a smart-assed smirk at the celestial being. “And also, the better looking twin.”

Seokmin hadn’t even realized Jeonghan had taken his seat, and was already swirling wine between delicate fingers (as one would predict from someone Seokmin was now fully convinced had been conceived by Dionysus, the god of wine, himself). And with Scoups standing beside him as his divine wall of protection. Of course.

As expected from the most beautiful person to ever exist, Jeonghan balanced the tension in the room with a single reply in all his God-mode glory, 

“Well, it does say glory to God.”

Seokmin almost reacted out loud. The tension tilted for a second, some people exhaling in visible awe while others remained frozen in reverent silence. God . Everything Jeonghan did looked divine, and even breathing looked holy. Seokmin was halfway to tears again out of reverence. How did Jeonghan manage to make one line sound like scripture?

When Jisoo grinned back, all teeth and joy, it was clear he felt the same. Before Seokmin could spiral any further, the man in the red suit spoke again.

"Oh please. You think you both win? Really?" The scoff that followed was loud and irritating. 

Being the god-sent entity he clearly was, Jeonghan didn’t flinch or blink. He just continued to swirl his wine as though no words had been spoken at all by the man in the red suit. And true to divine form, the Devil didn’t look at him either, and instead, just poured himself a neat glass of scotch (probably? Seokmin wasn’t sure) and leaned back, crossing one leg over the other like this was a game he’d already claimed victory in, when the bastard in red spoke once again,

"Look at you, Jisoo. More than ten years without a trace, and I was the only one who could lure you out. You really can't say no to blood, huh?"

Blood? Seokmin’s brain glitched at once, or maybe rebooted, or froze? Well, whatever it was, it wasn’t working properly again.

He could feel his thoughts skidding across glass. The twins were… orphaned, weren’t they? That’s common knowledge, or at least what everyone at The Empire said. The twins were raised with no one but each other. 

So who was this man? It couldn’t be their father, no. The twins were far too attractive for that to be possible, Jeonghan especially, he was far too ethereal to be spawned by this gremlin, and there wasn’t even the faintest hint of resemblance.

Seokmin couldn’t process anything beyond that, but one thing did register: the red suit man was family, and apparently, that fact alone had earned several side-eyes and a quiver of murmurs from the crowd. 

Seokmink Panther™ would return to this mystery later (preferably after his system had successfully restarted).

The air grew heavy as Jisoo downed his drink and stood. He removed his coat and tossed it around his shoulder, revealing a dangerously fit frame. Underneath was a dark fitted shirt tucked perfectly into tailored pants, every muscle shaped and carved in the most brutal way possible. His sleeves were rolled just enough to show the veins in his arms and the scent of musk grew thicker, darker.

Seokmin’s mouth went dry, yet he told himself it was just fear.

“Oh, you’re nothing but a fucking stain,” Jisoo said, voice low and amused. God . His scent was maddening, which made it hard for Seokmin to focus. Musk, thick and expensive, opposite of Jeonghan’s vanilla, yet just as addicting. It wrapped around Seokmin’s lungs like a chain, something he’d breathe in even if it burned.

“And let’s get one thing straight, God is the only blood the Devil ever claimed.”

And really, Seokmin, along with everyone else, expected the man in red to finally shut up. To back down. To beg, maybe. But no, he really had the nerve to speak.

“Well, the God you claim just lured you out,” the man said, smiling like a fool at his own funeral. “I trapped you, Jisoo.”

And God, oh, God , something fluttered into dissaray in Seokmin’s gut (either butterflies or bombs or just fear) because Jisoo laughed. Bless Seokmin's gay little heart, he’s not surviving that.  

Why did his laughter need to be laced with smugness and edged with thrill? It was cocky, no, wicked, that’s what it was.

“Trapped?” Jisoo tilted his head, amused. “I gave you space to humiliate yourself,” he said as he slowed his pace, stopping directly in front of the nearest camera lens, eyes unreadable, lips curled. “Properly.”

He reached into his inner coat pocket, fingers smooth just like his celestial brother's. A small black tin appeared in his hand. He flicked it open, plucked out a cigarette, lit it with a slow drag, and the flame briefly accentuated the angles of his face, which were too perfect and too lethal. 

Smoke curled around his jaw as he exhaled, tilting his head down ever so slightly, and without lifting it, his eyes shifted (note: only his eyes) to meet the camera lens with a stare that could cleave through stone. And there it was: the Devil on tape.

“More than ten years of worshipping divinity,” Jisoo clamored with his rich voice, punctuated by the flick of his lighter and the slow drag of smoke. The words have smooth, razor-sharp syllables that rang through the air.

Then, he walked forward again, cigarette balanced between his fingers, the scent of fire and musk trailing behind him. “Tonight, the world at least meets damnation,” immediately followed by a crooked little half-smile, which was less of a smirk and more of a sin sheathed in credence.

It would’ve sounded improper, no, borderline sacrilegious , to feel enamored by him (for Seokmin, or for anyone, really). But in the greater scheme of divinity (or whatever pantheon governed this universe), who could actually be blamed when everything he did looked too cosmopolitan for human comprehension? 

Seokmin genuinely couldn’t think of anyone else who came close, not in appearance or in presence, not even in execution. There was no such thing as accidental when it came to Jisoo or his brother. He was deliberate, surgical even. Ordinary didn’t exist in their orbit and mediocrity wasn’t even in the dictionary.

And really, when your literal twin brother is the most beloved celestial being on Earth, the bar for “perfection” gets pushed to unspeakable heights. Or vice versa, if you're looking through Jeonghan’s lens, where your twin just so happens to be the Devil himself: flawless, feared, and immaculately dressed.

Jisoo turned back toward the red man, took another drag of his cigarette, and without missing a beat, his voice sliced clean through the thick air.

“It is written: the wages of sin is death.”

Jisoo’s lethal and entirely unimpressed eyes dragged over the man in the red suit like a blade dressed as a stare, slicing him head to toe without a single blink before continuing “And apparently, in your case, also real estate in Denmark.”

Oh, there it was. Seokmin finally saw the flicker, the tremble, the quiet rattle behind the bastard in red's tight-lipped expression. Seokmin caught it, and so did everyone else. The man hadn’t been expecting that (no one had). 

Though Seokmin Panther™, who still hadn’t fully recovered from the face and scent and everything else going on, couldn’t even pretend to understand what  the devilishly handsome face of Jisoo meant by that line, he knew it was bad.  

He just knew it was bad (and hot) and important (but mostly hot).

Jisoo's lips curved into an almost lazy grin, quietly savoring the tension he’d ignited. There was nothing exaggerated about it, and it looked like an effortless smile that came from knowing you were in control. The light, as if in full allegiance, hit his jaw in the most unforgivable way, carving sharp edges and glinting off the planes of his face.

The Devil’s gaze stayed locked on the man in red first, unflinching and unreadable, before he finally turned to the camera, that grin pulling just a little wider.

“Skagen. Rose. Estate.”

It was as though déjà vu occurred as Seokmin was immediately reminded of Jeonghan’s Sine Qua Non during one of his divine retaliations that made everyone in the room tense in collective awe and worship. And now, from the devil himself, Seokmin was hearing that same exact tone, with each word emphasized on the surface as a verdict. It's really amusing how opposite, yet so incredibly alike, the divine twins are.

Wait . Skagen?

Seokmin had gotten carried away with the reverence (or whatever unholy admiration this was) that he didn’t realize just how familiar the name sounded. He couldn’t quite place it at first, but the recognition tickled something in his memory. It became clearer as he picked up on the low murmurs rippling through the room, confirming that others remembered it too.

Jisoo continued without pause, still facing the camera, though he wasn’t looking at it straight-on. His chin was slightly dipped, while his eyes were looking up just enough to make the angle feel sharper. It was what could Seokmin describe as the devilish kind of stare.

“Bought with money scraped off the backs of people who still pray with empty hands.”

What? Oh, wait. 

Right.

The Skagen Ponzi Scheme, the massive scandal from years ago. Seokmin remembered being in college when it exploded across the news, talking about offshore accounts, front companies, and fake estate projects. Most of his rich friends wouldn’t shut up about how their parents lost millions in a single night, how lawyers were swarming, and reputations were being dragged to hell in designer shoes.

Oh my god
This was the man?

Murmurs no longer hid in the corners since there was a growing storm of disbelief. Glares now followed the man in red, and maybe some of the guests here had been victims too, or maybe they just realized they were clapping glasses with a conman.

Jisoo’s lips cruelly curled again, into a warning conned as a smile. 

“And on the night they saw the Devil,” he said, exhaling a slow stream of smoke through his nose, voice velvet-lined (because he unfortunately looked too beaucoup) but edged in steel, “his first act was repossession.”

He flicked a bit of ash from his cigarette with a graceful tilt of his wrist, head angling ever so marginally as he turned back to the red suit man. The rising haze framed half of his face, casting the other in shadow, and for absolutely no heterosexual reason, that only made him look more mercilessly attractive. 

Every word that followed came out clean, crisp, and sharpened to cut. He was God’s twin brother after all.

“Tell your mistress the Devil collects rent in fire.”

Jisoo began to walk forward again, his heels clicking against the marble floor in slow concatenation (which Seokmin could only associate with the final seconds of a countdown to something biblical… or maybe infernal. Same thing, really). 

Seokmin wasn’t alone in holding it in, though. Even the long-forgotten encyclopedia child beside him, Chan (who usually had an answer for everything), was frozen, too.

The kid’s face (and everyone else’s) was caught somewhere between terror, veneration, and whatever flavor of attraction you weren’t supposed to admit you had toward the Devil. Seokmin wasn’t sure if it was the scent (smoke, musk, or maybe hell?) , or the unholy (but good-looking) face, or the sheer confidence in how Jisoo walked, but damn . Every step closer to the uncle felt like a spell tightening.

Jisoo stopped just in front of the man in red, cigarette still hanging perfectly between his fingers as he let out another venomous smile (not that it ever really left his face).

“You wanted the Devil to show himself.”

His eyes were half-lidded, but sharp, cutting through the tension as he took a slow, languid drag from his cigarette. His lips curled around the smoke stick in a way that made Seokmin malfunction (honestly, not even a new reaction at this point).

“You should’ve remembered, he never comes without a price .”

God, it was just fatal. How could someone look this good while serving actual annihilation?

The sound of the Devil’s husky, rich laugh followed, wrapping around everyone’s neck (ooh kinky. nope, not the time, jeez). If there was an earthly equivalent to the universe filing your sins in honor of Judgment Day, then Jisoo’s would be it.

Oh, Father, Son, and gay panic. Seokmin’s brain was running on fumes. If that wasn’t already enough to end every last horny (sorry, sane ) thought left in his system (and it really should have been), then what came next absolutely wrecked the rest.

“In fact, since you’re so obsessed with appearances…”

The Devil continued as he turned, subtly gesturing with one hand. Someone stepped forward, handing him a single copy of a magazine . The glossy cover was clearly not intended for public release just yet, and Seokmin, along with the long-frozen Chan beside him, locked eyes for a second in mutual recognition. It was next month’s issue of The Empire.  

But the woman on the cover … was never part of the final layout board. Clearly, this was yet another one of those power plays pulled by the alleged “family” member. And judging from the flicker of panic on his face, he didn’t expect the divine twins to know. 

“It was meant for your mistress, wasn’t it?” Jisoo said, inspecting the cover for a moment before lighting the edge with his sleek black lighter, engraved with a gold fox in crescent shape logo that Seokmink Panther™, of course, recognized immediately. 

The Devil’s cigarette remained in his mouth as the paper began to burn. His face glowed faintly in the orange light and looked carved by gods for chaos.

“Pity.” He held the burning magazine up to the man’s face, as ash crumbled to the marble below.

“You really thought you could seduce my brother, God himself, into handing you his publication?” Jisoo leaned in just enough for it to feel like a threat with his sharp-looking unshakeable eyes.

“His. Gospel?”

Jisoo scoffed, pulling off yet another terrifyingly synchronized twin moment with the same kind of emphasis Jeonghan used when making a point no one dared challenge. The Devil leaned back, his villainous laugh spilling out effortlessly as he looked down at the bastard in the red suit.

Seokmin couldn’t even keep track of what was happening anymore (was he still breathing? unclear).

“A mediocre effort, really,” Jisoo added as he brought the cigarette back to his lips and exhaled slowly, the smoke trailing (which just made him look a million times more drop-dead gorgeous. Ugh). 

“But even a thousand threats won’t make God bow to a thief.”

The soft scent of vanilla, laced with something unmistakably heavenly, suddenly swept through the room. Seokmin recognized it instantly (and honestly, he was a little proud of that at this point). 

Even the Devil’s musky air bent and wrapped itself in that familiar sweetness as Jeonghan stood from his seat, completely untouched by the havoc, followed by the familiar shadow named Scoups just a few steps behind him.

As foreseen by every star in the sky, (and in true celestial fashion, really), Jeonghan managed to carry with him a divine kind of calm, diffusing the wicked tension left in the wake of his devil brother. 

Jeonghan looked so godly, so effortlessly ethereal, it was almost unfair. The glow around him felt permanently attached into his being, as though heaven had personally decided light was optional for everyone else. 

And his impossibly beautiful face looked like it had been sculpted with absolute precision, down to every perfect line and curve.

“Let there be light.” Jeonghan’s crisp words dipped in honey, came softly, as he paused in his steps. His eyes drifted first to the man in red, lingering briefly on Jisoo, and eventually settling on the camera with his impossibly beautiful face (which was perfect down to every line and curve).

“And there I was.” 

Holy shi-. He was so fucking beautiful.

Jeonghan turned and continued walking, each step soaked in godly panache, as his glow radiated behind him. And just like every other event where Jeonghan Yoon showed up, people worshipped. Figuratively for most, literally for some. 

Because Jeonghan Yoon never once failed to remind everyone who the real god in the room was.

The addicting scent of the celestial being (heavenly vanilla) lingered in the air, wrapping around everyone with quiet reverence. But not even a full minute passed before it was overtaken by musk and tobacco, thick and heavy, announcing the Devil’s slow approach, each heel clack ringing through Seokmin’s ears.

Where the celestial being walked drenched in white, radiating a glow that could only belong to him, Jisoo followed in black, painstaking and sly. 

And as he passed, everyone held their breath.

Just before stepping out, Jisoo turned toward the camera, his face catching the light just right. Every sharp feature of his face was perfectly defined, the glint of his cross earring once again demanding attention.

“Well,” he said, taking another slow drag from his cigarette, voice relaxed and laced with triumph, “at least the issue finally has a worthy cover.” 

The smoke curled in the air around him as he exhaled, softening the space similar to a lens filter made purely to make him look even more irresistible. His eyes met the lens, steady and unbothered, a crooked, devilishly handsome smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re welcome.”

He bit down lightly on the cigarette, head tilted slightly, and walked out, leaving nothing behind but smoke, silence, and the lingering question of whether anyone in the room would ever recover from that.

Fight, flight, or freeze are involuntary defensive responses activated by the sympathetic nervous system. The body moves or freezes before the mind can process why.

Even before Seokmin could fully process what had just been revealed by both halves of the Empire, and by the devil himself standing not two feet away, his body had already locked itself in place. 

His limbs froze, and even after the last trace of musk and tobacco drifted out the door, his brain still hadn’t caught up. He couldn’t even tell where to begin, which part to address first, was it the public reveal of the most dangerous man in the world, or was it the fact that the devil was too handsome ?

The encyclopaedic kid beside him had somehow managed to breathe and blink again, but Seokmin… was still frozen.

True to the Jeonghan’s signature way of doing things (or as Seokmin had now mentally labeled it, Jeonghan Yoon doctrine of execution), Seokmin and Chan found themselves at the afterparty. 

Technically speaking, it wasn’t The Empire’s official event, but given that the twins had orchestrated the entire pandemonium (in retaliation to the attempted Empire sabotage) from behind the scenes, the line between host and saboteur was thin at best. So, if we’re being honest about technicalities, this still felt very on-brand.

That said, it was just the two of them here, and they had to admit, the absence of the rest of the team’s chaos was sadly incontestable. Instead of a grand, sprawling event with exclusive booths and VIP corners that Seokmin could never fully process, this afterparty was something else entirely: smaller, quieter, and more intimate. Drenched in candlelight, fine wine, and far too many varieties of liquor, naturally, as expected from the spawns of Dionysus.

Chan was beside him, as always, but even while scrolling through post-crisis data, the boy genius still managed to hold a flute filled with something bubbly but still mild, maybe white peach tonic, or whatever alcohol tasted mild enough to keep his thoughts running at full capacity.

Seokmin, in contrast, felt like his hands were trembling too much to hold even soda water.

"Of course he’s trending," Chan murmured without looking up, sipping casually.

Jeonghan Yoon x Maison Noire

#JeonghanMaisonNoire

Well, what did Seokmin expect from the world’s most worshipped being? As a matter of course, Jeonghan was trending alongside the event. So far, the trending words were exactly as expected, Jeonghan, his appearance, his walk, his outfit, his … brother? 

Jeonghan Yoon Brother

Jisoo Hong

#MaisonJumelle

The Empire Twins

Damn . Seokmin leaned closer to peek at the screen.

Jeonghan and Jisoo Family

Jisoo Hong Hot   (Seokmin almost said amen to that)

#TheDevilWearsPrada

Jeonghan Yoon Skincare Routine

Seokmin choked on the flute of elderflower (because God forbid he drinks alcohol after what just happened and this was absolutely the wrong drink to inhale in surprise) at the sight of the trending words.

So the world found the Devil hot too?
Okay, not the point, but holy hell. The world now knows about Jisoo Hong? The internet truly was a cursed fascinating place.

“You’re surprised?” Chan was unimpressed, and replied without looking away from his plate. 

“Of course the world is losing it. They've been obsessed with one twin for more than a decade. Now they find out he has an equally powerful, terrifyingly attractive twin brother. It's a media implosion.”

Chan’s right. Jeonghan Yoon is the world’s most beloved celestial being, and now, the world just found out he comes with an equally powerful other half.

“Okay but like,” Seokmin whispered, leaning closer, “Jisoo literally never shows his face. And now he’s in Vogue-level lighting with cigarette smoke and fire and hell quotes…and he’s trending?”

Chan gave him a flat look. “Not that Jeonghan ever denied the existence of his brother.” He shrugged. “And clearly, Jisoo didn’t need help making an entrance.”

Seokmin stared at the screen again as the numbers climbed, engagements, reactions, press coverage, fashion breakdowns, even fan art. “The power of it all,” he mumbled and scrolled a little with his thumb and then zoomed in on one of the press screenshots.

“And get this, sales skyrocketed even more after the incident. There isn’t even a glitch of drop, not even from the attempted sabotage.”

Chan continued scrolling through his feed with one hand, smiling faintly (somewhere between impressed and unsurprised). "Every bit of effort to destroy the twins was wasted. They came out with more power than they walked in with."  Seokmin nodded slowly, still trying to catch up. There were now fancams of Jisoo’s cigarette pull from five different angles. 

Chan took a relaxed sip from his glass flute with ginger tonic before quietly adding, “Anyone insecure enough to want to destroy Jeonghan Yoon will always try. They’ll always have that same itching urge to dim him.”

Chan glanced up from his screen. "But he’ll always stay seated in his glory without lifting a single finger. And the world will worship him even more… especially now that they know he’s got a brother."

They both looked back down at Seokmin’s phone, where Jisoo’s face filled the screen: mid-smirk, cigarette lazily balanced between his lips, cross earring catching the light just enough to rearrange Seokmin’s internal organs. Drop-dead gorgeous.

After what felt like six full rounds of circling the different cuisines lined up in the buffet (and maybe a few suspiciously timed returns to the dessert table), Seokmin finally had enough of the so-called courageous liquid, (well it was white wine spritzer, fine, but still) , to look Chan dead in the eye and ask what had been bugging him since the chaos began.

“Hey. Be honest,” he muttered, half a dumpling in hand, “were we... part of the plan?”

Chan paused, expression unreadable for a second. “From the looks of it? Not even Scoups knew what the twins were planning.” he shrugged. “The auction date change was made today. Like, today today.”

Seokmin’s mind flashed to the poor man who fell flat on his ass after bumping lightly at the wall of destruction named Scoups. Right .

And if Seokmin were being honest with himself (which he barely ever was when it came to them), despite all the reverence, admiration, and whatever flavor of forbidden attraction he kept actively denying, something still lingered in the back of his mind. 

There was a low hum of uneasiness, and also questions he hadn’t quite dared ask after everything that had happened.

If everything had been orchestrated, calculated even, by the divine twins, then were they... pawns?

Nope. That couldn’t be it. Jeonghan is too good of a person. He is too kind and too caring when it comes to people working at the Empire .

“I consider the people who work with me my family.” Seokmin remembered Jeonghan’s words.

And true to what they always say, never speak lightly of the divine.

Because the second he even thought about the divine being, the immediate alteration in the density of the air was once again felt, along with the lingering scent of vanilla with heaven.

God is here. 

Maybe it was the divinity in him, or the divine intervention, or the divine timing, or maybe the world just really loves to torture Seokmin, because just as he was about to spiral into questioning (not really) Jeonghan’s intentions, the celestial being walks into the room, just in time to pull Seokmin from plummeting.

And just like that, he forgot whatever cliff his brain had been about to fall off.

In spite of the pandemonium that had erupted over the past few days, not to mention the very direct threats thrown his way, Jeonghan’s face was still the definition of peace and tranquility. He looked like peace himself and nothing could ever touch him. 

There was something about the deity’s expression alone, the sheer calm written on it, that made everyone (especially Seokmin) feel like nothing could ever truly go wrong. That as long as he was there, everything would stay intact.

The celestial being, followed by the neck-snapper, and three men who looked unmistakably like Jisoo’s men (Holy cow. Seokmin still couldn’t get over the fact that he could say that name after seeing him in the flesh, and why were his cheeks red again? Ugh.) , made their way toward their table.

One of Jisoo’s men handed over a neat envelope, something far from the divine scriptures with Jeonghan’s directives. These looked like actual documents, and Seokmin immediately decided he was far too overwhelmed (and maybe a little too high on his Jisoo fantasy, sorry, alcohol) to comprehend whatever technicalities were inside. 

Luckily, the ever-courageous and always-functional Chan was right beside him.

Without hesitation, Chan took the envelope and began flipping through its contents. To no one’s surprise, he seemed to understand everything almost instantly—his brows furrowing, fingers tapping against the edge of the paper, about to speak—

But just before Chan could open his mouth, Jeonghan, to the quiet shock of everyone at the table, was the one who spoke first. “I apologize.”

The words were almost too soft for a room so thick with silence, and yet they carried enough weight to make even Scoups, the ever-composed necksnapper, look up at Jeonghan in visible surprise. Without thinking, the necksnapper reached out and gently placed his hand atop Jeonghan’s, like he was grounding him, as though he needed him to know that whatever guilt he was carrying didn’t belong to him.

Seokmin couldn’t explain it, not fully. There was no logic to what he felt, no direct reason he could point to, but there was a sudden pang in his chest that almost made his breath hitch. Because even without fully understanding what was going on yet, he could feel that Jeonghan wasn’t at fault. And the fact that he was apologizing for something, anything, made Seokmin’s chest tighten even more.

God. Jeonghan really was too pure to be human. Seokmin now felt a heavy wave of guilt wash over him for even letting his thoughts wander earlier, for even beginning to question someone like him, even just a few seconds ago.

Beside him, Chan, who looked just as floored (if not borderline heartbroken), finally found his voice. From the look on his face, he clearly wanted to say the same thing Seokmin couldn’t bring himself to verbalize yet, what everyone in the room was probably thinking.

“But y-you... you saved us.”

What?
Jeonghan did what?

“I-I remember the file.” Chan’s voice trembled slightly, but there was urgency in it now, as if he knew Seokmin was lost and Jeonghan needed to hear it, really hear it.

And without waiting for permission, he kept going, both to explain, and more importantly, to assure Jeonghan that none of this was his fault, not even in the slightest, so he continued.

“A few weeks back, I was asked to help digitize and organize some documents from one of The Empire’s early underground fund drives, one of the old donation batches. While I was sorting through the folders, I found … a corrupted file buried deep inside a drive labeled under a dissolved fund.”

His voice was calm but entwined with something heavier now. “At first, I thought it was just data rot, or you know…something Wonwoo could clean. And he did restore it. But now that I’ve seen the actual documents… ” 

Chan glanced briefly at the envelope on the table. “It wasn’t corrupted at all. And whoever planted it used the file as an entry point into the system. It was a breach. Someone used that file to try and slip in, to target…” He glanced at the divine being. “... Jeonghan.”

At this, Jeonghan finally spoke. His voice was gentle, his expression was gentler, a faint trace of worry painting his features, yet he remained just as beautiful as ever. 

“I picked up the ping not even an hour later,” he said. “Thanks to the layered alarms in place. The ones only I, my brother, and his team know. Now you both do, too.”

He paused and his eyes looked soft but touched with something somber , maybe. “But the ping worked both ways, so whoever sent it saw it trigger, and that put you at risk, Chan.”

Jeonghan’s steady gaze flicked down for a moment before meeting theirs again. “The file wasn’t meant to get something, because it was bait. A test run to find an inroad…to get to me and my brother.”

Chan swallowed, then looked at Seokmin. “And once they knew someone touched it... they needed a new layer of bait. Someone unsuspecting, yet close enough to pass through the inner gates unnoticed.” Then he turned to Seokmin, eyes scanning his face as if preparing for how much it would confuse him.

“What?” Seokmin asked, blinking. “Wait, me?”

He stared at Chan, mouth slightly open, still processing the idea. He was just awkwardly trying to survive his job and live in his shoebox apartment. He was a rookie, so there’s no way he was the bait.

Recognizing the complete lack of comprehension on Seokmin’s face, Chan stepped closer, though Seokmin had long taken note of Chan’s genius brain, which could piece together everything in one go after reading the files.

“The pen.”

Seokmin tilted his head at that, sorting through the numerous useless files inside his brain. “The one you bought recently. You even labeled it as a limited edition Dong-A ... remember that?” 

Chan smiled at Seokmin’s innocence, and Seokmin felt a bit shy, having been sarcastic when he bragged about that pen to the team. Minghao even rolled his eyes while Soonyoung and Chan had been supportive. Yes. Seokmin remembered it. Still didn’t explain anyth—

“It was bugged.”

Sorry, what now? Seokmin’s head spun. His brain, which was already barely functioning thanks to adrenaline, drinks, and divine proximity, refused to make sense of any of it. Bugged?

“You’ve been under their radar ever since you bought that pen.” Chan continued. It was all too much for Seokmin’s running-on-fumes brain. None of it made sense, when in the first place, he was the most recent hire.

He swallowed. “B-but… I-I’m sorry, I don’t… I don’t quite get. Why... why me?”

Chan looked at him gently now, like he had already figured it out. “Because you’d be the least suspicious.”

Oh.

Clearly, whoever was behind this had gone through an obscene amount of planning just to try and bring the twins down. But unfortunately for them, not thorough enough. Because Jeonghan, all-knowing, ever-glowing, divinely untouchable Jeonghan Yoon (paired with his devil brother), figured it all out within the hour.

Chan was now looking at the celestial being with eyes full of pure admiration, brightened, and blurted out, “And being the smart Jeonghan Yoon that you are, you used that to plant the Copenhagen event.”

Jeonghan, looking as painfully beautiful as ever, but now slightly pleased that part of the plan had been revealed, gave a single approving bob of his head, before saying “And we’ve been staying in my brother’s hotel.”

Oh holy heaven. There go the butterflies again. Even Chan blinked at that, clearly not having anticipated that particular revelation—that the Copenhagen hotel (Seokmin still didn’t catch the name of it; spare him some mercy) was Jisoo’s?

Seokmin could feel his knees go weak. Honestly, it took every bit of strength not to just drop to the floor and worship this man right now. The sheer brilliance, the divine foresight, and of course, the bone structure of his face. ( Jeonghan’s face deserves separate recognition. It’s only fair. )

Jeonghan deserved to be worshipped just by how brilliant he is (along with his grief-strikingly handsome brother). When everyone else, the necksnapper included, thought everything was crumbling, the twins had already secured everything.

True to what they built, The Empire was really their empire running the world, and everything else in the world was just lucky to exist in it.

Wait. But if that was the case, then...

“S-So I’m not— I mean… we’re really not... promoted?”

The words slipped out of Seokmin before he could stop them. He didn’t mean it in an ungrateful way, really. The poor, awkward man was just curious, and now his cheeks were burning. Crap.

“Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be— I just really wanted to know about Opulent . I… I had an ob—”

“You had an obsessive phase with it.”Jeonghan finished the sentence for him, his voice that was soft and too beautiful for anyone to survive. A sound drenched in divinity, accompanied by a light, effortless laugh. He even laughed like a deity.

“I know.” he continued, voice still honeyed. And of course he looked just as divine while saying it, poreless skin catching the soft lighting, eyes shimmering with tranquility that made Seokmin’s spine melt, and lips curved into the most perfect, gentle smile “But no. Everything was real.”

The impossibly flawless face turned toward him again. Jeonghan’s porcelain skin, glowing even more now that Seokmin was this close, didn’t show a single pore. How was this man real?  

Before Seokmin could even gather himself, Jeonghan leaned in and dropped another line that nearly shattered whatever remained of his brain.

“God works in mysterious ways, doesn’t he? I kept The Empire safe and running with one hand and still granted a favor or two with the other.”

Everyone in the room was seconds away from combusting.

And as if it wasn’t enough that they were already spiraling from how godlike he was, the celestial being smiled again, then leaned back and casually tucked his long, silky hair behind his ear (and why did that make it worse). The strands slipped through his fingers like holy thread, catching the light in a way that made it impossible to look away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Seokmin caught the necksnapper’s expression, and it was exactly what he expected: barely blinking eyes and with the look of a man who had fully given his soul to the deity in front of them. Understandable. They were all visibly gushing now, completely overtaken by the overwhelming perfection and beauty of the celestial being. Who wouldn’t be?

“Miracle, I believe, is the word?” Jeonghan said, locking eyes with Seokmin before turning to Chan with that same divine smile. “Jeonghan Yoon sounds better, though.”

And just like that, the entire room acted with a collective swell of reverence that they almost dropped to their knees. It was another height of awe Seokmin never thought could be surpassed after what had just happened earlier.

But clearly, with Jeonghan Yoon, there was no such thing as a peak.

The celestial being, who had insisted on speaking to Seokmin in private, in one of the velvet-lined rooms, that was still lavishly furnished with what could only be described as a table made for the gods, not humans. 

They were seated on a velvet couch, that probably cost more than Seokmin’s entire wardrobe, beside a carved mahogany wine credenza displaying an immaculate selection of rare bottles, because, as was signature to Jeonghan Yoon’s way of existing, every conversation requires a curated vintage.

"I didn’t intend for your apartment to get caught up in this," Jeonghan murmured softly, his tone devoid of grandeur but still dripping with grace. And honestly, that made it worse, because Seokmin could barely focus with that divine face looking directly at him, let alone accept the fact that he was being apologized to by someone like him.

He cradled a crystal glass filled with red wine in his delicate hand, the liquid catching the light perfectly. The celestial being might as well have been the official, verified heir of Dionysus. Seokmin sat opposite him, on a single-seater that felt suspiciously (good) like a throne, while Jeonghan and Scoups shared the longer velvet couch with the familiar domestic tension.

According to the celestial, the day Seokmin was shipped off to Copenhagen was the same day someone (whom Seokmink Panther™ could only assume was the bastard in red suit), had managed to breach into his shoebox apartment. Some of the walls had been damaged, personal items overturned, and although Jisoo’s men had arrived just minutes later, it was still too risky for him to return.

He didn’t know if it was the wine or the pandemonium (probably both), but something had possessed Seokmin to blurt out,  "I... I don’t know why but..." 

He hesitated, clutching the crystal flute with both hands (yes, engraved with Jeonghan’s initials), as his fingers trembled slightly as he looked down. A soft sigh escaped him before the words followed.

“But it pains me to hear you apologize. None of this is your fault. You don’t… you don’t have to apologize. Not to me… or anyone, actually.”

Jeonghan gave him a look so painfully kind, Seokmin almost forgot how to breathe. It physically hurt Seokmin, how good of a person he was and how soft his heart remained despite everything. 

He remembered what Jeonghan once said to him, that he cared for the people who worked at The Empire. True to his word, he did care for every single one of them.

The celestial being gave a grateful smile that made everything heavy dissolve in the air. He took a sip of wine before handing Seokmin a black envelope, almost identical to the Divine Scriptures. Yep. That’s more like it.  

Seokmin stared at the envelope in his hands, eyes drifting down to the perfectly pressed seal. This was definitely from Jeonghan. Seokmin sighed dramatically in his head because he was once again tempted to buy that wax seal set he saw at Coupang , even though he had no one to send letters or directives to except maybe his future ghost.

Seokmin opened the envelope reluctantly (because it was too damn pretty to even touch). Inside, one single black card stared back at him, and similar to the last time with Chan, he was off guard again.

Did he mention he hadn’t even used the sacred black card Jeonghan gave him before through Chan? Not once . As goofy as it sounded, he felt too unworthy of swiping his boss’ money for anything.

And fuck the divine intervention or cosmic prank or whatever omniscient intervention the universe was playing, because the deity, once again, seemed to read his thoughts like an open book.

“There’s no such thing as asking for too much when it comes to family. Anything you need, or anything you want. The card’s already yours.” Scripture . That was the only way to describe how the words came out of Jeonghan’s mouth. 

Seokmin’s heart clenched, especially at the mention of the word family . It would’ve been too much to hug him outright (and maybe drop to his knees in reverence), but Seokmin genuinely didn’t know how else to show Jeonghan that he cared for him, too. Jeonghan Yoon was his family now.

Before he could get any words out (not that his throat was cooperating anyway, thanks to the fluster swelling in his chest), Jeonghan continued, in the most caring tone Seokmin had ever heard, “My brother will take over the publication, and he needs a creative like you to work with him."

Jeonghan took another sip of wine, looking entirely too graceful while doing it. 

"And if it’s fine with you," the ethereal God continued as though he wasn’t about to casually detonate Seokmin’s entire emotional system, "you can stay with him. That’s the keycard to his cellar."

Seokmin almost choked on the drink he was sipping (okay, maybe borderline aspirated), but managed to hold it back with what little composure he had left.

To be fair, Jeonghan did mention he could use the card to buy a new apartment, especially since his current one was thrashed beyond repair (RIP his leftover baby carrots, may they rest in peace). 

But Seokmin had not, ever , considered living with Jisoo, the Devil himself. That thought had never crossed his mind, and frankly, any sane person wouldn’t even entertain it. Why would they?

For context, and just to be perfectly clear, even Scoups didn’t see Jisoo on a regular basis. Only Jeonghan did, as well as the men working in the shadows, underground, behind locked doors. The rest of the world only knew of his existence in rumor and myth.

And now Seokmin, awkward, nervous, regular-flavored Seokmin, was being offered a key to his house, and live with his crush, sorry, his new boss.

Before Seokmin could spiral any further into whatever emotional rabbit hole he was sinking into, Jeonghan dropped another bomb that stunned even the necksnapper beside him (Yes, Seokmink Panther definitely caught the tiniest flicker in his eyes, despite the man’s unfazed, stone-faced exterior). 

"Go be his friend, Seokmin. God can’t be the Devil’s only company forever."

Seokmin shut his eyes so tightly it started to hurt. It was the only thing that could bring him back to the present, dragging him out of his mental tailspin and remniscience, and straight into reality.

150526.

Almost an hour now. That’s how long he’d been standing in front of this stupid, high-security, password-protected, soul-crushingly intimidating door to Jisoo’s cellar, located underneath the building. 

In the grand celestial floor plan of existence, God occupied the highest floor, of course, while his devil brother claimed everything beneath. And right now, Seokmin was literally at the threshold.

His hand hovered mid-air over the keypad, fingers slightly numb from staying there too long (almost an hour). 

He hadn’t even written a single line of his usual post-Jeonghan worship hymn inside his head, because how could he process anything when he was now standing in front of what could only be described as the gates of hell, okay, pseudo -hell. They were still in Copenhagen, after all. Jisoo’s actual lair was far below The Empire in Seoul.

For the record of all that is holy, unholy, and homo (and hetero, to be inclusive), Seokmin may not fully admit it, but yes, he does think Jisoo is attractive. Devastatingly so. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s also the scariest person to ever exist, at least according to every rumor known to man.

And now he was going to live with him?

God . If it weren’t for that bastard in the red suit (whom Jeonghan still hadn’t clarified, seriously, was it their father? an uncle? someone from hell?), Seokmin would probably be back home having his baby carrot breakfast dipped in peanut butter.

Instead, here he was. His hand really was going numb. But hey,on the bright side, he wouldn’t have to pay his building's congregation fee anymore (or whatever it was called). So even if he died at the hands of the Devil (which, thinking about it now, felt disturbingly possible), at least he wouldn’t owe penalty fees to the guy collecting dues.

Fine . Enough stalling. Here goe—

A sharp pain shot straight through Seokmin’s chest like someone had yanked his heart out and drop-kicked it into space. He swore his pulse flatlined for a full minute. That had to be what a heart attack felt like.

And of course, Jeonghan’s infuriatingly handsome brother was leaning on the doorframe with clear irritation in his eyes, as though this very moment was a waste of his time.

Oh God. Seokmin didn’t even consider the possibility that he’d been watching him this whole tim—

“Did you think the door would open by itself or do you just enjoy wasting time?”

There was a look of complete disdain in the Devil’s gorgeous face.

Where Jeonghan’s words always felt like warmth and gold, Jisoo’s came out cold, sharp, and immediately soul-crushing. 

Seokmin felt his face heat up, and his cheeks were on fire. Jisoo spoke with sharp-edged steel and pure annoyance, like Seokmin’s existence personally offended him, “Well, wrong brother if you’re looking for patience.”

Oh dear lord and emergency exits. Seokmin wanted to melt into the floor.

Seokmin’s mouth moved on instinct. "I’m sor—"

“If just standing outside rattled you this much, I’d love to see how you plan to survive five minutes inside.”

The Devil eyed him from head to toe, and then back up, before turning away and walking inside like Seokmin wasn’t even worth a second glance.

Should Seokmin run? He didn’t remember being this nervous when he first met Jeonghan. How was he supposed to— okay . Focus. Don’t make this worse. 

No more angering the Devil.

And as though the situation wasn’t already mortifying and humiliating enough, Jisoo threw one last line over his shoulder, which made Seokmin immediately lose every last shred of sanity he had left.

“Well? You think your stuff’s going to take itself off too?”

Fight, flight, or freeze are involuntary defensive responses activated by the sympathetic nervous system. The body moves or freezes before the mind can process why.

Which is to say, your body moves first, and your logic cries in the corner after. To set the celibacy record straight: yes, Seokmin was a virgin. And though he may or may not have fantasized about the Devil more times than he would ever admit out loud, nothing past the occasional kissing or maybe touching had ever happened.

So when the Devil, Jisoo Hong, of all ungodly beings, spoke the words he just did, Seokmin nearly collapsed. Before his mind could scream no, his hands were already halfway to unbuttoning his shirt.

Was he really about to lose his virginity to the Devil? Well, so much for the freeze response he thought he had.

Chapter Text

rule no. 10 - he who doubts god's telling, will soon be dwelling in ruin

Under instrument meteorological conditions (IMC), pilots are warned against trusting vestibular sensations. A false sense of orientation can override rational assessment , leading to spatial disorientation and potential loss of control.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game, Han.”

Jisoo sounded more like a weatherman reporting Europe’s forecast (which wasn’t really the tone he intended to go for) except the cigarette between his fingers sent a curl of smoke that looked a little too beguiled for the words he just said. 

He barely spared the effort to sound threatening (and really, why would he?), when across from him, his brother looked as though this entire conversation was no more than a brief moratorium in an otherwise lovely evening.

Jeonghan swirled the wine in his glass (out of habit, really), tipped his glass just so, eyes landing on his brother with an almost identical smile, except Jeonghan’s was the one mortals (and CEOs alike) had been worshipping for years, the one they’d been trying to recover from ever since, and failing, badly. Oh please. Jisoo let out the cheekiest breath of a laugh. 

And people still dare to ask who the more flourish-prone twin is? 

“I know. That’s why I handed him to the one man no one’s ever beaten.” Jisoo heard Jeonghan speak as he stood, lazily as always, pouring another glass of wine in an effortless tilt of the bottle. 

The red liquid swirled in the crystal flute, almost making Jisoo want to poke fun at his ever-showy (and predictably so) brother, though he said nothing, mostly out of idle amusement, before hearing Jeonghan add, almost offhand, “No one touches the piece the Devil’s already watching.”

Jisoo exhaled another smoke through his nose, grinning faintly because of course his brother would say something that ostentatious and, yet annoyingly, correct. "Then you’d better pray I never decide to stop playing." 

See, this was exactly why the entire divine twin narrative ever started (well, aside from the fact that his brother quite literally carried the face of God). Because really, even when no one was watching but the two of them (though now with Jeonghan’s foolishly in-love bodyguard hovering nearby, though both idiots refused to admit it), they moved through the world exactly as they were born and meant to be: one as the actual God, the other as the Devil, both playing the part far too flawlessly well. 

Jisoo closed his eyes at the familiar thrum of glory beneath his skin, the unmistakable weight of power settling in his chest. The entire world bent, as it always did, to their presence. 

Two beings spun out of myth and threat, dressed in skin the universe could not help but obey. Glory to God (and the Devil), indeed.

He took one more drag along with another slow exhale, and the whole thing would have looked fake to anyone else, except it was simply Jisoo. Okay. Perhaps he did share that built-in urge to overdo things beautifully with his twin too, but still, Jeonghan would always be the one who took things five steps past normal first.

Call it the sixth sense, or the Jeonghan tingles, or whatever divine instinct the universe had slipped into his veins, but Jeonghan’s intuition had never failed. Aside from that ethereal face the world had been worshipping for over a decade now, what the world had conveniently forgotten and failed to grasp was that Jeonghan carried every ounce of wit this world could ever hope for.

 On top of that, he possessed this infuriatingly accurate itch (call it instinct, call it foresight, whatever) that had never steered him wrong, not even once. There was a reason they remained the undefeated, untouchable twins of the Empire.

Jeonghan possessed the sharpest mind anyone had ever tried (and obviously failed) to outplay. No one could match the way he could thread strategy through silk and steel alike, smiling all the while with the ethereal face of God, as though it were a bargatelle. 

Meanwhile, Jisoo ruled with the iron-clad force underneath, the Devil’s hand that pulled the ugliest truths out of men and made sure they paid for them, the iron machinery beneath all that marble. He was God’s twin brother, the Devil moving beneath the building where no light ever reached.

Where Jeonghan could write the entire blueprint of a game plan with no gaps to breach, using nothing but his sharp mind and making the entire world worship him for it with that ethereal face they still called divine, Jisoo was the metal engine beneath it all, making sure each part toed the line no matter how deep or dirty the work beneath it became.

This was why the Empire had held its place for more than a decade, immovable and untouched, while the rest of the world remained exactly where it should be, at their feet, whether they liked it or not.

Chess was cute in theory, but to the twins, the board had been broken long ago. 

In chess, the queen had always been considered the most powerful piece on the board, able to move in nearly any direction except for the odd, useless little L the horse insisted on taking (not that it mattered much). 

After all, no amount of power from the queen could guarantee a win if the king was caught first. And no amount of safety around the king could guarantee a win either, considering how pitifully useless a piece it was to begin with.

So yes, chess may be cute in theory. But the game was rigged, or at least it was, as far as the twins were concerned.

Hence, they had never bothered to play as one of the standard boring pieces on the board. That was the entire point. 

Why settle for being a king, or a queen, or any predictable shape the world already understood, when you could create something it would never be prepared for? Two twin towers carrying a single crown, with a diamond set at the center of that crown, or, collectively known as The Empire.

In almost everything touched in the name of being unmistakably their own, The Empire’s gold crest would be the first thing to hit you in the face.

A queen alone could not guarantee victory, just as a king could not claim it without the weight of everyone else on the board. The Empire’s sigil, however, was not a piece to be played against. It was victory itself, because it was the force that had built the entire board to begin with (not that stupidly rigged game of chess where even the most powerful piece held no real win).

And so, The Empire ruled, and it had been ruling for more than a decade now.

As Jeonghan liked to say far too smugly, "The world always works out in my favor." And annoyingly (but amorously) enough, it did.

So it was perfectly understandable why no one dared to play against the twin towers known to the entire world as The Empire. 

Anyone with a shred of sense knew better. Some might call it luck, while others liked to blame Jeonghan’s ethereal face, as if that alone could explain away the wins stacked beneath their feet. 

And there were moments, of course, when even Jisoo (and anyone else who had come too close to knowing just how sharp his brother truly was) had no choice but to acknowledge the brilliance of Jeonghan's mind.

Jeonghan carried the heart and kindness of God, but beneath it, he was capable of delivering the worst psychological torment a person could ever hope to survive. When it came to strategy, there was no one more dangerously precise than Jeonghan Yoon. 

The celestial being could outthink, outmaneuver, and dismantle an opponent so clandestinely that they would be left thanking him for the ruin.

And beyond all of that was the one thing both twins had learned to trust more than they cared to admit: Jeonghan’s sense or intuition, which had kept them ahead for years, so often that even Jisoo found it easier to rely on it than to question it since they were three.

Three.

Jisoo remembered being three when Jeonghan had almost fought him over a decision that, in any normal toddler world, should have made no sense. 

It had been a simple thing, a small bright red marble that was shiny and obviously the right choice, at least to his three-year-old self. Their father had lined up five marbles on the table, one orange with tiny candies etched into its surface, one brilliant red with etchings of roast meat that looked far too inviting, and three dull ones: blue, gray, and black, each plain and unmarked. 

Pick the right one and they would get dinner, or so the game went. Jisoo, of course, had reached straight for the red. What else would any child do?

He had not understood why Jeonghan had grabbed his wrist hard enough to leave tiny marks and told him, "Choose the gray one," with glassy eyes that looked like it mattered more than life itself. 

And to be fair, it mattered to their three-year-old selves, dinner had mattered more than anything, especially when they had already been forbidden by their father to eat a single bite the entire day.

So he almost fought with Jeonghan when they didn’t get dinner because of the dull gray marble he was forced to choose. Not until Jeonghan tipped the entire box of remaining marbles to the floor, and the four remaining pieces shattered on impact. 

The fine powder within spread fast across the carpet, burning through the fibers with a slow hiss and a foul, acrid smell that made the air sharp in their toddler noses. Poison . Obvious, now, to anyone who could see what their father had intended. 

Had Jisoo chosen any of those four marbles, his skin would have burned the same way the carpet did, blackened and peeling at the edges.

Much to their father’s thinly veiled frustration, they had walked out of that room with their skin intact. And that was the day Jisoo stopped questioning whatever strange pull lived inside his brother’s bones.

So despite the questionable request that had almost made him want to snap the nearest pen in half or knock some sense into his anemic brother, of having his recently hired creative lead (or whatever the hell the position was called) Seokmin Lee, Jisoo did not question him. Not in front of him, at least, because that would be stupid.

But could anyone really blame him? He was the Devil, the lord of the Empire’s underside, the one who could command the safety of anyone he chose with nothing more than a single order to his men. 

And yet here was his stubborn twin brother, asking, no, insisting that he personally see to this one, just as Seungcheol was assigned to guard him. Fucking hell. The parallel was insufferable.

It was preposterous at best. Ridiculous, really. To have a complete (and stupidly cute. ugh) stranger suddenly living under his roof, when not even his own brother did.

Jeonghan had explained that while they had already outsmarted their uncle’s pathetic excuse of a plan long before the man had even set his first pawn on the board, there was still something pulling at the edges of Jeonghan’s intuition, a tingle he could not quite shake, no matter how many pieces they had already stripped off the field. 

Apparently, their bastard uncle had been plotting to steal Jeonghan’s publication (or the Gospel, as Jeonghan liked to call it with that insufferable little twinkle in his eye, because heaven forbid his twin could pass up the chance to make a production out of it), then launder more money through the Empire’s veins.

And of course, lure Jisoo out with the hope of cornering him into surrendering either the speakeasy or the syndicate, or maybe even rough him up for good measure, if the idiot truly believed he could.

Pfft . Jisoo could only scoff at the thought of it. The bastard could not so much as graze him if he tried. The fool had already lost the moment Jeonghan’s cursedly brilliant mind had caught the first so-called warning through the "Winter" card, tucked with vesper irises inside the black box with the Rosebind.

The threat was so laughably transparent Jisoo almost felt insulted they would waste such cheap theatrics on him.

Winter, of all things.

Winter had always been Jisoo’s not-so-secret favorite season, ever since they were kids.

Opposite to his brother, whose health seemed to be spun from the finest, most fragile glass and caught cold at the first sign of frost, Jisoo loved winter, craved it, if he was being honest. 

So he had simply tried to hide it, knowing Jeonghan hated it so much. 

Which was why it had been unbearable, absolutely unbearable , when Jeonghan had laughed until there were tears in his eyes when he’d finally told Jisoo, calling him out for it one winter afternoon.

How adorable , Jeonghan had teased, that his devil of a brother had spent years pretending to hate something just for his sake.

"You love me, Shuji! " Jeonghan’s voice still trailed in Jisoo’s head sometimes, far too bright for his liking, followed by that ridiculous chant of Shuji loves Hannie. Shuji loves Hannie. Shuji loves Hannie, paired with hugs that were so obviously full of love, but Jisoo pretended to hate yet he absolutely never pushed away. 

Shuji loves Hannie . Of course Shuji did. He had always loved his brother, the twin he had shared a womb with for nine long months, the brother whose face mirrored his own and yet carried a softness and glowing radiance that Jisoo had never bothered trying to match. 

He was never the light between them, not really. He had built a tough shell around him for a reason, and only one person in this world had ever been allowed inside when he needed him to be, his brother.

So their uncle dragging out that Winter nickname now (of all things) was pitiful, and a weak play of a threat, at best.

But the mint chocolate and Frère Jacques had been something else entirely, and their uncle should have known better than to even cross those lines. 

Yes, they had managed to piece everything together behind the bastard’s back and had built a counterplan sharp enough to tear it apart at the seams, thanks, of course, to Jeonghan’s ridiculous mind that hummed at a frequency the rest of the world could never hope to match.

Yet unbeknownst to everyone, Jisoo had very nearly decided to burn their uncle alive the moment those two particular triggers appeared. The ice cream flavor and the nursery rhyme, of all things to drag into this mess.  

Oh, the audacity. The sheer, sickening audacity of that man to weaponize their traum- No. Jisoo refused to give the memory any more space in his mind than it already occupied. That door would stay shut.

They might have outsmarted him with that poorly crafted sabotage attempt, but Jeonghan had warned him beneath the surface of their usual sharp back-and-forth that there was something more and something deeper than what they had already unraveled.  

His brother’s intuition or divine undercurrent that he had learned long ago never to ignore was telling him that Seokmin had been chosen as bait for a reason far beyond some pathetic attempt to plant a bug.

So even as Jeonghan’s request grated against every cold line of logic he held, even as it twisted beneath his skin to imagine that stupidly innocent-looking (and not that he would ever admit, stupidly cute-looking ) new employee named Seokmin Lee now tethered to his space, Jisoo had not questioned it.

Although, in hindsight, perhaps he should have. Especially when the first thing this so-called creative lead had done was spend exactly 57 minutes and 4 seconds standing outside Jisoo’s apartment door, hovering over the keypad with the expression of a lost hatchling in the middle of a minefield.

And as if that wasn’t already enough to push Jisoo’s patience to the edge, the moment he had finally, finally opened the door to drag the man in (because heaven forfend Jisoo’s patience couldn’t fray any thinner watching that hopelessly clueless wide-eyed fledgling attempt to type in the passcode and use the goddamn keycard Jeonghan had handed him), the very first thing Seokmin had done was start unbuttoning his shirt as though he was some back-alley companion who had wandered into the wrong kind of building.

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

Jisoo had no idea how the words had left his mouth that fast, but there they were, snapping, no, screaming, through the tension in the room as he stared at the ridiculously lost fledgling in front of him who had, for some unholy reason, started unbuttoning his shirt.

The man froze mid-motion at the sudden bark of disbelief (and was that a tremble? oh for fuck’s sake), looking as though someone had physically unplugged his brain.

“I-I… I th-didn’t… yo- I—” Seokmin had tried (emphasis on tried ) to get words out, poor thing, but he barely managed to even form a full syllable, let alone a sentence.

And honestly, if the situation weren’t so fucking absurd, Jisoo might’ve laughed right there.

“…What exactly do you think this is? A strip show? Put your shirt back on, dimwi-" Jisoo didn’t mean to snap again, yet his words flew out sharper than he’d intended, but come on.

What else was he supposed to say? The man was standing in his doorway, half-undressed, looking like he’d shown up to the wrong goddamn audition. 

And yet (because life liked to make things difficult for him) Jisoo’s initial irritation turned to him having to actively fight the laugh threatening to pull at the edges of his mouth. 

Because God, as pathetic and utterly stupid as this man looked right now (and he really was), it would be a lie to say Jisoo didn’t catch the exact moment Seokmin’s wide glassy eyes shimmered even more the second the word dimwit hit him.

Seokmin now looked like he was a single step away from completely dissolving into embarrassed, wounded little puddle right there.

And for some annoying, unexplainably endearing reason (why, why did this man even have that effect), Jisoo felt that tiny pull in his chest when Seokmin mumbled in a really tiny pout.

Seokmin's voice was cracking so pitifully he almost wanted to sigh as he talked in the sulkiest pout, “Y-you… y-you’re kind of m-mean…J-Jisoo” while his hands hovered awkwardly mid-unbuttoned, still clearly clueless about what Jisoo had even meant by take off your stuff earlier. 

Jesus, the man truly had no idea.

Jisoo had to force his lips not to twitch upward not even a millimeter, but this one, this dumb little thing ( fondly dumb, devilishly dumb, stupidly fucking endearingly…dumb) was making it harder than usual. 

So instead, Jisoo went for the only line that a devil could possibly deliver in such a moment, voice dropping into something mockingly soft yet cheeky (devilish) enough, and maybe to spare the man just a little, though he’d never admit it, and said to Seokmin,

"The badge, sweetheart . I meant take off your badge, not your buttons.”

Seokmin’s cheeks were now blazing red, ears no better, and the way he squeaked out at tiny "Oh," while he hurriedly fumbled back toward the badge that Jeonghan had given him. 

Bless his too-kind God twin, always giving the little lambs a token in the form of safety tracker badge to wear so they wouldn’t get eaten, except this one had damn near volunteered himself for slaughter. God, the man was stupidly adorable .

Jisoo was the Devil for a reason. He was merciless, unapologetic, and bowed to no one. He had never once seen the need to explain himself in his entire life, because why bother? Let them think he’s ruthless, cold, sharp as steel, because that was exactly what he was meant to be. 

Yet for some infuriating reason, as he watched Seokmin still visibly shaking from the earlier shout, trying so desperately not to mess up further (and failing so adorably), Jisoo found words leaving his mouth before he could stop them, the Devil’s version of mercy sounding far softer than it should have,

“Consent is the only thing I don’t take by force, Seokmin”

And if that wasn’t enough to throw even himself off balance, the words that followed came unbidden but imbued with a truth Jisoo had never bothered to say aloud.

Because if there was one thing he could never stand to witness, it was this exact look of fear in someone being stripped of their choice.

“I’d rather watch a man scream in flames than watch someone stripped of their choice.”

Jisoo hated how merciful that had sounded. Hell, he almost sounded more like the merciful God that was his brother than the Devil he was supposed to be. 

Yet for some unwanted, endearingly annoying reason, he felt that piercing tug in his chest when the man in front of him softened almost instantly, shoulders losing their rigid hold. Seokmin’s stiffness finally cracking a little the moment after Jisoo had shouted at him at the door.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t—I really—I…” Seokmin exhaled the words, voice still trembling as he looked down, refusing to meet Jisoo’s eyes anymore. “I’m sorry. I was scared of you. B-but… thank you, Jisoo.”

Shit. Too bright. Too fucking bright.

Jisoo barely managed to force the smirk back onto his lips, using it like a shield because whatever strange warmth had flared across his chest was entirely unwelcome and could not, would not, be entertained, not now, not ever. 

He carefully reached out and plucked the safety tracker badge from Seokmin’s trembling hands without a single word, turned sharply on his heel, and shut his eyes tight as he moved back into his cellar (because no one, absolutely no one, needed to see whatever the fuck had just flickered across his face).

Under instrument meteorological conditions (IMC), pilots are warned against trusting vestibular sensations. A false sense of orientation can override rational assessment, leading to spatial disorientation and potential loss of control.

The stupidly cute (Ugh!) face of Seokmin had been inkling inside Jisoo’s mind much to his disappointment, and Jisoo hated that, or rather, he feared that. 

He feared the possibility of overriding rational assessment, which could lead to potential loss of control. In the first place, Seokmin was only here because of Jeonghan’s infuriating sixth sense (a spidey sense Jisoo had long since learned not to question).

But Jisoo should also not let any bright light of a face from a newly hired employee now living under his roof cloud rational assessment. 

Right. He is the Devil, after all.

God. He needed a cigarette.

"Mingyu… as in tough shell, tall man, hard-to-read Mingyu Kim ?" 

Seungcheol had probably asked for the third time already, unable to believe what he was hearing as Jeonghan gleefully recounted his latest piece of gossip about how the man had apparently taken the entire day off just to go on a date with none other than Wonwoo Jeon, The Empire’s ever so impossibly composed, hardwired maven.

And there was that soft ripple of laughter escaping Jeonghan’s lips once again, the one Seungcheol had loved from the moment he first heard it when they were twelve , the one he would honestly do anything (everything) just to make sure the man in front of him would never, ever have to live a day without being this happy.

Out of habit, because he could never help it when it came to Jeonghan, Seungcheol reached out and tucked a stray strand of Jeonghan’s long, silky hair behind his ear, the smallest smile tugging at his lips as he watched Jeonghan lean into the touch almost imperceptibly mid-laughter, as the sparkle just naturally occured in Jeonghan’s heavenly eyes.

Seuncheol’s traitorous heart thudded a little harder for it.

"Yes, Cheollie~” Jeonghan continued, voice lilting, light, like honey dripping slowly and sweet through the air. Oh, Hannie. “They’re so adorably cute and in love!"

Ah, love . Yes. 

Seungcheol’s heart fluttered traitorously at the word that had just left the lips of the love of his life (sorry, his favorite person , yes, of course, that’s all it was), as if the word hadn’t already taken root in his chest and bloomed every single time Jeonghan said it so naturally.

And now here he was, Jeonghan, looking at him with that painfully beautiful face it was almost illegal, while they sat alone in the small couch of The Empire’s private jet. 

Jeonghan’s long, elegant legs lazily draped over Seungcheol’s thighs as though it was the most normal thing in the world (and maybe it was, to them), occasionally fluttering every time he got a bit more excited mid-story, and Seungcheol swore, every little bounce might as well have been another nail in the coffin, because Jeonghan was the most breathtaking vision of life and warmth he’d ever seen

And the more Jeonghan spoke, the deeper Seungcheol sank. Jeonghan was once again telling, no, let’s call it what it was, gossiping (and God, how Seungcheol loved this side of him), stories about Wonwoo Jeon and Mingyu Kim.

"I can’t believe it either, Hannie~  That big oaf of a man Mingyu Kim being romantic," he somehow managed to reply (barely), voice coming out softer than he’d intended as he smiled so fondly at the breathtaking deity in front of him.

Jeonghan’s eyes were sparkling so brightly with every word, and truth be told, it was a miracle the plane hadn’t caught fire from the sheer glow radiating off him.

Though if it did, Seungcheol would’ve happily burned just to witness it before his demise.

At his remark, Jeonghan giggled again in tiny and melodic kind of way that rewired his entire body whether he wanted it to or not, and launched into another retelling of how Mingyu Kim , who trained his whole life under the metal fist of Jisoo, had somehow managed to let a full stutter slip from his mouth before clearing his throat and asking for a day off. 

And of course Jeonghan hadn’t left out the most important detail of all: the small, utterly loserish , romantic smile Mingyu had tried to hide as his cheeks flushed faint pink when Jeonghan had given the approval.

Not even hours after that, Wonwoo Jeon himself, who had worked six years without taking a single day off (and was second only to Chan in attendance squeaky clean perfection) had done the impossible and taken leave, matching Mingyu’s ruse.

And much to Seungcheol’s now buffering heart (if you could even call what was happening in his chest buffering, though it was probably more like short-circuiting) , he really did want to keep focusing on Jeonghan’s honey-wrapped voice that made the air itself feel warmer.

But realistically, how was that even possible when Jeonghan had suddenly reached for his hand with both of those impossibly soft hands, tracing light, delicate lines across his palm, fidgeting with his fingers absentmindedly and playfully, God help him.

Every time the story reached a new peak or an exciting part, Jeonghan’s fingers fluttered and moved with it, laughing through both his words and his hands. 

How does he expect him to survive this?

Oh my sweet, beautiful Hannie, I lov— No . No, I like you. 

I like you so much, Hannie, he thought, nearly letting the words slip through lips that were practically trembling from the veritable weight of trying to hold them in. 

Seungcheol wanted to sigh in defeat, to curl into this man, and kiss him so sweetly until time itself stopped moving, to romance the absolute hell out of the celestial being he had been in love with (sorry, liked , liked so damn much) since they were twelve.

Yes. He liked Jeonghan. It was admiration, pure admiration, he reminded himself, for the thousandth time (and didn’t believe it one bit).

"Cheollie"

He was yanked straight off the edge of his spiraling at the sound of his favorite endearment, sung so softly from the lips of his favorite person, pulling him back to reality only to drop him right into another free fall.

Jeonghan was looking at him again with the softest, most breathtaking eyes Seungcheol had ever seen in his life. 

Fucking hell. How could someone look this beautiful and not be some kind of hallucination?

There had been countless moments where Seungcheol had genuinely wondered if he was trapped in a coma somewhere, that this was all some elaborate, painfully perfect dream conjured by a dying mind, because this man could not possibly be real.

Or maybe he was terminally ill, and this was what heaven looked like, and was probably the last kindness the universe had allowed him before the end

But the gentle squeeze of Jeonghan’s impossibly soft hands he felt against his rough, calloused fingers grounded him in place.

Jeonghan’s hands, nearly fingerprintless and impossibly delicate, wrapped around his own with such comfort and warmth that he couldn’t deny Jeonghan’s existence anymore. He was very much alive and wasn’t in a coma.

And he should probably thank whatever higher power was responsible for this reality, because he got to sleep beside this man every night, as a quiet comfort. That alone was worth everything.

“Beautiful Hannie~" he managed to blurt out completely unplanned and completely unfiltered.  The words left his mouth faster than his brain could even process them, quicker than he had time to think about the fact that yes , he had just said that aloud. 

And sure, he was surprised by himself (very much so), but probably not as shocked as the ethereal celestial being sitting in front of him, who had instantly stopped tracing whatever soft little shapes he’d been drawing into Seungcheol’s palm, eyes lifting in an instant to meet his directly. 

Fuck . There went the butterflies again, along with the heavy stone dragging the roots of his heart straight down with alarming force.

And for anyone keeping a mental ledger of such things, Jeonghan was likely the one person on this earth who could remain serene and unshakeable, like a literal work of art, in the middle of absolute chaos.

So the faint flicker of surprise that passed across the celestial being’s perfect features now was enough to confuse even Seungcheol.

Did calling him beautiful really fluster him? Had Seungcheol done something wrong?

He swallowed the tangle of questions piling in his throat, steadied himself with deep and shaky breath as he forced himself to take the leap again. Because hell, if he was going to fall, he might as well fall completely.

"You’re so beautiful, Hannie~"  Seungcheol repeated, softer the second time around but with no less truth, because really, who was he to deny his precious Hannie of hearing the most honest words in the world? 

The entire world literally and figuratively worshipped this God. A single genuine compliment wasn’t going to tip the scales, especially not when Seungcheol meant it with every aching inch of his heart, no, his entire being, actually.

Every piece of his soul that had loved this ethereal being quietly for years.

Pretty , he remembered the first word he had ever said to Jeonghan when they met, twelve years old and already too far gone.

He’d been embarrassed, painfully shy, so desperate to disappear the second it left his mouth, but instead, Jeonghan had let out a devastatingly beautiful smile, and had simply said Thank you . 

And that heavenly smile had etched itself so deeply into Seungcheol’s mind and heart that even now, all these years later, it was still the light he reached for every time the dark waters tried to pull him under.

Seungcheol had been expecting another soft thank you from the celestial being in front of him, but much to his utterly defenseless heart and so hopelessly full of love, what he heard from the sweet, ethereal deity was anything but what he had prepared for.

“May I kiss you, Cheollie?”

And Seungcheol swore on his life his heart stopped for a full beat, while his lungs seized in his chest as soft, warm hands cupped his face with such unbearable tenderness he could barely breathe.

Jeonghan was looking at him with eyes so full of light and trust and full of affection that could end him in one blink.

Fuck. What was he supposed to say? Well, what could he say? The seconds were ticking painfully fast, and if he didn’t move, if he didn’t do something, Jeonghan would pull back, embarrassed, and he couldn’t for the life of him let that hap-

Seungcheol leaned forward.

His breath was caught somewhere between his chest and throat, closing the distance slowly until his lips met Jeonghan’s in the sweetest, softest kiss he had ever given in his life.

His hands moved instinctively, one rising to cup the perfect curve of Jeonghan’s face, thumb brushing reverently along the softness of his cheekbone memorizing every line, every inch, and probably to tell him I love you without a single word, while the other hand found his waist, steady and gentle, anchoring them both in this impossibly fragile, perfect moment.

And Jeonghan kissed him back.

Both of them had let the kiss linger longer than Seungcheol would have ever dared hope for, longer than logic or reason would have ever allowed, long enough for him to taste the warmth of Jeonghan’s sweet breath, to lose himself in the peace of it, in the hush of this tiny universe that had bloomed between them in the middle of a private jet seat like nothing else existed.

In this very moment, the whole world had gone still and there was nothing left but them, nothing mattered more than this.

I love you.

Seungcheol wanted to say, because fuck, this wasn’t admiration, not as much as he had tried to deny it for years. He had always loved Jeonghan, had probably loved him since the second they met, since before he was even old enough to know what that meant.

He knew he loved Jeonghan when he had stayed up all night teaching himself how to play Monopoly, because Jeonghan had fallen sick and was stuck in bed for days with only that game for company, and Seungcheol had hated numbers, hated games that involved mind tricks, but still memorized the rules just so Jeonghan would have someone to play Monopoly with.

He knew he loved Jeonghan when he had carried a stray cat to the shelter with him, sneezing the entire way there, hiding the fact that he had been popping antihistamines the whole night just so Jeonghan wouldn’t have to do the rescue alone.

He knew he loved Jeonghan when he had spent an entire week binging cooking videos, reading through recipe books, standing in a kitchen he barely knew how to use, because he had figured out that Jeonghan would hire anyone but a cook (and to this day, he hadn’t asked why), and the celestial being he loved so dearly was too damn stubborn to eat on time. 

So Seungcheol learned how to cook, and he had been cooking for him ever since the day he became his bodyguard, because he wanted to take care of him.

And God, he knew he loved Jeonghan when he had walked into a hospital chapel for the first time in his life, not knowing how to pray, not knowing if anyone up there was even listening, but still asking, begging even, for anyone to save his Hannie when a fever had landed him in the ICU, when the thought of losing him had sent him straight to his knees with tears in his eyes without shame.

I love you, Hannie.

It wasn’t goddamn admiration. For heaven’s sake, Seungcheol had been in love with Jeonghan since the first time he laid his eyes on him.

He felt the tears prickling at the brim of his eyes, but swallowed them all back, refusing to ruin this moment, focusing instead on the warmth of the kiss he was sharing with the love of his life. Oh, yes. This was the fucking love of his life , and now, his first kiss . I love you, Hannie.

When they finally pulled back, breath shaky and uneven, Seungcheol opened his eyes to meet the softest gaze he had ever seen, the one that had always, always made his heart shudder in his chest.

I love you, he wanted to say again, but didn’t, and the next thing he knew, Jeonghan had quietly leaned into his arms, curling into his chest for a soft hug, body melting into him so naturally that Seungcheol had already moved without thinking.

Seungcheol lifted him gently, carefully, guiding them both down until they were lying comfortably along the couch, Jeonghan tucked into his right side, back resting against the curved edge of the seat like it was made to cradle him, the way Seungcheol had memorized he liked best.

No matter the position, no matter where they were, he always knew how Jeonghan wanted to be held, and how he liked to fit into Seungcheol’s side just so, arms loose around his waist, head tilted until it could rest safely against his neck, soft breaths warming his skin.

And sure enough, Jeonghan reached up without a word, fingers finding Seungcheol’s face in a gentle touch that made his heart ache all over again, before settling in close, curling tighter as Seungcheol wrapped his arms around him instantly in a tight, protective, careful manner.

His one hand was resting against Jeonghan’s back, while the other cradled the back of his head, fingers threading slowly through the silk of his hair, anchoring him there, keeping him close, before Jeonghan pressed his face into the crook of Seungcheol’s neck with a warm breath.

I love you, Hannie .

And Seungcheol let himself fall into the comfort of Jeonghan’s scent, the sweet scent that had long since become his favorite in the world, the one that could calm him down faster than anything else ever could.

He let the celestial being rest, felt the soft rhythm of Jeonghan’s breaths slow against him as he gradually, naturally, drifted into slumber in his arms, just like he had done night after night, always finding his way there, always falling asleep safest with Seungcheol holding him close.

I love you, Hannie. He thought again, brushing a careful hand through the soft strands of Jeonghan’s hair, careful and gentle, and this time he let the truth settle fully in his chest, let himself feel it without a single ounce of denial, and let a tear slip quietly down his cheek as he did.

There was no point in denying it anymore.

Seungcheol had been in love with Jeonghan since he was twelve. And he didn’t care anymore about whatever invisible lines they might have just crossed with that kiss.

Just like they had never cared to name or explain the nights spent falling asleep side by side, again and again, as the only thing that ever let Jeonghan rest soundly was Seungcheol’s warmth beside him.

There was no point in caring about boundaries anymore, not when he had just heard Jeonghan speak about the still looming threat that was their uncle, a threat that was far from gone, no matter what they had dismantled.

While he was with Jisoo, Jeonghan had explained that what they had taken down was only the outer layer, that the real danger still ran deeper than they had seen, and that Seokmin’s life was hanging in the balance because of it, and Seungcheol had nearly shattered with fury at the unspoken part, the part that Jeonghan had kept carefully veiled, the part that meant his life, too, was still at risk .

He remembered, too vividly, how his vision had blackened the moment he saw the fucking knife raised and the blade gleaming far too close to Jeonghan’s ethereal face. 

Seungcheol remembered how it had taken every shred of restraint he had not to lunge, not to tear apart the man holding it, and the only reason had been the single gesture of Jeonghan’s hand, one that he had learned to trust as it was Jeonghan’s way of telling him I’m in control.

Jeonghan had always had the brighter mind between the twins. He had the sharper, quicker kind of brilliance that could bend the world to his will if he wanted it to, while Jisoo carried the kind of fear no one else could touch, and made even their enemies hesitate to breathe wrong. As they rightfully should .

And Jeonghan must have felt and must have known how Seungcheol’s heart was cracking beneath the weight of what he had just witnessed.

Because that same night, he had included him in the conversation with Jisoo about the full scope of it, about how Seokmin would be under Jisoo’s roof now, and how he had asked Jisoo to move the Fifth Hour shelter before the threat grew closer.

Seungcheol had learned the truth about Frère Jacques , as well as the twisted message behind those falsely cheerful Morning bells are ringing . It was, apparently, one of their uncle’s poorly orchestrated attempts at intimidation , as Jisoo had called it, and had in fact meant a threat to bomb the Fifth Hour shelter Jeonghan had built.

You see, the file that Chan had accidentally opened while helping digitize The Empire’s early underground fund drives, or as he had thought, one of the old donation batches , had actually been something else entirely. 

The Fifth Hour shelter had been the twins’ highly protected safehouse network, built by Jeonghan to rescue children trapped in the very same abuse rings, trafficking networks, and grooming systems that he and Jisoo had once been trapped in themselves. 

These rings had been run by their father, their uncle, and God knows what other monsters had once lurked in their family, before the twins had finally managed to shut it down.

When Jeonghan and Jisoo had first escaped, Jeonghan hadn’t been able to let go, not when he knew children were still trapped. And so he had founded the Fifth Hour shelter.

Okay, that’s enou- Seungcheol stopped himself from spiraling deeper into it, because he couldn’t bear to recall things, especially not when the love of his life was lying warm in his arms, and not when he had just given him his first kiss. 

Right . His first kiss.

He remembered, painfully clear, how he had stopped caring about anyone else a long time ago because of Jeonghan. He hadn’t laid eyes on anyone else since, hadn’t thought about anyone else, not for this, not for anything. 

And God, it had been worth it, and even beyond worth it.

Seungcheol curled the slender, warm figure of the celestial being in his arms a little closer, instinctively, vowing for the endless time that he would protect his Hannie at all costs. No matter what it took, and no matter where this went.

He had prayed, for the first time in his life, to whatever higher being might exist when Jeonghan had been hospitalized, and if it came to it, he would gladly burn an entire chapel to the ground if it meant keeping him safe now.

Under instrument meteorological conditions (IMC), pilots are warned against trusting vestibular sensations. A false sense of orientation can override rational assessment, leading to spatial disorientation and potential loss of control.

Seungcheol had been in love with Jeonghan since he was twelve, but there was no point in denying it to himself now, not for the sake of maintaining control, nor for fear of whatever disorientation (be it sexual or personal or spiritual or whatever else) it may bring. 

Because Seungcheol would rather lose every semblance of control he had ever built, burn every rule of restraint he had ever been taught, than lose the love of his life. 

If surrendering to gravity meant falling for Jeonghan, then falling was the only direction he would choose, again and again.

Chapter Text

⚠️ TW: mentions of abuse and emotionally heavy backstory ahead. ⚠️
please prioritize your well-being before reading 🤍

rule no. 11 - fire answers only to its creators

Combustion requires three elements: fuel, oxygen, and heat, collectively referred to as the fire triangle.

Seven days. 

That’s how long it has been since Seokmin started, by all definitions that mattered, cohabitating with the devil himself.

Five, technically, if they were only counting the ones in Seoul. 

It had been a week of having to wake up under the same literal roof (or technically, layers beneath the roof) as the Empire's most feared entity, so feared in fact that even mentions of his name made bodyguards freeze and cleared entire floors of high-ranking execs. 

And here Seokmin was, just... living with him. 

The thing is, on their first day back in Seoul, Seokmin could hardly concentrate on anything. 

His brain had been too busy misfiring (short-circuiting sounds too gentle, and it was more like mental electrocution) because all he could remember were the blood-rumored stories about Jisoo Hong.

How he allegedly erased a man’s existence for fabricating and spreading edited photos of Jeonghan to tarnish his name during a brand campaign, how he burned a warehouse with people still in it (unconfirmed, though the quietude of witnesses said more than enough) after discovering it was being used as a base for an attempted breach into the Empire’s internal systems.

Or how someone once tried to pay a disgusting sum of money to rent Jeonghan for a night and within twenty minutes had a broken ribcage, a shattered nose, and the unfortunate privilege of becoming the first person the entire building had ever seen wheeled out in a full-body cast, bones and dignity both crushed equally.

It didn’t help that Seokmin had witnessed a blood scene himself during the auction, not that Jisoo shot the man in the head or anything, no. It was actually just... a graze around the ear, a single bullet to silence the man in the red suit.

But to Seokmin’s tender, lactose-intolerant heart and flammable nervous system, that was a brutal blood scene. So naturally, now that he was supposed to actually live in the same space, maybe even breathe the same devilishly filtered oxygen, he could feel his throat closing up from pure dread.

Unless…unless it wasn’t merely fear, and this was the part he didn’t want to admit, even to himself. Because if he were really honest (and he was rarely honest with himself), then maybe, the memory that haunted him most wasn’t the blood, but the moment back in the cellar.

Perhaps Seokmin was just refusing to admit that he was still spiraling over that very first encounter in Copenhagen.That humiliating, soul-cringing, kick my feet under the blanket and scream kind of memory where he had sulked and pouted in front of Jisoo Hong, and even called him mean. 

He called the Devil mean. God, what was wrong with him!

He had flinched, shriveled up, called him mean, and if that wasn’t bad enough, Seokmin was now actively blocking out the memory of Jisoo talking about consent because…Good god of the gays, why did that sound so hot, sorry, respectful and safe (and …sexy, ugh) .

Still, if we were going to stick to the divine narrative (and at this point, it was practically canon), then Seokmin was just a mere mortal, a trembling earthling sent to live in the literal lair of the devil. And quite literally beneath the Empire’s main building.

God, the monthly fee collection from his old shoebox apartment didn’t sound so bad now, did it? 

That stubborn, oddly threatening man who collected those mysterious fees every 9th of the month, the ones Seokmin never really understood what exactly they were for, he’d take that back in a heartbeat. 

He’d face that man and his passive-aggressive clipboard again, maybe even hand over double the amount, because at least back then, he didn’t feel like he was walking into an actual hellmouth disguised as an exquisite space.

Anything was better than… this , this undefined, spiraling descent into the lair of someone people referred to only with titles and rumors, never just a name. And now here he was, ordered to wait until he was retrieved (because apparently, you can’t just walk into the Devil’s kingdom like a normal person).

You see, in the few months he’d been working at the Empire, the image of the building he had in his head was simple and manageable, well, visually manageable, since he saw it every day, after all, towering like the god-tier monument of divinity that it is. 

One hundred floors, maybe a little more if the celestial being’s penthouse actually took up more than one floor (which honestly wouldn’t surprise him) , and then a few floors underneath ruled by his twin brother. 

Two or three floors underground at most for the entire cartel of Jisoo Hong, if he was being generous, and that included the speakeasy too, which he only knew existed thanks to one of the core team’s very detailed and questionably legal gossip sessions.

So when he was told that he would be living there now, Seokmin had that specific visual in mind. He assumed he’d be placed in some luxurious place underneath the building, kind of like the one in Copenhagen (minus the embarrassment and undefined heat…or maybe tension) . 

Maybe he’d even pass by a few locked vaults or guarded rooms containing... who knows what: weapons? century-old liquor? blackmail files? ...body parts? jeez . And maybe, he’d get a peek at the exclusive speakeasy while passing the hallway, or at least its intimidating little entrance.

Seokmin was expecting, at most, an extravagant private elevator that would take him down to two, maybe three floors well-concealed beneath the Empire. 

That was the image. That was the manageable, human expectation he clung to. 

So color him shocked. No, actually, paint him stunned, contour him confused, and highlight him with the cold sweat of existential dread, when he was escorted by a group of Jisoo’s men, all dressed in their signature black suits with matching gold crescent fox cufflinks, the very identifier of the Devil’s personal syndicate. 

He was seated in the Empire’s signature black Rolls-Royce, which already felt too suspicious for what was supposedly just a trip downward.

First of all, why would they even need a car if they were just heading down? That alone already said too much.

And yet, the car proceeded toward a heavily guarded, high-security, sealed-off entry point that led to an expensive-looking tunnel, something straight out of a high-level government facility, if that’s even possible.

A few seconds later, the tunnel ended in what Seokmin could only guess was the actual entry point to (finally) what’s beneath the Empire. 

In the divine narrative, this might as well be the gates of Hell , except it was nothing like what any scripture described. Actually, it was tightly controlled, thoroughly protected, and somehow still reeked of overwhelming wealth and panache . 

And as the actual gates of Hell opened, Seokmin’s brain straightaway corkscrewed into oblivion. What in the infernal, marble-tiled, monogrammed Hell is this?

Holy ethereal fuck. Seriously .

Every single assumption Seokmin had formed about what Jisoo’s place might look like vanished the second he saw it, because the entry point didn’t lead to two or three basement levels like any normal building. 

What was beneath the Empire was nothing like a basement or a bunker, as it was an entirely different world, literally. And Seokmin meant literally .

Déjà vu.

The universe, once again, had the audacity to run the same bit twice, except this time, he wasn’t in the warmth of heaven. Seokmin was in the domain of the other half of the divine twins.

What started as a way to admire Jeonghan by calling him God, or honestly, the entire use of divine imagery, somehow always had its way of becoming canon. And now, that canon had a counterpart. God's equally powerful (and equally good-looking) other half. 

Because what do you mean Jisoo Hong, or the Devil, actually ruled a literal full kingdom beneath the surface? 

Or, in the divine context Seokmin couldn’t seem to escape, a luxurious, highly-advanced, futuristic Kingdom of Hell that didn’t even try to look like hell. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how a world this literal big, with actual roads and space for cars to drive around, existed underground, or how it was even built in the first place.

Seokmin couldn’t really explain it without tripping over himself, but the entire place was just so... distinctly Jisoo. It looked nothing like a dystopian space, and it definitely didn’t resemble anything out of a science fiction film. It looked like luxury, power, like old money with high technology, and it was clear that every part of it was owned, chosen, and controlled by Jisoo himself.

And no, it wasn’t dark either. 

In fact, the lighting was identical to the light above ground, sunlight-level brightness without being harsh on the skin. It was possibly even better than the natural lighting from the actual surface, and that in itself was something he couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around. He was literally underground , and yet nothing about the place felt like a basement or a hidden sublevel.

For the nth time, he didn’t bother questioning how that was possible. Jisoo’s kingdom wasn’t anything like the three or four basement floors he pictured in his head. 

Never in his mildly overactive, conspiracy-loving, Nancy Drew-coded mind would Seokmink Panther have guessed that there was an actual functioning city underneath the Empire . And honestly, if this was what people pictured when they imagined the word “Empire,” then this was the real thing, complete, developed, and frankly more refined than anything above. 

So this is what Jisoo’s Kingdom looked like. The rumors were once again true, Jisoo did rule the bottom half of the Empire, literally this time.

Good god of hellfire. If people knew that hell was this clean, this advanced, this expensive-looking and absurdly well-managed, they’d probably sin tenfold just to get in.

Yet Seokmin didn’t even get the chance to traverse around the entire city properly, as he was driven straight to what he could only assume was Jisoo’s actual residence. At this part of the city, there were no Jisoo's men in sight. The large, old money kind of entrance with high-end technology was secured by a high-security door that could only be opened through a biometric scanner.  

Seokmin wasn’t even sure what part of him it scanned. Was it his iris? His nose? His entire face? Or his dignity, maybe?

Circling back to the whole God/Devil metaphor (which, honestly, he was no longer sure was a metaphor), Jeonghan, the literal angel in this equation, had sweetly handed him a week (or more if he “needed more time”) off from his usual workload under either of the divine twins. 

To quote: “Make yourself comfortable with my brother’s lair.”  

But to Seokmin, that was just the celestial being’s very kind way of saying, “Take a week off to collect the shattered pieces of your dignity (scream under the blanket in fetal position) after embarrassing yourself in front of him multiple times.” 

He couldn’t even look at his own reflection right now without feeling secondhand shame from himself.

Okay, breathe. A week off didn’t sound too bad, right?

Right... except Seokmin was about to spend that entire week actually living with probably the most feared man, or mythical creature. 

And God, the stories were already creeping back in, pressing against his skull until he almost wanted to collapse, throw up, or implode into dust if that were even medically possible, all from the moment he stepped foot onto the path leading to Jisoo’s actual... home .

Similar to his cellar in Copenhagen, the Devil’s actual lair turned out to be decent. No, luxurious, actually. The legends must’ve done a number on his head, because what else was he expecting from the other half of what was probably the wealthiest twin brothers alive?

The place wasn’t gaudy nor was it menacing in the way the rumors made it out to be, as there were no skulls on the shelves or bones lying around.

Where Jeonghan’s properties were draped in rich velvet or leather, framed in black tones and his signature gold linings that radiated a kind of heavenly elegance , Jisoo’s spaces were cloaked in deeper blacks, likely monochrome within the same palette, yet every inch of it exuded the kind of wealth that could only be described as old money.

Seokmin swallowed, or at least tried to, because his throat had turned to cement from sheer anxiety. He really did his best (really, goddamn tried) to shove down every ounce of fear, every rumor, every sharp-edged story he’d accidentally inhaled from day one, and instead forced himself to be... normal . Or, whatever normal meant when you were living with the Devil.

“Go be his friend, Seokmin,” he remembered the deity’s words from earlier. Right . There’s no harm in trying, right? 

So the first goal Seokmin had in mind was simple enough: to at least get to know the person behind every feared rumor, the man behind the most infamous persona in the Empire. Jisoo Hong, the Devil, and God’s twin brother.

Besides, it wasn’t like his Nancy Drew brain, aka Seokmink Panther’s tireless curiosity, hadn’t already been wondering since day one. Ever since he first heard about “the other brother,” it had been spiraling in the back of his detective mind. 

And oh, there it was again. That weird, tingling knot in his stomach, from fear, probably. Hopefully.

So, who are you really, Jisoo Hong?

To track his progress, or maybe just to ease the slow, internal death of his nerves, Seokmin mentally started what he now called The Devil Likability Index.  

Obviously, it wasn’t official, but it was open in his head at all times, right next to his Emergency escape routes and a list of safe words Jeonghan told him to use in case of unexpected psychological warfare.

The Devil Likability Index
Name : Jisoo Hong
Likability Ranking : Dangerously Low
Friend Potential Score : 3/100
( upgraded from 1 earlier, only because he called him “sweetheart” back in Copenhagen )

Okay, it wasn’t the most encouraging number, but it was technically progress. Seokmin figured if he could raise that score by even one point per week, he might reach reasonably safe cohabitant status by Christmas.

Maybe even an honorable acquaintance by the new year, assuming he survived the month.

Old money.

If the word heavenly had always been embedded in Jeonghan’s very existence (imbued in his every nerve, if we wanted to be dramatic about it, though frankly, with a face like that, heavenly felt like the only appropriate descriptor) , then the term old money might as well have been written in cursive across every breath Jisoo ever took.

Other than the sinister silence or stealthiness that always enshrouded the room once you realized he was there (because he had, in fact, been there long before anyone noticed), there was something about Jisoo that breathed old money. 

It wasn’t the kind of old money that had been passed down through a long chain of family mafias or delivered with a birthright of shares, no. There was something in the way he moved, the way he existed alone, that made it feel as if he founded old money itself. 

As though Jisoo Hong was the sole reason old money even existed in the first place.

And it made too much sense, really. That the man spoken about in both boardrooms and back alleys, feared, untouchable, permanently etched in blood-curdling rumors, also ran an underground syndicate that nobody dared confirm. Well, in Seokmin’s case, it checked out. 

That didn’t even begin to cover the legally gray operations or businesses of Jisoo that Seokmin had yet to understand, let alone ask about (and maybe would never find the nerve to). 

Maybe if he survived long enough, and reached whatever level of immunity counted as friendship under Jisoo’s terms, he’d be allowed a glimpse. Maybe. Though he wouldn’t wager anything on it, not his bones, not his passwords, not even his least favorite hoodie.

But if there was one thing , just one undeniable, godforsaken, impossible-to-ignore detail, that Seokmin could confidently, publicly declare as the embodiment of old money in Jisoo’s entire existence, it was his goddamn tobacco .

Whereas his celestial being of a twin, Jeonghan Yoon, was clearly some gilded spawn of Dionysus (the deity had wine in hand more times than he had actual food, and Seokmin had enough mental documentation at this point to submit an official report), Jisoo was far harder to classify. Surely, he had to be descended from whoever god was in charge of tobacco or smoke.

Granted, Seokmin’s grasp on mythology was loose at best (read: based entirely on a Tumblr thread and half of a Netflix documentary he fell asleep watching), but if he had to guess, then Jisoo might have been born under the patronage of whatever deity ruled smokeand steel. Hephaestus maybe? That was the only name Seokmink Panther had stored in the back of his head.

Either way, it tracked. Jeonghan was golden light and divine grape nectar: wine . Jisoo was smoke, silver-edged, and cold leather with the scent of old fire: tobacco .

And ever since that first glimpse of the world, when Jisoo publicly and quite literally saved Jeonghan during the auction, casually breaking the sound barrier of composure and making the entire room kneel without so much as raising his voice, Seokmin swore half the internet fell into collective worship.

He, for one, still didn’t know how he managed to keep his soul from physically ejecting out of his body that day (and if it did leave for a moment, he wouldn’t be surprised).

There had been, without exaggeration, thousands of fancams, even entire folders of them. Some rapt on the way Jisoo took a drag from his tobacco, others on the exact flick of his wrist, or the actual moment he lit the cigarette with a single fluid motion that really had no right to look that hot and sexy! Sorry, elegant.

All of the fancams went viral, and along with them, the words #JisooHongHot flooded every platform imaginable.

Seokmin did not contribute to the trend, at least not directly . Though, if someone were to go through his bookmarks, they might find a few saved posts, but were strictly for research and character study purposes. Academic interest, even, but definitely not for personal reasons.

But cut to the truth, the first time the world caught sight of the Devil was with him smoking a tobacco, which in itself screamed old money in all possible aspects and angles.

“Unless you’re prepared to lose that hand, I’d suggest putting the lid back on.”

?!ajksnfkdsj%#$&*
Holy lord of the gays and all the sacred alphabets!

Seokmin swore his heart stopped beating for a full minute, or maybe two, that he even considered mentally preparing a goodbye message to his grandmother and possibly his childhood dog. 

His hand was still mid-hover, trembling above one of the small black tins lined neatly beside the chrome ashtray (because his dumb little curiosity decided it would be a great idea to touch it, which, by now, he should’ve known were off-limits unless he wanted to lose his soul or a finger), when the Devil’s words sliced clean through whatever last functioning nerve was holding his soul together. 

And the worst part was he didn’t even hear him come in, and Jisoo himself had just dropped that line in that horrifyingly nefarious voice right behind his ear, literally . 

Seriously though, if his celestial being of a twin brother carries that dense, inexplicable (not even science could explain) pressure that thickens the air just by entering a building, making everyone within a hundred-meter radius aware of his God presence,then Hong Jisoo, for the nth godforsaken time, was the actual opposite.

And for the nth time again, the divine twins were living up to their roles designated divine titles once again: God and the Devil. Heaven and Hell. Light and… whatever the hell this is.

It might’ve been fear, or panic, or maybe some chaotic surge of Homotron3000 cells charging directly into his brain (and heart, let’s be honest, because he definitely felt that organ stop functioning for a solid second), but Seokmin couldn’t get a single coherent word out of his mouth and could only muster a pathetic series of stutters as a reply to Jisoo

“I didn’t—I, I, I wa—I was just—I—”

He hadn’t even processed what was happening.

For queer crisis management’s sake,  his poor (and now numb) hands hadn’t even felt the actual tin before Jisoo sneakily came into being literally beside him like a terrifyingly elegant glitch in the matrix.

And in Seokmink Panther’s defense, the man wasn’t supposed to be home at this hour!

Well, not that they were already being domestic or anything, and not that Seokmin was being the stay-at-home wife while his mafia leader of a (hot, very hot!) husband was working on schedule and he’s just here being that domestic house husb— Woah . 

Now is obviously not the time for that, especially not when Seokmin was sure as hell Jisoo was gonna at least break one of his bones for almost touching one of his tin cans.

As unexpected and unpredictable as always, just like his God of a twin brother, Jisoo did what any normal human being would obviously not do after threatening someone (unless you’re the devil, of course). 

He sniffed one of the tobaccos he pulled straight from the tin in his pocket, lit the stick with the flick of his signature crescent-fox-engraved lighter, looked at Seokmin (handsomely, of course, because life just couldn’t give Seokmin a break) and smirked with what could only be described as the devilish grin before saying, 

“The brat wanted to play with fire today, huh?”

Jisoo took a punishing slow drag, before adding, “Cute.”

Wait.

Did he just— Did Jisoo Hong just call Seokmin … cute?

That single word crawled down his spine and punched straight through whatever leftover brain power he had left. And for a full pantomiming second, he genuinely forgot how to exist.  

Did he mishear that? Was it an auditory hallucination? 

Was this what it felt like to faint while still technically awake?

Seokmin spiraled so much deeper than he was supposed to, and he almost forgot that the devil himself was still standing in front of him , and Seokmin needed to at least say something. Anything , and preferably not squeaking.

“I—I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to! I was just—I wasn’t gonna touch it, I swea—!”

Seokmin couldn’t even finish the sentence (the one he spent all his remaining courage on, mind you) before Jisoo let out a low, knee-buckling laugh.

The Devil exhaled smoke slowly, flicking the ash off with another one of those wrist gesticulation that made Seokmin want to punch air. 

“Relax, sweetheart . Didn’t say I’d kill you. I just didn’t expect baby’s first rebellion to start with my tobacco.”

B-baby?

Oh, by the wings of all that is fruity and forbidden, Seokmin wanted to just implode and rot into the floor right there. His poor gay little heart had already been through enough. 

He wasn’t even done spiraling over the C-word and now he had to survive the S-word followed by the B-word in the span of a single breath. 

God, Seokmin was sure that somewhere in the skies, a gay star exploded.

His poor, poor gay little heart stood absolutely no chance. So, as expected, Seokmin responded in the only way he knew how (and as he would later claim under oath, he had zero control over this reaction, none).  

He tried with all his might to keep his glassy eyes from actually pouring, but there was only so much a sulky, gay boy could do when verbally attacked with affection by the literal devil. God forbid, sulking was his only coping mechanism and he was fighting for his life.

So, he puffed his cheeks and with a pout that could power a small emotional dam, he mumbled, “I wasn’t rebelling, J-Jisoo… I just… I was curious…”

And like the absolute devil that he is, if it wasn’t obvious by now, Jisoo didn’t even flinch , and there was not even a flicker of sympathy to spare for Seokmin’s wounded little gay soul. No, instead he doubled down, indulging him like a cat toying with an already-defeated mouse. 

He casually flicked his cigarette again, before putting it down and leaning in ever so slightly, the same way temptation probably leans in before ruin.

“Go on then. Amuse me. Light it.”

Fucking hell. This had to be the human-world equivalent of the devil’s temptation. 

That honestly sounded like the most dangerous invitation a human could ever receive, and this was not conjured up by imagination, but actually spoken, out loud, by the Devil himself.

Jisoo Hong was painfully, painstakingly, outrageously handsome, and even his musky tobacco scent was worming its way into Seokmin’s lungs. But god… he was just too mean. He was so mean that his friend potential score on Seokmin’s Devil Likability Index was so close to losing another point. 

Seokmin, being a mere mortal (and a sulky one at that), could do nothing but keep sulking and pouting. Though to be fair, he was really, really trying not to cry, which in itself was a win. 

He was doing his best not to cry, okay? :(

And for the love of his still-healthy lungs, Seokmin doesn’t even smoke. He never has, not even a whiff of the cheapest cigarette sold at the corner store back in Daegu. If he’d even thought about trying one back then, his grandmother would’ve dragged him into the kitchen and given him the longest, most emotionally devastating lecture of his life.

At the thought of his sweet, cigarette-hating grandmother, Seokmin’s pout deepened to record levels. And in what could only be described as the sulkiest tone known to mankind, he stammered,  

“…I… I don’t sm— You’re so mean!” Then sulked even harder at the sight of Jisoo smirking (though it was very clearly the kind of smirk the Devil was trying to hold back, but absolutely failing at), and with an even deeper pout and sulkier tone, he mumbled, “…and y-you’re enjoying this!”

Seokmin was almost ready to regret talking back to the Devil, but Jisoo just looked even more amused, the smirk finally winning, before he admitted without shame, “Of course I am. Now here—” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out… a lollipop? “Stick to this until you’re ready to become a rebel.”

Seokmin blinked as Jisoo handed it to him. 

To his surprise, it was a blueberry XyliPop , something Seokmin never expected to see in the grand scheme of this luxurious, old-money-drenched place, and especially not from Jisoo, the Devil himself, who clearly didn’t own anything worth less than a million won, if that.

Seokmin felt a warm pang in his chest as he stared at the wrapper with the famous superhero kid printed on it, the one with a lopsided grin and a half-torn mask.

He remembered picking that exact flavor when his seven-year-old self was given free rein to choose any candy he wanted from the corner mart. It was a small reward from his grandmother after he and his best friend, Seungkwan, both aced their basic arithmetic exam (which was, at the time, the most important academic milestone of their entire lives).

For his younger self, it was luxury, and he felt genuinely rich just from holding it, because XyliPops were imported candies that were slightly more expensive than the regular ones at the time. 

His grandmother even bought one for Seungkwan too, because “both of you did well,” his grandma had said, proudly.

“You can hold the tin. Call it a lesson in temptation .”

Fuck. 

Now Seokmin wasn’t sure how to properly evaluate his Devil Likeability Index anymore, which suddenly needs a new category entirely: "Things I’ve Learned About the Devil." 

Although, now that he thinks about it, there’s no clear entry for anything so far, other than a series of contradictory observations that Seokmin is too scared (but also too nosy) to let go of. 

Well, he was certain at first that Jisoo was really, truly mean (and he was…murderous stare mean), but there was something in him that didn’t quite check all the boxes of universal evil. Unless of course, universally evil people also owned good cologne and had sharp cheekbones. 

It wasn’t biblically evil, neither was it demonic, and frankly, the only undeniable crime Jisoo had committed so far was being freakishly handsome.  

Ugh .

Seokmin’s curiosity had grown tenfold with every encounter, and it was now practically itching at his inner nosy Seokmink Panther (which was dangerous, truly, especially when paired with zero self-control and a little too much alone time). He was seriously considering titling it Who Is The Devil: A Very Unstable Study by Seokmin Lee .

And if he had to start somewhere, it might as well be with the only pattern he had noticed consistently, Jisoo’s sacred devotion to his tobacco.

The man was nearly done with this one already, living up to Seokmin’s increasingly firm belief that he had to be the secret spawn of Hephaestus (if not Hades himself), and maybe this could be entry number one in his not-so-objective archive of Devil encyclopedia, under the trivia section.

In any previous encounter, Jisoo would've already disappeared into thin air by now. He simply dissolved like cigarette smoke into thin air, and people (Seokmin) were left wondering if he had ever been there at all. But right now, for some reason, he was still here. 

And maybe Seokmin had been staring at him too long, because he immediately snapped back into reality when Jisoo opened his mouth and said something that immediately sent every nerve in Seokmin’s body into panic mode.

“Have you heard of the phrase, making a deal with the Devil?”

Jisoo, now lounging with infuriating elegance on his ominous black throne (it looked like one), exhaled smoke slowly as he crossed his legs and looked at Seokmin with yet another terrifyingly handsome stare. The line alone would have been enough to derail him, but Jisoo further spoke in a derailing voice, “Well, it could be a bet, a deal, or even a bargain. Anything you want , really.”

Jisoo took another languid pull from his cigarette, and with what could only be described as something extremely dangerous to any man-loving soul and homo heart, he smiled and said, “I am the Devil of my word, after all.”

Wait.

Why was he suddenly talking about a … deal?

Was he going to sell him? Or worse, his kidneys? 

And for the love of every alphabet letter in existence, the Devil must have inherited the same mind-reading powers as his God brother, because even before Seokmin could respond or even blink properly, Jisoo was already answering the question forming inside his brain (or what was left of it).

“Your face is a billboard, and the pout isn’t exactly subtle.” Jisoo exhaled more smoke, this time with a little curve of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth, before asking, “So, what is it you desire so badly, hm?”

It was maybe the smell, that stupid musk and fire and some fancy tobacco scent thing Seokmin didn’t even know how to name. Or maybe it was the way his face looked up close, sharp and lit softly by the warm glow of the cigarette. Or maybe it was the expensive black button-up that clearly wanted to rip open from how well it clung to Jisoo’s upper body, specifically his arms.

It could’ve also been for the way he said desire , as though he knew exactly what it would do to a weak man like Seokmin. Or maybe it was simply the fact that Seokmin was very stupid right now and couldn’t comprehend anything except the vague sense that he was about to faint for reasons he didn’t want to admit.

Why was the actual Devil suddenly offering him a wish? And more importantly, what the hell did Seokmin do to earn one?

“How about this,” Jisoo said, uncrossing his legs with casual (and sexy) grace as he took another breath from his cigarette, “Let the Devil offer you the first deal.”

Jisoo stood up and slowly walked toward him, which naturally made Seokmin straighten his posture in immediate fear (and arousal… and maybe a little shame, because why was he actually trembling). 

“An answer for an answer.”

Seokmin felt his breath hitch at every word, each one landing with volitional emphasis. And the infamous wicked smirk was back on the Devil’s face (not that it ever really left).

“You ask, I answer. Then I ask…” 

This time the cunning and tempting eyes of the Devil were locked onto Seokmin’s soul as though he was being pinned down with a look alone, or like he was seeing right through him, and before Seokmin could even blink again, Jisoo finished in that calm, terrifying voice, “and you don’t lie.”

“D-Do you, um… do you always smoke that much?” Seokmin blurted out all of a sudden.

Ignition temperatures vary across substances.
Paper, for example, ignites near 233°C, while denser materials like wood require higher sustained temperatures. 

Seokmin, on the other hand, operated somewhere between being the fire and being the flammable idiot standing too close.

Now, under usual circumstances, Seokmin would’ve catastrophized his brain into an actual mental gymnastics first, would've overthought Jisoo’s question for at least twenty minutes in complete silence while staring at the floor (or a crack in the tile, or a speck of dust that somehow seemed more important than human interaction).

And only then would he start spiraling until he was eventually yanked out of it by sheer panic or by someone stronger than his own overthinking (so basically Jisoo … or Jeonghan). 

But this time around, even the Devil himself must’ve been... well, not exactly shaken, no, let’s not kid ourselves, but maybe internally caught off guard by the sudden question that spilled out of Seokmin’s mouth.

Fortunately, Seokmink Panther had also developed that strangely specific ability to see past the twins’ unnervingly polished stillness, where they remain unreadable no matter what was thrown at them, and catch even the slightest flicker of their real reaction underneath it all. 

And maybe it wasn’t much, maybe it wasn’t even visible to anyone else, but Seokmink Panther knew better and swore he saw the barely-there change in the Devil’s usually cutting gaze, where it became gentler by maybe 0.01%, okay fine 0.1% at best, but that still counts, right?, and honestly, that alone should qualify as a full-blown personal win for our little Nancy Drew in the making.

And as if the universe wanted to validate this absurdly specific achievement, the son of Hephaestus reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out another tobacco stick from the matte black tin with the gold crescent fox engraved. 

Jisoo lit the stick with the slow flick of his lighter, then closed his eyes as though he was grounding himself while inhaling the burn of the smoke along with its infiltrating scent deep in his lungs.

And suddenly, Seokmin felt the familiar creeping sense of shame and embarrassment crawling up his spine, reminding him that he probably shouldn’t have asked that question in the first place.

What was he thinking, asking a question like that? 

God, he was so stupid.

The weight of how stupid that was hit him just as he opened his mouth again, about to mutter some half-apology or excuse or just anything to save himself before he could turn around and vanish toward his assigned room, where he could crawl under the duvet, pull the covers over his head, and stew in a self-loathing spiral.

Seokmin was about to stammer out some kind of apology when Jisoo’s voice broke through the rising cloud.

“Fire was fear , once.” Jisoo said ruminatively, pulling Seokmin out of the self-made spiral he was already deep into, and more than that, it caught him off guard, as the word fear dropped from the Devil himself.

“Our father burned the things I loved until I stopped... loving .” 

The pause before the word loving stretched just long enough to bruise something inside Seokmin. And it wasn’t the pause that hurt, it was the fact that Seokmin noticed how Jisoo had to pause there,

as if love had become something unpronounceable, something foreign for Jisoo,  

and Seokmin felt something in his chest drop. 

Seokmin couldn’t explain it, but all the made-up remorse he had been feeling (yes, because he was sulky at that) or the guilt that came with being nosy or disrespectful or whatever shrinking fear he convinced himself he was feeling toward Jisoo suddenly vanished, completely wiped away the moment that sentence left Jisoo’s mouth.

He was the Devil, wasn’t he? 

The Devil, of all people, was the last person Seokmin thought would ever admit to pain, let alone fear. 

And Seokmin… shouldn't be feeling this way, shouldn't want to comfort the Devil. He should not want to reach out and touch his hand, or worse, pull him into his arms and hold him there.

And in the wildest, overactive dreams Seokmin had about the Devil, never once did he imagine that such a feared, cold-blooded, terrifying man could say something that would make him want to cry.

The usually wicked tone imbued in the Devil’s voice along with his devilish smirk felt momentarily erased, yet Seokmin couldn’t really bring himself to focus on that because he was too taken aback by the sheer weight of what had just been said, and maybe also because he was remembering every “abused” rumor that had ever floated around about the Divine twins

He never expected that hearing a single sentence, from one of the “rumored to be abused” twins themselves, would make his heart sink straight to his stomach.

“Well, I smoke to remember that this time…” Jisoo glanced up, and the smile that was devilish in shape (though a bit softer now) slowly curled back, snapping Seokmin right back to the present, and without breaking eye contact, Jisoo let the rest of the sentence fall out of his mouth,

“…the fire belongs to me now.”

Frankly, it didn’t matter how low Jisoo’s voice had gone, or how handsome he looked under the low light, or how the fire from his cigarette made his face look even more unreal than usual (sharp, golden, almost too much), especially with those crisp words. 

None of that really mattered, not when Seokmin couldn’t brush past the weight still lingering in the air from that earlier sentence.

Our father burned the things I loved…

Jeonghan’s fingers had found the familiar skin at the nape of his neck again, tracing over the burn scar that had been tucked neatly beneath his hair.Thankfully, the scar was kept out of sight beneath the fall of his soft hair, not that anyone had ever seen it anyway.

It was way past midnight, and Jeonghan was sitting in front of the fireplace, trying to coax some warmth into his anemic, earth-bound body. 

Sleep hadn’t come easy in days, or even weeks, despite drowning himself in work and pretending everything was fine, putting on his naturally worshipped facade in hopes of keeping everything inside so no one else would get worried or even ask.

The warmth of the fire helped, at least briefly, but it was enough for him to pretend the chill hadn’t seeped into his bones.

How ironic .

He let himself absorb the warmth, let it touch his skin gently before he slipped away into the bathroom, stepping into his tub hoping the water would either wash off or swallow down the parts of him that had been too heavy to carry.

From an outsider’s perspective, it would be ridiculous, really.

Jeonghan tingles, or divine intuition , as his twin brother would call his inexplicable sixth sense he had always had for as long as he could remember. 

It was the one thing that, as far as either of them could remember, had never failed, not even once. His intuition had always been useful, almost dangerously so, and it had always worked hand in hand with his unnervingly sharp mind.

But Jeonghan would be lying if he said it didn’t come with this constant heaviness that presses into his chest a little too tightly on nights like this, especially when he couldn’t quite point out or clearly piece together what it was trying to say.

How was he supposed to rack his brain to the fullest and come up with a plan to protect Jisoo, to protect the Empire, to protect everyone in it, if the very clairvoyance he had always trusted couldn’t even give him a single answer?

What use was a divine sense if it couldn’t tell him what was wrong?

Jeonghan reached up again and let his fingers brush against the burn mark at the back of his neck. It was one of the many remnants and reminders he carried, stitched into his skin by a man neither of them had the right to call father .

Seven.

They were seven .

They were seven when their father discovered Jeonghan had switched places with his twin brother, who had been sentenced to the deathly shock chambers for an entire day as punishment for scratching one of the handlers’ hands.

In his poor brother’s defense, the handler had been seconds away from beating him for “not being good enough to fight.”

Jeonghan’s little scheme, which was really just survival at that point and his desperate attempt to protect his brother in the only way he could, had been the last-minute glimmer of hope he could come up with to stop Jisoo from getting locked inside that dark, narrow box that was too small to even stand up in. 

It was only one of the many tools of punishment their father loved to use, and he called it the shock chamber , since ventilation was limited, and the floor was electrified randomly for hours.

So Jeonghan did what he had always done. He saved his brother, and switched places with him.

Unfortunately, in the urgency of it all, his seven-year-old self hadn’t been able to think everything through. He forgot the one thing that would give him away, the mole on his cheek that Jisoo didn’t have, and it only took one glance from one of the men for the illusion to fall apart.

As punishment for both of them, their father had viciously burned Jeonghan using a heated metal rod, or branding iron as their father called it, as though they were livestock, searing it into different parts of Jeonghan’s pale skin.

His brother was shackled and forced to his knees, crying, watching every second transpire right in front of his seven year old self.

Jeonghan remembered every detail, the scent of his burnt flesh, the weight of his brother’s voice begging for it to stop, and every desperate cry he had swallowed just to keep Jisoo from breaking.

Ridiculous.

His fingers kept tracing the single remaining burn scar at the nape of his neck, as that same scar itched .

His sixth sense had been telling him over and over again that there was more to what their bastard uncle had so poorly orchestrated, and in that blurry, maddening clairvoyance, their father’s shadow had started to come to the fore once again.

Ridiculous.

He had been hailed as God for the past decade. He had been revered and adored by the entire world, but when he was alone with nothing but his thoughts and the blur of his own trembling clairvoyance skill, when the nightmares shook him awake, Jeonghan felt helpless.

Powerless , even.

God, he would remember what it felt like to be powerless in the hands of their own father.

And the divine mantle he wore every day would start to crack faintly, although enough for the things he buried to surface again, the things he had long pushed into corners of himself too concealed for even Jisoo to touch.

And lately, his sixth sense had been stirring insistent and disorienting, telling him that the very man who once stood at the center of his and his brother’s pain was no longer buried in memory but back, slipping past the walls he and Jisoo built so carefully.

It was as if their father had found a way to lurk past even Jisoo’s eyes on the world, that something had already gotten through, something neither of them had seen.

God, it was suffocating , and it clawed at his lungs every night he carried this alone. 

He didn’t know how to admit it, but it gnawed at him how they were untouchable to everyone except the one man they had spent their whole lives trying to escape.

Jeonghan had been missing out on sleep for the past few weeks, ever since the family they left behind started crawling their way back into the present. 

Again, ridiculous.

And really, he would have skipped meals too, had it not been for Cheol, who, fortunately, had always been good at cooking and had always been more than willing to make meals for him, just like he’d been doing since they were young.

Fuck . 

How was he supposed to save Cheo—

“Hannie! Hannie~”

Jeonghan was yanked, both out of his trance and quite literally out of the water, by the very man he had just been thinking of, who was now shirtless and visibly shaking in pure, unmistakable agitation.

He hadn’t even discerned how far gone he was until Seungcheol’s hands were on him, his trembling arms wrapped him tight, anchoring him in.

I wasn’t trying to die .

Jeonghan wanted to say, but instead he let himself sink into the familiar heat of Seungcheol’s embrace, though he wasn’t sure if it was warmth or the faint, almost imperceptible trembling of his own body desperately seeking any anchor to this plane, 

Because God, it didn’t feel like he was here, not really, not until Seungcheol brought him back.

His heartbeat was stable now or at least stable enough, all things considered, and Jeonghan only noticed now how long he must’ve stayed underwater for Cheol to think he might have drowned. 

Jeonghan hadn’t even realized his lungs had stopped working properly until he was pulled out, and carried all the way back in front of the same fireplace he’d been sitting before deciding to slip into the water he had hoped would bring him peace in the first place.

“Hannie~”

To anyone else, it would’ve sounded like the usual way Seungcheol had been calling him since they were eleven and twelve. Yet Jeonghan knows Seungcheol down to the last breath he takes , and it almost hurts to catch the thread of fear buried in the older man’s voice. “You’re okay.”

Seungcheol’s words were as expected, soft and wrapped in breath, and Jeonghan felt something tighten in his chest when he was pulled closer. His forehead rested against Seungcheol’s bare shoulder as the older man pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head. 

One of Seungcheol’s hands remained tightly wrapped around him, the other slowly running through Jeonghan’s damp hair as though he was trying to soothe him into existence.

Jeonghan knows Seungcheol down to the last breath he takes , but Seungcheol knows him just as deeply .

Seungcheol knows him so well that saying anything about what happened, asking questions, or even scolding him, would be the last thing Jeonghan needed, and Seungcheol knew that without being told. And still, the worry in the older’s voice was enough to tear Jeonghan apart all over again, even if Seungcheol wasn’t saying much at all.

If Jeonghan hadn’t known better, he would’ve believed Seungcheol wasn’t scared, but he did know better, and God, he didn’t mean to scare him.

He wasn’t trying to fall apart, wasn’t trying to disappear, and definitely wasn’t trying to make Seungcheol worry the way he clearly had.

Jeonghan wasn’t trying to make it look like he was drowning to end his life. He really just wanted to feel the water hold him for a little while and maybe help him fall asleep again. 

God, he just wanted to breathe .

And maybe, maybe he just wanted to feel something, anything , that wasn’t the sharp cold edge of his own mind or the constant unbearable weight of his cursed gift of clairvoyance.

Jeonghan wanted to feel things.

So he opened his eyes and looked at Seungcheol who was shirtless under the firelight as the same shirt that once clung to him now draped over Jeonghan’s damp frame. And with trembling fingers, he reached out, cupping Seungcheol’s face to maybe ground himself just as much as the air he was trying to breathe.

“I… I…”

Jeonghan Yoon, for all his divinity in the entirety of his existence, had never stuttered when speaking to anyone other than his twin brother, maybe, or the one person whose name he hoped never had to leave his mouth again, his father, and even then it was barely noticeable.

So to hear his honey-dipped voice falter now felt jarring , unfamiliar, and painfully… human , which is not the usual God the world had spent years worshipping.

“I... I want to kiss you.”

And he did, his lips finding Seungcheol's without hesitation but full of reverence. It was full of the aching gentleness of someone who hadn’t kissed in a long time and was terrified of getting it wrong.

Jeonghan kissed him slowly, desperately , like he was learning how to stay alive again. 

He felt the heat of it all crawl up his spine and into his chest, felt Seungcheol’s lips move against his, but he also felt his own body… wanting more , that made him break the kiss even though it had barely started.

Jeonghan gently pulled away, as his eyes searched Seungcheol’s, still cupping his face in both hands.

“I…”

His voice faltered again, no, cracked for the second time around, and Jeonghan hated it. He hated how unfamiliar it felt to lose control and composure. 

Yet Seungcheol, ever the warmth in all the places Jeonghan wouldn’t admit to being cold, reached up to hold the hand still pressed to his cheek, brushing his knuckles softly with his thumb.

“Hannie… what is it?”

He should’ve stopped then and there. 

Jeonghan should’ve swallowed it down like he always did, should’ve forced a smile and gone back to pretending he didn’t want anything at all. For more than half his life, he had undeniably and inescapably known that Seungcheol, of all people, was the one line he could never afford to cross.

But Jeonghan wanted to feel things.

“I… I… Cheollie~… I want…”

Fuck.

He started stuttering again, and it was infuriating and terrifying, because this was the one moment he wasn’t prepared to stay composed. 

It was as if the universe was punishing him for this moment of desire , for slipping out of character, for not being the God he was supposed to be.

Jeonghan knows Seungcheol down to the last breath he takes , but Seungcheol knows him just as deeply .

“Tell me, Hannie~ What does God want?”

There it was.

Seungcheol Choi, the man who always knew when to remind him of who he was. 

Seungcheol, for all the years Jeonghan had known him, had never once failed to say exactly what he needed to hear at the exact moment he needed to hear it.

He had always been the calm to Jeonghan’s chaos, the unshakeable ground beneath him whenever the weight of his so-called divinity started to crack. He was the anchor who pulled him back without force, the one who never let him forget what the world saw when they looked at him. 

Seungcheol was the only one who knew how and when to feed Jeonghan’s ego whenever he stumbled off his divine mantle and felt it starting to crumble beneath his feet.

So Jeonghan’s gaze locked onto his, and it was burning with something primal and pleading.

“I want… to feel, Cheollie~”

There was still hesitation in his voice, so he took one last breath, swallowed every last trace of doubt and fear, and reminded himself that He is the Jeonghan Yoon , before finally giving in, not caring about what he had always thought was at stake. 

Without thinking much, without overanalyzing for once, he let the words fall from his lips, the ones that would absolutely cross every boundary he had spent most of his life refusing to touch.

“I want your hands around my neck… I want to feel like nothing in your hands… I want you to ruin me, Cheollie… Take me… fuck the God out of me—”

Some fires are not always visible and start beneath the surface.
In some cases, combustion begins internally, where it builds quietly, destabilizes slowly, and goes entirely unnoticed, until it gets… messy .

Fear.

It was the one thing Jisoo would never admit to having, not even to his brother.

Fear is weakness , he had always told himself. 

Fear was weakness, and weakness had no place in the life they had clawed out for themselves from the blood and concrete they had been born into. 

Fear was the thing their father fed on, the thing he sought in their eyes every time he made them kneel or bleed or burn.

So even in the middle of every punishment or torture imposed by the ver man called their father, not once did he ever let it slip. 

Fear is weakness.

And maybe it wasn’t exactly fear that he had just admitted to the awkward man now standing in front of him, the man who, although he would never speak it out loud, he inexplicably found adorable in all the worst and most inconvenient ways, the fact remained that Jisoo said something he shouldn’t have.

Not once did Jisoo ever think about opening up something from their undesirable past to anyone, especially not to someone he hadn’t trained and barely even knew.

Well, he was only holding up his end of the bargain, wasn’t he? 

That would be the most plausible explanation, and honestly, the only one Jisoo wanted the reason to be.

Except... he had never offered that kind of luxury before, not the Devil’s deal, not the chance to negotiate or bargain, not the rare privilege of being given a choice . Because it was always the other way around.

Jisoo Hong, in all his Devilish might, never offered a deal, not easily, not freely, not to anyone. 

In his entire existence, it was never about giving someone a way in, as it was about taking. It was about watching people crawl their way toward him, desperate enough to trade in pieces of their lives just to survive one more day, and then.

And then, and only then, would he accept the deal, on his terms , at his price , usually after dragging it out of them himself, until they had nothing left to bargain with but their soul.

I am the Devil of my word, after all.

He is. 

That much had never been up for debate, as it was one of the few things that came with him, the refusal to break a promise and the terrifying scrupulousness with which he kept them.

He also doesn’t lie, though bluffing was another thing entirely, something he had long mastered and wielded as his second language.

And that was exactly why he never offered the deal. Because Jisoo Hong never offers anything, as he was the one who wrung the deal out of someone too desperate to live the rest of their life without trading part of it in first. 

The Devil’s favor had always been a luxury, which meant it was never free and it always came with a price.

So him offering that very luxury to Seokmin was, by every definition, deeply out of character.

And yet, here they were.

“My turn,” he said, letting it fall from his lips without warning, completely ignoring the wide, glassy eyes of the awkwardly endearing mess-of-a-man standing in front of him. 

There was no universe where Jisoo was going to entertain feelings. He wasn’t going to sit down for a counseling session, so he took a drag from his cigarette and God , it felt grounding, slipping back into something familiar after standing too close to a sunshine for too long.

He exhaled slowly before voicing the one question that had been clawing at the edges of his mind since the moment they crossed paths, something he hadn’t admitted but had been wanting to know.

“Why didn’t you turn down my brother’s offer to live here?”

And in true Jisoo Hong fashion, the Devil incarnate, he followed it with that signature, wicked curve of his lips, before casually and cruelly adding in the only way the Devil would ever dare say it,

“Why didn’t you run when you had the chance?”

He smiled in the way only the Devil does when he knows he’s already won something, even if he doesn’t know what it is yet. 

And being hailed as the Devil even in rumors alone for the past decade, he felt that familiar hum of pride curling through his chest, ego fed by his own words.

Jisoo’s grin was notorious and fed by the delicious anticipation that the adorably disoriented mess of a man in front of him, or the glorified disaster with a charming face named Seokmin, would, as expected, stutter or was going to stare at him in dumbstruck silence like he always did.

And Jisoo was more than prepared to bask in it.

But before Jisoo could even finish drawing in another pull from his cigarette, before the smoke could even reach his lungs, the trembling, rabbit-eyed, sweetly infuriating chaos creature he had so foolishly underestimated…spoke, immediately .

“I want to be your friend.”

Fuck.

Despite maintaining his perfectly composed, unfazed facade, Jisoo would be lying if he said he didn’t almost choke on the smoke he had just dragged into his lungs.

Because out of every possible answer that could have come out of Seokmin’s mouth, that was the last thing he expected, and it came from the last person he ever expected to have the nerve to speak to him.

This was the same person who hovered over the numeric passkey for almost an hour with his sweaty palms, the same person who took off his clothes at the words “Take it off,” completely misunderstanding what Jisoo meant with those words.

Seokmin was the same man who immediately teared up after Jisoo absentmindedly called him dimwit . 

This was the very same person who had the sheer audacity to pout and sulk at him, and even call him mean right on their very first meeting.

And now that very same man was standing there in front of him, saying that.

I want to be your friend. 

What the fuck was he supposed to do with that?

Maybe the better question was,

Why didn’t Jisoo run when he had the chance?

Combustion requires three elements: heat, fuel, and oxygen.
Once they're all in place, it's only a matter of time before it turns …messy.

Chapter Text

Codicil I: On Upholding the Holy Clause of Filth

King of diamonds K♦.

Queen of spades Q♠.

Two of hearts 2♥.

Nine of clubs 9♣.

The four cards were laid and spread across the table, while the fifth and final card, known as the river , waited at the edge facing down. The game was one card away from ending, and everything would come down to that final card reveal . 

It was Seungcheol’s turn, and no matter how moored he tried to sit, he could feel the pressure of the game closing in on his fingertips. 

The river would decide whether the night would end in victory or leave him empty-handed yet again.

His knuckles were tight around his two hole cards, maybe even tighter than they should have been or tighter than he actually meant them to be, but he couldn’t loosen his grip , no.

He wasn’t even sure what exactly was making him nervous, or if he was even feeling nervous at all, or if it was something else entirely building in his chest, but either way, he glanced down to check them again.

K♠ Q♣.
A king and a queen.

If his understanding of the game was even remotely correct, then paired with the four community cards on the table, he already had two pairs.  

And that was a good hand, a very good hand even. In fact, they were the best he’d ever had since learning this game. 

And if luck was even slightly on his side tonight, then he was just one card away from a full house . One final card, a queen or a king , could tip the board in his favor and bring everything down at his feet.

One card could give him his first real win , but the same card could also take it all away . 

Seungcheol was standing on the border between coup and loss, success and failure,
and he had no way of knowing which side he would land on until the river turned.

After all, poker was never a game of safety. It was a game of risk, and a game of uncertainty. It was having the nerve to keep playing even when you didn't know what was coming next .

He cleared his throat and tried to make it seem like he was okay , though it did little to ease the weight in his chest as he caught sight of the man seated across from him, who looked far too ethereal and too breathtakingly untouched by tension for someone who was notoriously known as the most cunning and most dangerous player within the entire high-ranking syndicate run by the Yoons , all before he had even turned twelve.

And of course, Seungcheol didn’t know how someone could look that beautiful under this kind of pressure.

In one way or another, he forced out a breath and tried to nose out his voice.

“If I…If I’ve got two pairs,” he muttered, “b-but I’m one card away from a full house, do I… do I play it safe or… or chase the bigger win?”

The said slyest player seated across from him, Jeonghan Yoon , had his hair framing his face in that maddeningly perfect way again, and it was a natural advantage for him, really .

His beauty alone was enough to disarm most players, and for someone like Seungcheol, who was still barely learning the weight of each bet, it was absolutely near impossible to focus on the game when the man across the table looked like an actual demiurge .

Jeonghan gave a warm smile before looking at Seungcheol in the most breathtaking way possible, which, once again, stood in stark contrast to his reputation as the most dangerously clever player ever produced by the Yoon bloodline itself, raised from within the very underground operation the family had led for decades.

Jeonghan Yoon was undefeated even when pitted against the higher ups, or the big boss himself (Jeonghan’s father).

He answered Seungcheol without swithering at all, “It depends.”

Then, in the way only Jeonghan Yoon ever could, the way he always did, with winning written and instilled into his very blood before he was even born, he slid his cards forward face-down, and the chips followed right after. 

All in.

Eleven year old Jeonghan had just placed his bet and played his turn before Seungcheol could even make his, or fully understand what he meant by, "It depends." 

Who even does that? Who makes their bet before the other player even plays? 

No one, obviously .

No one else would ever dare to do such a thing, and no one would have been able to anticipate that kind of ploy.

Jeonghan Yoon had no tells and was impossible to read, and that alone was what made him dangerously cunning.

Jeonghan leaned back into his chair, carefully tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, and looked almost unreal beneath the dark lights of the room they were imprisoned in. 

God. It was easy to overlook the resemblance of his twin’s mischievous Devil smile when he looked that beautiful. 

And it was easy to miss the fact that the stakes were higher for the beautiful man, because no one, not even his own father, had ever won against him. 

Yet he still bet everything .

And after placing every chip he had forward, after committing to his two cards without even waiting for Seungcheol’s turn, Jeonghan finally returned to his question, looking directly at him as he answered, 

“Statistically, the odds of hitting your full house from the river are slim,” he said, and for a second, it almost sounded like he was teasing.

“Around eight percent.”

And with that same disarming grace he always wore, Jeonghan let out another mischievous smile, one that made him look nearly identical to Jisoo, if not for the warmth that took the edge off of it though just enough to give him away. 

"Do you trust the river to deal your card and give you what you need,” he kept his eyes on Seungcheol before adding,

“or do you fold before the odds can even try to prove you wrong?”

There was never a time when Jeonghan wasn’t sacred to Seungcheol.

To most people, perhaps even to the world, Jeonghan was divine because of how he looked, how he could pull attention from a room with nothing but his goddamn beautiful face, how people found themselves unable to look away the moment he walked in.

His face alone was enough to make strangers forget their words, to make his name worth billions, and to make the Empire powerful and almost indestructible.

The world had always worshipped him in perfect unison, as though they all knew without being told that Jeonghan Yoon held the world in the palm of his hand , and in many ways, he did , which Seungcheol and everyone else, really , had come to understand.

Seungcheol had watched it happen every single day.

He had watched power brokers lose their footing, watched people literally drop their jaws at the sight of him, watched even the most powerful figures stiffen without him lifting a finger, and watched the world falter in stunned admiration at the mere mention of his name.

He had seen the world bend itself in reverence and offer everything without question at nothing more than his name, and Seungcheol understood why better than anyone else ever could.

But even then, none of that explained why Seungcheol loved him the way he did.

In all the years Seungcheol had known Jeonghan, he had always treated him as something sacred.

He had always regarded him as something that could only be approached with tenderness, something that deserved every bit of care, protection, and devotion a person knew how to give. 

Jeonghan was something to be carried, guarded, and honored with loyalty and a reverence that had nothing to do with fame or power, but everything to do with Jeonghan Yoon himself, the eleven year old boy he met when he was twelve who looked too breathtaking to be called human at all

Jeonghan Yoon was prettier than a girl, more handsome than a boy, and yet something that never truly fit either. 

Above all of that, he was simply far too beautiful for the world he had been born to and forced to live in. It was as though the family and place Jeonghan belonged to had made a mistake in letting him be born there at all.

Perfect.

Perfect was the word his twelve-year-old self had chosen to describe Jeonghan next to beautiful .

When Seungcheol ran away from the family that was training him to become a monster, he was captured by far more monstrous ones. He was captured by men who worked for the very family who treated children as nothing but assets, weapons, and machinery to be trained until they generated power and profit, then discarded when they failed. 

It was never a secret, really.

He had grown up hearing of the Yoons from his parents. Anyone tied to the underworld, mafia, syndicate, even political dynasties, knew their name. 

The Yoons were the apex syndicate, the force that even the largest mafias, cartels, and triads deferred to because their reach stretched far beyond weapons and narcotics into government, finance, and global trafficking.

The Yoons operated as a syndicate conglomerate, the “syndicate of syndicates,” as his parents used to say. 

Every bloodline under them paid homage as the Yoon bloodline controlled the entire supply chain of the underground world, or the full commerce of sin.

Seungcheol Choi had been born into the Choi family. 

Within the Yoon hierarchy, the Chois were one of the most trusted branches under the Steel Arm , the division that oversaw weapons and smuggling .

At seven , Seungcheol had been forced to sit through the testing of experimental drugs on captives. The lesson was never to feel but to analyze, to record effects clinically, to report outcomes precisely, and to calculate results because to them, lives were numbers .

Unlike Jeonghan and Jisoo Yoon, Seungcheol was not trafficked or brutalized. 

The Chois loved their children in their own way, but they loved them as heirs to an empire of blood. His training revolved around a single principle: hesitation kills. If violence was necessary to protect shipments or secrets, Seungcheol was to act without hesitation.

Yet Seungcheol did not want any of it.

He wanted nothing to do with that life. All he ever wished for was to live normally, far from the underground world he had been born into.

At twelve , he renounced his inheritance and ran, leaving his younger brother behind. 

Less than half a day later, he was captured by the very family his parents had taught him to bow to and fear above all others, the Yoons, the monsters at the top of the chain, the family name spoken only with respect and dread.

Twelve year old Seungcheol was beaten by several men the moment he was captured, forced to state the name of the family he had been born into, starved for days, and finally thrown into the box where no light existed at all. 

He was barely breathing and barely conscious when two soft hands reached for his own. The beautiful boy was even careful not to touch the bruises and wounds left on his body, and tears were obviously welling in the boy’s golden brown eyes though he tried hard to hold them back, along with the words: I’m sorry . I’ll get you out of here.

With all the strength his young frame could muster, the heavenly-looking boy did his best to lift Seungcheol’s battered body despite being so clearly fragile himself, so Seungcheol forced himself to move along, to do his part in letting himself be carried out of the dark.

Jeonghan .

That was the name of the beautiful boy who unchained him, who pulled him from the box of torture, and guided him toward the ring where other children were kept as captives of the Yoons. 

Beside him stood another child with almost the same face, though unlike Jeonghan he carried no softness or “glow” in his appearance. It was Jeonghan’s twin brother, Jisoo.

Jisoo was sharp, guarded, and was not welcoming at all, yet he never once let go of his brother’s hand and he helped without uttering a single word, watching over his brother as he tended to Seungcheol.

“Yoon. Jeonghan Yoon,” the beautiful boy said an hour later after treating his wounds. It was spoken reluctantly, almost as if he wanted to spare Seungcheol the pain of hearing his family name.

But why did Jeonghan expect him to hate him in the first place?

Was he expecting Seungcheol to blame him for the cruelty of the family he had been born into, to see him as another extension of the same bloodline that had ordered his suffering? 

God. 

He was just a boy who had been born into a legacy far crueller than anything Seungcheol could imagine, who had seen more violence in a decade than most men would see in their entire lifetime, yet still chose to protect a random boy simply because he could not stand to watch another child be broken. 

With all the dread and fear that surname carried, Jeonghan himself was nothing like it. 

He was the very opposite of everything dark and ugly, and yet he still expected Seungcheol to fear him, to turn away from him, or to blame him for his suffering.

How could he, when every single day only made him love Jeonghan more?

Seungcheol had loved the boy who saved him when he was too broken to save himself.

He had loved the eleven-year-old Jeonghan who reached out without dubiety, even though he came from a family more feared than any other, even though Seungcheol was nothing more than a … runaway , even though kindness wasn’t something either of them had been taught. 

He had loved him when Jeonghan dragged him out of danger over and over again, when Jeonghan stood between him and the men his father sent to retrieve him, when Jeonghan used his own body as a shield long before he ever learned how to use a gun.

He had loved him when Jeonghan and his brother tore down the very empire that had bound them, when the Yoon syndicate itself finally crumbled beneath their hands, and Seungcheol was given his freedom for the first time in his life, only to realize that freedom meant nothing unless it was staying beside Jeonghan.

He had loved him the day he managed to make Jeonghan laugh after serving him a meal he had secretly practiced for weeks, claiming he was just a natural cook when the truth was that he had learned only for him. 

He had loved him when Jeonghan let his walls fall for the first time, when he painfully showed him pieces of his wounds and scars, when he chose to be vulnerable even though the world had never allowed him to be.

He had loved him the night they slept in the same bed for the first time because Jeonghan trusted no one else except Jisoo, and his mind was too sharp, too heavy for his fragile body to keep carrying alone, so all Seungcheol could do was wrap his arms around him each night until he finally closed his eyes and let himself rest.

Since the day he was saved from that box, Seungcheol had seen Jeonghan in nearly every form after vowing to himself to protect him with everything that he has. 

And he kept loving him through all of it, with every part of Jeonghan that no one else had ever been allowed to see.

There had never been a single version of Jeonghan that he did not love , no part of him that he ever wanted to change. If anything, the more he saw, the more impossible it became to walk away.

And maybe Seungcheol still didn’t fully know why. Maybe there had never been a specific reason, no clear moment where it began, no name for the feeling that had lived in his chest since the first time Jeonghan saved him. 

But if Seungcheol had ever believed in fate, or in something as fragile and terrifying as love, it had always looked like Jeonghan Yoon.

To Seungcheol Choi, love had always looked like Jeonghan Yoon.

His entire life had shaped itself around a single purpose: to protect Jeonghan, to give him everything he needed and asked for, and to do whatever it took to make sure he stayed happy. 

There were days when Seungcheol had no idea what he wanted for himself, but there had never been a day when he was unsure about that. 

Because there had never been a single day when Jeonghan was not Seungcheol’s reason to live.

In all the years Seungcheol had known Jeonghan, he had always treated him as something sacred.

So when Jeonghan looked at him, and told him in a broken, trembling voice, “I want your hands around my neck… I want to feel like nothing in your hands… I want you to ruin me, Cheollie… Take me… fuck the God out of me,”  

It took everything in Seungcheol not to break apart on the spot.

Jeonghan Yoon was the one person Seungcheol had never allowed himself to take. 

He was the one line Seungcheol had spent almost two decades refusing to cross. He had dreamed of it, of course he had .

He had dreamed of kissing him from the moment they met, dreamed of holding him in ways he never dared speak aloud, dreamed of someday brushing his soft, beautiful hair back when they were older and maybe happier and less afraid. 

Seungcheol had dreamed of being his in all the ways that were lasting and unbreakable, in every way that meant forever, in every way that meant belonging only to each other.

But none of it had gone the way he hoped.

Because now, the one person he swore to protect, the one person he built his life around, was asking him to do the very thing he had spent years avoiding. 

Seungcheol knew exactly what Jeonghan meant, knew what this would cost, and knew there would be no turning back once he gave in. He couldn’t cross this line and pretend it hadn’t happened. 

Holding Jeonghan in his arms every night until he fell asleep was one thing, but giving in to the request to take him in ways that could never be undone was a completely different line to cross. 

He couldn’t risk shattering the person he loved the most and then pretend the world would remain the same.

But … he was still Seungcheol .

He was still the twelve-year-old boy who had looked at the unearthly-looking eleven-year-old Jeonghan and decided that nothing else would ever matter more than his happiness. 

He was still the man who had promised to give him everything he needed and everything he asked for, even if it meant carrying the weight alone. 

And who was Seungcheol Choi, if not the man who would give Jeonghan Yoon whatever he asked of him?

“H-Han… Hannie~” he carefully cupped Jeonghan’s flawless face, brushing along the curve of his sharp jaw as he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold something this beautiful, this perfect , and this fragile in the same breath. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he almost inaudibly said, while his fingers gently tucked the still-damp strands of hair behind Jeonghan’s ear.

It was an instinct he had done a thousand times before without thought, but this time his hands trembled a little too visibly.

Seungcheol prayed to whoever it was, for once, that Jeonghan would change his mind, but to his horror Jeonghan’s eyes never quivered nor did they even move. The younger’s eyes stayed locked on his with a certainty that made his chest ache.

“Since when did I not know what I want?” 

Right . This was the Jeonghan Yoon he had always known and loved, the Jeonghan whose words cut straight through him, and still it struck Seungcheol like a blade pressed to the heart, especially when the next words followed.

“Take me, Cheollie~” 

Jeonghan Yoon, in all the years he had known him, had never once taken back a decision in his life, and Seungcheol knew this would not be the first. 

He had always loved that about him, that Jeonghan never hesitated nor faltered, but now his heart sank as Jeonghan’s hands pulled the oversized shirt from his body, the very one Seungcheol had draped over him only minutes ago, now sliding to the floor in defeat.

God.

Jeonghan’s flawless skin glowed in the firelight and Seungcheol’s lungs refused to work at the sight. For a second the world tilted on its axis, vertiginous beneath his feet, as if it could not contain the weight of what was happening.

And for a second, the sight of Jeonghan was the sum of two decades of yearning, of nights spent trying not to picture… this , of dreams he had never allowed himself to hold for longer than a breath.

“Please, Cheollie~”

Fuck .

And who was Seungcheol, if not the man who swore to never let the love of his life beg for anything, when he had always, always been ready to give before Jeonghan ever had to ask.

“Fuck the God out of me.”

And who was Seungcheol, if not the boy who had run away from violence and power, only to fall into the arms of something far more dangerous, something stronger than pain, something called love?

The moment Jeonghan decided he wanted this, there was no universe where Seungcheol could have said no. 

And so he crossed the line he had vowed never to cross unless it was for love, unless it was with him.

He kissed Jeonghan and took in every beauteous moan he gave, letting every buried feeling tear free all at once, colliding in heat and breath and trembling mouths pressed too tightly together.

Seungcheol kissed him until he no longer knew where he ended and Jeonghan began.

His mouth tasted of fire and desperation, of everything Seungcheol had buried for years but could no longer hold back. 

It tasted of the first night they ever slept together in the same bed, the night that began a habit Jeonghan never outgrew, how he could never fall asleep unless he was safely tucked in Seungcheol’s arms. 

And Seungcheol, on the other hand, had memorized him down to the smallest detail, every breath, every sound, every movement of his body, as though Jeonghan were etched into his very bones. The habit was never spoken what any of it meant, and neither of them had ever dared to name it.

It tasted of their first kiss on the airplane, the one Jeonghan had asked permission for, the one where Seungcheol had finally admitted to himself that he had loved him for almost two decades. 

As expected, nothing had been spoken about what that kiss bore , or what weight it left behind on each of their hearts.

And yet, like all of those habits, all of those unspoken things in between, the kiss still tasted like Jeonghan , the bane of his existence . 

So he drank down every sound that left Jeonghan’s mouth with that kiss, every moan, every broken whimper, as though they belonged to him alone.

His hands held Jeonghan’s slender waist, the way they always had, knowing exactly how much pressure he could take, yet even that familiarity quavered under the weight of restraint that was already breaking him apart.

Seungcheol had dreamed of this.

God . He had dreamed of this in secret, in shame,  in the countless nights Jeonghan slept safely in his arms, looking untouchably beautiful, and he had to lie awake, forcing himself, no, force his own mind not to wander. 

He had dreamed of this every damn day every time he could, but never like this. 

Not when Jeonghan was asking with those vacuous eyes, with those words, with that plea that splintered everything inside Seungcheol. 

He had dreamed of making love to Jeonghan, yet what kind of love was there to make if “love” lived only in him?

What were they making, if Jeonghan only begged for this out of a hunger to feel , out of momentary whim, probably out of lust that carried no love with it?

This wasn’t the way he had imagined it in all the stolen moments he allowed himself to wonder. In his heart, he had thought of forever, of something sacred, of making love when love lived in both of them.

But this… this fire, was the start of something breakable, an arrangement of flesh without the promise of love , and he felt it splintering even as it began.

This was the beginning of the end, because to him it felt like the first breath of the life he had always longed for, a life where Jeonghan was his to wake up beside, to grow old with, to call his husband until their last days, yet that very dream was already crumbling before his eyes. 

And he knew, with that searing pain growing into his chest, that to Jeonghan this was nothing more than the need to feel.

Still, this was Jeonghan, the person he had loved for nearly two decades, the person he was about to make love to in a way he had only ever let himself dream of, and so he kissed him.

He kissed him like he was starving, like the world might collapse if he let go, his hands gripping Jeonghan’s waist a little more tightly as he pulled him closer until there was nothing left between them but the thin barrier of fabric around their hips. 

He could feel the heat of him even through it, could feel Jeonghan’s body pressed flush against his, and every sound they made together, their breath, their sighs, their breaking moans, was music that made Seungcheol’s cock shudder.

Yet Jeonghan, being the man who could read Seungcheol as easily as breath itself, pulled back for a second, as if he could hear every ounce of hesitation bleeding through the way Seungcheol kissed him.

He pulled away only to crash back harder, letting a broken whimper get caught between their mouths as his soft, beautiful hands slid lower, undoing the last barrier of fabric until Seungcheol’s bottoms fell soundlessly around his ankles. 

Seungcheol felt the heat surge between them as his cock sprang free, pressed against Jeonghan’s body, unbearable in its rawness .

Jeonghan cupped his face then, pulling back far enough to lock eyes with him, while his soft lips brushed against his as he spoke between another kiss and another whimper. “When we’re in bed…” 

Jeonghan's mouth opened against Seungcheol’s, and the broken moan slipped into him. He kissed him deeper, drowning him in the sound before breaking just enough to breathe the rest, “…I want you to be the God.”

Then Jeonghan, being Jeonghan, leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of Seungcheol’s ear. Jeonghan’s breath was hot enough to make him shiver, especially when he whispered the words that nearly tore him apart. “Fuck the God out of me.”

Fuck.

Jeonghan may have still looked every bit of God the world worshipped, effortlessly ethereal in the way only he could be, but nothing about Jeonghan in that moment sounded like heaven anymore, nothing about that voice resembled the celestial being everyone bowed to from afar.

In fact, there was a Devilish edge to it, and it was almost fascinating how even in their distance Jeonghan still bore the imprint of his Jisoo, proof that no matter how different they were, they had always been born of the same blood, especially with how much Jeonghan sounded just like his Devil of a brother now.

Fuck the God out of me.

And who was Seungcheol if not obedient?

Who was he if not the man who had always let Jeonghan’s words consume him whole.

For once, he let lust rise above love, let desire strip him bare and drag him under.

So, meeting fire with fire , Seungcheol pulled Jeonghan closer, the bare press of skin against the tip of his cock that the younger had freed burned him from the inside out, and he answered in a lust-soaked breath against Jeonghan’s ear, with a fire that was something he had never known in himself, “Good. First commandment: Kneel .”

Jeonghan looked up at him as he sank to his knees, and for a goddamn second Seungcheol almost stopped him. 

For fuck’s sake, Jeonghan was his God, the world’s God had always been. He was too beautiful like this, with the firelight catching on his pale skin and turning it to gold, his lips parted from their kiss and still wet, while his long, beautiful lashes radiated a diaphanous silhouette. 

Too much.

Not to mention that sweet , intoxicating scent that Seungcheol had always associated with the closest thing he knew to heaven . 

God , Jeonghan was about to do something obscene, something filthy, yet still he looked like someone who should never be touched, let alone kneel in front of him. And maybe out of instinct, Seungcheol felt his chest constricted as he wanted to stop Jeonghan and protect him even from himself.

Yet behind that perfect, angelic face, Jeonghan’s eyes had almost never lied, especially not to Seungcheol. So when Seungcheol caught the raw hunger in them with his soft lips already parted as though he was waiting to be ruined, he knew better than to stop hi-

“Use me.”

Seungcheol was caught even more off guard by Jeonghan’s shameless words, especially when Jeonghan’s hand slid over his, guiding it into his hair without ever breaking their stare. The twitch that ripped through Seungcheol’s cock at the sight of that Jeonghan almost broke him. 

Oh, there really was just no winning when it came to Jeonghan Yoon.

So he swallowed the foreign ache that wrung in his chest at hearing those words and let his fingers thread slowly through the soft strands of Jeonghan’s beautiful hair, grabbing a handful until he held enough to pull, enough to ground himself for what was about to happen.

Jeonghan’s mischievous smirk, almost identical to that of his brother, formed across his lips before he flicked his tongue over the slit of Seungcheol’s cock. 

He dragged his tongue across the slit, teasing, savoring the salt and musk of the precum already waiting for him.

Then Jeonghan opened wide and took Seungcheol in, stretching his lips in a painfully slow manner until his throat was forced to welcome the thick head of his cock. Seungcheol’s fist clenched tighter in his hair, and a strangled groan broke out of his mouth before he could stop it.

Fuck.
He had never felt anything like this.

Jeonghan’s tongue worked on his length mercilessly , swirling around the shaft, stroking, then sliding deeper, faster, until he was gagging and choking, yet still forcing himself further down. 

“Fuck, Hannie” 

Oh the sound of his groan was guttural at best. His hips instinctively rocked forward without mercy as his hand guided Jeonghan’s head with a rough grip in his hair.

The obscene, filthy sounds spilling from Jeonghan’s throat were so goddamn beautiful they twisted Seungcheol’s gut in ways that hurt. 

This was the same voice the world worshipped, the same beautiful man they had lifted onto a pedestal after hailing him untouchable, and yet here he was on his knees, choking for him, breaking for him, and making noises that no one else would ever be allowed to hear.

“This—fuck, Hannie—God, you’re…” Seungcheol’s groans tore out without form, broken between breaths, as Jeonghan sputtered but still forced himself deeper , choking and swallowing him down as though he’d never stop.

Why did Jeonghan have to be so good at everything?

Seungcheol’s breath started to become ragged, and every thrust into Jeonghan’s mouth drove him closer, too fucking close . 

Pressure coiled hot and merciless in his core, threatening to snap, and when he finally forced himself to look down, the sight of Jeonghan nearly destroyed him. 

Jeonghan’s cheeks hollowed obscenely around him, his long lashes were damp, while his tears were brimming and catching against his flushed skin, and Seungcheol felt his entire body seize with the need to let go.

He nearly came undone right there, but he couldn’t let it end this way. 

No .

So with a broken sound, he pulled Jeonghan up, crashing their mouths together in a desperate kiss as he lifted him, while wrapping his strong arms under his thighs. Jeonghan clung to him, still gasping, still tasting of him, as Seungcheol carried him to the bed and laid him carefully across the sheets.

And as though fate really had a cruel sense of humor, the firelight spilled perfectly over every inch of Jeonghan, painting him gold where his pale skin glowed against the dark sheets. He was bare and naked with nothing but thin silk lingerie clinging to his hip. 

Seungcheol’s cock twitched again at the sight alone.It was a masterpiece he would trade eternity for. 

Fucking hell, he almost came just looking at him.

Seungcheol froze for a breath, staring at the love of his life looking like a total mess yet still so goddamn perfect, trying to carve the sight into his memory. 

He lowered himself over him slowly, and of course reverently, climbing on top of Jeonghan while his hand glided from the smooth curve of his leg up to the sharp line of his waist. 

Oh, so fucking perfect.

His mouth followed, worshipping every inch of Jeonghan’s skin he touched, leaving trails of heat and marks wherever Jeonghan gave the most beautiful unholy sounds against his ear. Jeonghan writhed beneath him with parted lips to release the most intoxicating kind of broken gasps a person could ever hear, each one making Seungcheol shudder with every kiss he pressed lower.

And Seungcheol thought, for the thousandth time, how could something this perfect ever be his, even for tonight. 

How could Jeonghan, who was too beautiful for the world, be “his,” lying beneath him only because he said he wanted to feel?  

Maybe he would be his for tonight, maybe for the nights after, until the moment Jeonghan decided he had felt enough and no longer wanted this at all.

Jeonghan’s hands tried to cup Seungcheol’s face, but Seungcheol caught his wrists before he could even touch his face and pinned them firmly above his head with one hand. 

A choked moan slipped out of Jeonghan, which was soft and trembling at first, then sharper when Seungcheol’s other hand found his nipple, rolling it until it hardened under his touch. The sound turned into another whimper, more lecherous , breaking against the back of his throat as Seungcheol squeezed harder.

“Wait your turn, Hannie,” Seungcheol growled, and it was probably the most commanding he had ever sounded with his beloved Hannie. 

His mouth lowered to the other side, letting his teeth scrape before his lips closed around the bud and sucked mercilessly, until Jeonghan arched up from the bed with another lewd cry.

Seungcheol’s free hand travelled down, sliding slowly until his fingers brushed the edge of silk clinging to Jeonghan’s hips. 

He pressed the tip of his middle finger to the damp fabric covering his hole, applying the barest pressure at first. Jeonghan gasped and moved against him as a protest, or maybe a plea for more , but Seungcheol only gave him light, slow circles, cruelly teasing before pressing harder, faster, rubbing until the fabric stuck wet against his finger. 

Jeonghan wriggled beneath him, bucking into his touch as he chased the pleasure. His moans were all forced into Seungcheol’s mouth as their lips crushed together again.

For the thousandth time, the sight of Jeonghan being a beautiful mess beneath him almost ruined Seungcheol. 

His hair was spread wild across the pillow, as his breath snagged in his chest, looking at Seungcheol with his beautiful glassy eyes. 

Still, he looked perfect. Too fucking perfect .

Jeonghan was a God torn apart and trembling, begging in his arms.

“Cheollie… please…” Jeonghan whimpered for what felt like the goddamn nth time, his hips bucking helplessly against Seungcheol’s hand, begging for more than just a rub .

“What do you want, Hannie?” On any other day Seungcheol would have asked it in the sweetest manner he could, the way he always did, ready to give Jeonghan anything he asked for. 

But right then his voice reeked of authority with dominance, as his finger kept teasing and rubbing over Jeonghan’s still-clothed hole.

“Fuck m-” Jeonghan’s plea was barely a reply, and before he could finish, Seungcheol let go of his wrists and move down between Jeonghan’s slender legs.

He pressed his face to the lace covering his hole, inhaling the familiar sweet vanilla scent of Jeonghan’s arousal, letting it flood his chest, his throat, his cock, until he felt dizzy with it. 

Intoxicating.

He moved his mouth to grip the thin strap of Jeonghan’s silk underwear, tugging it down with his teeth while kissing a trail along the inside of Jeonghan’s thighs, down to his ankles, savoring every inch before finally pulling the underwear away. 

He pressed it briefly to his nose, inhaling the scent of him, letting it fill his chest like it was oxygen.

It was so intoxicating.

God, the first taste of Jeonghan was enough to drive him mad. The sweet heavenly scent of him lingered just as much as his perfect face did, and it was maddening how even his taste carried that same sweetness, almost like heaven itself. 

So this was what a beautiful God tasted like, what the God of the world tasted like.

And suddenly, a swell of pride, no, something like an ego-stirring fire, rose in Seungcheol at the thought of being the only one who knew what the very person the world collectively worships actually tasted like. 

His tongue slid across Jeonghan’s tight hole, which was slow at first, savoring the slick coating his lips, then deeper, circling, teasing, tasting until Jeonghan’s back arched off the sheets.

The sounds spilling out of Jeonghan grew louder and filthier , where each moan broke higher than the last, his hands fisting tight in the sheets. 

“Uh—nghh—Cheollie” Jeonghan’s moans were a crescendo of pleasure that seemed to shake the room itself, especially Seungcheol’s cock. 

His tongue kept working over Jeonghan’s clit, teasing and circling until the slick spread everywhere, until the sounds spilling from Jeonghan’s lips were broken and desperate .

Once he was satisfied with how wet Jeonghan had become, Seungcheol finally pushed a finger in.

Fuck. 

The tightness of Jeonghan around his finger made his own cock shudder violently. Jeonghan let out a loud whimper at the stretch, his body jerking against the sheets. 

Seungcheol pulled out slowly, then slid back in just as carefully, and for fuck’s sake, the sight nearly destroyed him. Jeonghan was moaning like a mess, though still ethereal despite how ruined he looked. 

The tight clench of his walls around Seungcheol’s finger only made him twitch harder, the sensation running straight to his cock.

Again, intoxicating.

To push him further, Seungcheol leaned down and licked at his clit again, tongue circling and flicking while he held his finger completely still inside. Jeonghan’s cries grew frantic, every sound shaking through Seungcheol’s chest until he pulled himself up to catch those moans with his own mouth. 

Only then did his finger start moving again, slipping out and sinking back in, faster, harder, until Jeonghan writhed beneath him.

The moment Jeonghan’s body began to tighten in release, Seungcheol pulled his finger out entirely. 

The frustrated, broken moan that tore from Jeonghan’s throat hit him so hard he felt it in his own chest. Seungcheol immediately saw tears gathered in Jeonghan’s eyes, shining as they spilled, and Seungcheol kissed them away with a smirk pressed against his lips.

Jeonghan was seconds away from begging when Seungcheol cruelly whispered against his mouth, “Cum on my cock, Hannie.”

He pushed his fingers between Jeonghan’s lips, watching him take them in, sucking obediently. Shit . Something inside Seungcheol bent out of shape at the sight.

Jeonghan had always been sacred, untouchable, the most vulnerable thing in his life. This man was the sacred being he’d loved for more than half of his life and now he was sucking him down with no divinity radiating from him other than his beautiful face. 

He was sucking his fingers down so well that Seungcheol forgot every restraint he’d ever clung to.

Oh it was lascivious, yet it was painfully beautiful.

Again, it was intoxicating.

When Jeonghan’s spit coated his fingers enough, Seungcheol pulled them out and dragged them along the length of his cock, stroking until he was slick and aching . 

He moved lower, kept stroking before pressing himself into place, lining up at Jeonghan’s hole.

Even then, instinct warred with desire. Out of the same protectiveness that had followed him since they were children, he asked one last time with his voice barely holding together. “Hannie~ are you really sure about this?”

And there it was, that mischievous smirk similar to that of Jisoo curling on Jeonghan’s lips despite the beautiful mess he already was. 

His voice then carried the same teasing lilt Seungcheol had only ever heard from his twin brother, answering him “That doesn’t sound like a very godly way to fuck me, Cheollie.”

The words snapped whatever restraint Seungcheol had left. 

Lust consumed him whole, and he slammed his cock inside Jeonghan, burying himself inside the heat he had dreamed of for years.

The tight heat almost immediately dragged a guttural groan out of Seungcheol’s throat, while Jeonghan’s whimper broke into a high, breathless “Ahh!” that melted into a moan with his back arching and his fingers clawing helplessly at the sheets.

“You’re so beautiful, Hannie,” Seungcheol managed to say between ragged groans before setting a relentless pace, his hands pinning Jeonghan’s hips down to the mattress.

Over and over again, the obscene, desperate sounds spilling from Jeonghan’s mouth only drove him harder.

Every moan was like fuel to the fire already devouring him.

He lifted Jeonghan’s legs over his shoulders, folding him in half, driving in deeper until he found that spot that tore a scream from Jeonghan’s throat. 

Tears streamed down his perfect face as his body shook with the force of it, and Seungcheol nearly lost his mind at the sight. “Fuck, you’re so good, Hannie,” he growled, one hand sliding up to curl gently around his throat, squeezing just enough to turn Jeonghan’s cries into broken, choked-off gasps.

When he couldn’t take it anymore, he flipped Jeonghan onto his stomach, yanking his hips up and slamming back inside.

The heat, the tightness, God it was bliss.  

“So….. fucking tight, Hannie” The words slipped out as his hips snapped forward again and again, drowning him in how good it felt.

For a second, Seungcheol forgot the pain, the doubt, the fact that this could mean nothing by tomorrow. He let himself believe in this, let himself be consumed by the pleasure of being inside the only person he had ever wanted.

In all the years he had loved Jeonghan, his face alone had been enough to intoxicate him. 

He prided himself on being the one who had the privilege of seeing that face the longest, the one who knew every angle, every detail, and now he was buried deep inside him. 

The sight was too much, too precious, too dangerous to let go unseen, so Seungcheol pulled Jeonghan back into his arms, rolling him onto his back once more, desperate to watch him reach his orgasm.

Jeonghan clung to him with his arms wrapping tight around his neck, nails digging into his back with every thrust. The sweet and broken sound of Jeonghan’s moans against his ear sent shivers ripping through him.

“I’m near, Cheollie~” Jeonghan whimpered with a trembling sound.

Every gasp that left out of his mouth fell apart into soft cries that still, impossibly , sounded beautiful. 

God, how did his sweet Hannie still sound like that even when he was wrecked? 

Seungcheol kissed him through it, thrusting faster, deeper, until every thrust grew sloppy and wet.

I love you , he wanted to say, but he bit it back, choking on it. Instead, he buried the words beneath his groan and whispered, “You’re still my perfect God,” just before their bodies broke together.

Jeonghan shook violently beneath him, his release spilling hot against the sheets, while Seungcheol followed with a raw, grating groan, emptying himself until he felt the cum leaking out of Jeonghan, marking him in every way he had ever dreamed but never thought he’d have.

I love you , the words once again burned at the tip of his tongue, but swallowed them down.

He couldn’t, not now. Especially not now.

“Fold.”

Seungcheol let out a heavy sigh, probably the one that had been burning inside his chest since the game started, which grew heavier when he realized he was just a single card away from winning, only for Jeonghan to casually play his hand even when it wasn’t his turn.

Of course, luck always bent itself around him, that’s why he never needed to wait. 

And just like that, twelve year old Seungcheol laid his cards down in surrender.

K♠ Q♣.
A king and a queen.

God, he was one card away from a full house, and one card away from finally winning. 

And even better, he would have beaten the most dangerous player known to mankind. But he knew he had already lost the moment Jeonghan played his turn before he could even make his.

Across the table, Jeonghan remained unreadable . 

His expression gave nothing away, his placidity revealed no clue, and even the smallest movements of his body betrayed no sign of what cards he held. 

People had always said that Jeonghan Yoon had no tells , and Seungcheol now understood what that meant. 

His beauty was only the surface, masking a mind that was shrewd and merciless. 

The twin resemblance that could never be ignored.

As though to ease him off, Jeonghan gave him a sweet, warm smile, though in that smile Seungcheol caught the faintest trace of Jisoo’s devilish periphery, reminding him that they were still twins after all.

The sight of that smile should have unsettled him, but instead it calmed every frayed edge of nerves inside Seungcheol. 

Winning hardly mattered when he could look at Jeonghan, sitting there like perfection itself. 

Seungcheol thought, not for the first time, how lucky he was, really, to be alive in the same lifetime as the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

“Eight percent may be a low probability play,” Jeonghan suddenly said, leaning forward as he tucked back a strand of hair that framed his face too perfectly, giving another soft smile before flipping his two hole cards, the ones he had gone all-in with before Seungcheol could even call, bet, or even fold, “but it could change the table.”

Ace of Diamonds A♦

Seven of Spades 7♠

For an entire goddamn second, Seungcheol swore his heart stopped beating, the shivers racing up his spine and the cold climbing all the way to the tips of his fingers until he felt nearly lifeless.

“Y-you had… n-nothing?” he managed to say under the weight of pure shock and disbelief, as he could not wrap his mind around it. 

Jeonghan had risked everything on a bluff, with not even a pair in his hand.

“And you had everything,” Jeonghan softly replied before reaching for the final card, known as the river, and flipping it over without hesitation, while Seungcheol nearly had a heart attack right in his seat.

Queen of Hearts Q♥

Damn. It was almost anticlimactic how that single river card would have handed Seungcheol his very first win, how it would have given Jeonghan his first loss in all the years he had been playing against cartel bosses, including his own father.

If only Seungcheol hadn’t folded.

If only twelve year old Seungcheol hadn’t folded.

“Please, Hannie~” Seungcheol’s voice was soft as he begged once again, for what felt like the hundredth time, for Jeonghan to eat the breakfast he had cooked. 

It was only seven in the morning, and the air still smelled like their sweat and skin along with something warmer, something sweeter, something that could only belong to Jeonghan, yet the celestial being in question was already standing by the window of the penthouse, sipping a glass of wine without touching a single bite of food.

Seungcheol knew the celestial being had been carrying too much lately, far more than usual, but he also knew Jeonghan well enough not to pry, not to ask, not to risk pulling open doors that Jeonghan clearly wanted to keep shut.

Perhaps it was cruelly fitting, then, that he also knew better than to bring up what happened that night, to leave unspoken the things they had already crossed into. 

He knew Jeonghan like the back of his hand, yet he wished he also knew what to do with the burden of not knowing where he stood in Jeonghan’s life, especially now, when cuddling was no longer the only thing between them and kissing was no longer the only line they had crossed.

What were they, really?

What was Seungcheol in Jeonghan’s life other than his lifelong bodyguard who happened to curl around him at night, who happened to kiss his lips, who happened now to have slept with him, too?

“Hannie~”

Oh, how the tables had turned. He was now begging Jeonghan to eat the food he prepared, when last night it was Jeonghan begging him to wreck him. 

The memory alone burned in his chest. 

Fuck.  

The sound of Jeonghan’s moans, which to him were the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard, and the sight of Jeonghan undone in his arms, the most beautiful mess, a masterpiece himself.

Was Jeonghan thinking about it too?
Did it mean anything to him?
Did his chest feel the same warmth when he remembered?

He slowly approached Jeonghan, who was wearing his oversized shirt, and something inside Seungcheol gnawed at the intimacy of it. 

That was his shirt Jeonghan had on, and he didn’t know why, but it fed that part of his pride all over again, the part that wanted to believe Jeonghan was his in ways no one else could ever claim.

A small smile tugged at his lips, the one that only Jeonghan was allowed to see, because it was only the two of them in this room and no one else would ever know he was capable of smiling like that. 

Right . It was only him and Jeonghan. 

It had always been him and Jeonghan for the past decade, with Seungcheol at his side day and night, never leaving his line of sight, never once straying too far. 

So maybe, maybe he didn’t need to overthink this. 

Maybe he didn’t need to drown himself in doubt. 

Maybe, in their own world, they were already each other’s, and they didn’t have to follow what the rest of the world called love . 

They were born from the same cruel bloodlines in the underworld, and maybe that alone had already bound them together.

Maybe Jeonghan never spoke of it because he didn’t need to, because that was probably also their language. 

Right . It was only him and Jeonghan. 

It was only him and Jeonghan. 

Maybe it was enough, maybe Seungcheol could let himself breathe, could let himself be happy for once.

Maybe it was okay to allow himself the rare mercy of happiness knowing he had already spent more than half his life with Jeonghan and was still spending every single day with him, the only person he had ever loved.

He smiled more fully as he walked letting himself feel the fragile warmth of that happiness as he walked closer, even catching sight of the hickey behind Jeonghan’s neck as a mark of proof that they did make love last night.

It was only him and Jeonghan. 

And they did make love last night.

So maybe… maybe Jeonghan loved him, too. Right?

“Junhui called me.”

Except… fate, as always, had its cruel sense of humor, because just when Seungcheol was about to finally let himself breathe and believe that what they’ve always had was enough, that “not talking” was already their language, he was yanked out of the fragile dream he had started to build. 

The small world he had dared to imagine for him and Jeonghan cracked in an instant, splintering under the weight of that name.

Junhui called him.

Junhui Moon.

Jeonghan’s ex-lover.

If only Seungcheol hadn’t folded.

Seungcheol stared at the Queen of hearts in front of him, stricken by the harsh irony of it. It was the goddamn card that almost made him win.

How could Seungcheol have never once considered the possibility that Jeonghan was bluffing with nothing? 

How could he have been blind to it, and why did it only dawn on him now that Jeonghan was dangerous not because of the cards in his hand, but because of the way he played them?

God, if only Seungcheol hadn’t folded.

Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was habit, or maybe Jeonghan was really just born with the devastating gift of being able to tuck his hair behind his ear and still look heartbreakingly beautiful while doing it, and that small gesture had already carved its place in Seungcheol’s chest ever since he first met Jeonghan Yoon, the boy who had saved him only four months ago.

Jeonghan tucked his hair again before speaking, “The biggest mistake players make,” he said while tapping the card and pulling Seungcheol out of his spiral of thoughts, “is thinking the cards matter more than the players.”

Jeonghan rose from his seat and stepped around the table until he stood in front of Seungcheol. 

Extending his hand for a shake, Jeonghan gave another soft smile before finishing, “People reveal their hands long before the cards hit the table. You just have to know where to look, Cheollie~”

The first thing a person has to know about poker is that it is never a game of safety. Poker is a game of risk, a game of uncertainty. 

It was having the nerve to keep playing even when you didn't know what was coming next.

If only twelve year old Seungcheol hadn’t folded, he would have won. 

Yet twelve year old Seungcheol did fold, and in doing so, he was taught a truth that still wedged against his chest all these years later. 

The only thing worse than losing was never playing at all.

Because in this messy game, the one they were bound to keep playing for the rest of their lives, folding meant surrendering before the river or the ending could ever be known, giving up without ever seeing what the river might have revealed. 

And this time, maybe Seungcheol would stay in long enough to see the river. 

No, he would stay in long enough to see it.

After all, eleven year old Jeonghan once told him that the biggest mistake players make is thinking the cards matter more than the players. 

And even twelve year old Seungcheol knew the truth that had never left him, no matter how many years passed: no card, no bet, no outcome would ever matter more than Jeonghan Yoon in his life.

The world could call it chaos, could call it a mess, but shhh… Seungcheol likes it messy, and Jeonghan Yoon is the only mess he would ever choose.