Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Night didn’t fall over the city—it conspired with it. A thick velvet hush clung to the streets, broken only by the hum of neon signs and the occasional echo of tires against wet asphalt. Somewhere, laughter spilled from a bar, but here, in the narrow alley he slipped through, silence was the only companion.

His steps were measured. No wasted sound, no wasted movement. A cap shadowed his brow, a mask covered the sharp set of his jaw. This was a part of the city the cameras had forgotten, and maybe that was why he preferred it—places where no one cared enough to watch.

The rusted door groaned as he pushed it open, but even that noise seemed reluctant, muffled against the stairwell’s damp walls. He climbed two steps at a time, breath steady, until the roof spread open before him, a patch of concrete under a sky smeared with darkness.

The bag touched the ground with practiced gentleness. A single pull of the zipper, a neat arrangement of metal and intent. The rifle came together the way his hands always remembered—muscle memory born from repetition, not affection. He slid AirPods into his ears, not for music, but for orders.

“Target on point,” Jeongguk whispered, voice flat, almost mechanical.

A pause. Then the reply, curt, unfeeling:

“Ten minutes. Three to erase, seven to vanish.”

He exhaled once. “On point.”

The scope narrowed the world until nothing remained but a window, golden light spilling through its edges. A man sat there, mid-fifties, fingers curled around crystal, the shape of his laughter visible but unheard. He looked soft, almost human, in the way all targets did before they fell.

One heartbeat. Another.

The weight of silence pressed against his ears.

Then—

The trigger pulled.

Glass fractured. The laughter was gone. Blood spread in ugly ribbons across velvet curtains, swallowing the last traces of a man who had been alive seconds before.

Jeongguk didn’t watch him fall. The rifle broke apart beneath his hands before the echo of the shot faded. Metal tucked neatly into canvas. Zipper closed. A ghost cleaning up after himself.

The sirens began their slow wail in the distance, growing sharper with every second. He stripped off his jacket mid-step, revealing a plain hoodie, faceless in its simplicity. The discarded layer disappeared into the bag. Over his shoulder, the weight was familiar. The escape was ritual.

He sprinted to the roof’s edge, knees jolting as he vaulted to the next building. No hesitation. Down a stairwell lit by a bulb that flickered like it, too, was trying to stay alive. He reached a window, shoved the bag out. It landed on the roof of a passing van with a muted thud—perfect timing, perfect aim.

The ground greeted him with shadows and chaos. A child sat on the curb, clutching a worn toy like it was the most precious thing in the world. Jeongguk slowed, crouched, and for the briefest flicker of time, let his mask slip.

“Want this?” he asked, offering the cap. The boy’s eyes widened. He nodded. The brim slid down over his forehead, almost too big, but he smiled anyway.

Jeongguk ruffled his hair once—quick, fleeting—and rose again.

A different jacket. Glasses instead of a mask. The kind of disguise that thrived on ordinariness. The police cars screamed past, two streets over, chasing a ghost who had already unraveled into the crowd.

He paused by a shop window long enough to adjust his glasses. For a heartbeat, his reflection stared back: unremarkable, almost soft. A stranger’s face.

A smirk tugged at his lips. Not pride—just acknowledgment. Another job done. Another line blurred. Another ghost swallowed by the night.

And just like that, he was gone.

Jeongguk’s phone buzzed against the nightstand, dragging him out of the thin layer of sleep he managed to get. His eyes squeezed shut tighter before he groaned, reaching blindly until his fingers closed around the device. A swipe, and the line clicked open.

“You still asleep?” a voice drawled on the other end.

Jeongguk’s throat was raw, his voice hoarse when he answered. “What’s the problem?”

“Check the email,” came the reply, too casual for the weight it carried. “A big fish got caught.”

He lowered the phone, thumb tapping the screen until his inbox lit up. A few lines were all it took for his frown to deepen.

“You know I don’t do this,” he said flatly, pressing the phone back to his ear. “Cancel it.”

“Wait, wait—listen.” The voice shifted, rushed now. “It’s huge. And I already took it.”

Jeongguk sat up, spine rigid. “What?” His voice sharpened, no trace of sleep left. “What the fuck did I say about taking targets without my approval?”

“Jeongguk, listen. It’s a million dollars. And it’s not even a kill. Just a hostage.”

The word soured on his tongue. “Hostage?” He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “You think pointing a rifle from a distance is the same as standing in front of someone, letting them see your face? One mistake, and we’re the ones bleeding out.”

“It’s just for a week,” the voice pressed. “A week, and then we release him. Easy money.”

Jeongguk pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, temple throbbing. His silence stretched thin across the line until finally, he spoke.

“Send me the details,” he muttered, resigned.

“Ok, boss.” The line clicked dead.

For a moment, the apartment was still again, the dark pressing in from the corners. Jeongguk sat there, phone heavy in his palm, the kind of heaviness that didn’t come from weight but from what it carried.

He pushed to his feet, muscles tense, the sheets tangled at his waist falling away. Shirtless, only loose trousers hanging from his hips, he padded across the cold floor toward the bathroom. The light flicked on, sharp and unkind.

Water splashed against his face, dripping down his jaw, and when he looked up, his reflection stared back. Tired. Detached.

Jeongguk stepped out into the dim light of his apartment, a cigarette already between his lips. The flame flared, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals as he unlocked his phone with the other hand. A new message waited—files attached.

They had never met in person, he and his partner. Names weren’t exchanged, faces never shown. What he knew was enough: they had both crawled out of the same ruin, running from the North, carving survival into a world that wasn’t built for them. That was the only bond they needed.

The files opened with a drag of his thumb. Information flooded the screen: schedules, locations, patterns mapped out in detail. Attached were photographs—dozens of them.

The target was young. Twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. The angles suggested distance, like someone had been hired to trail him with a camera—watching him step out of cafés, leaving a classroom, sliding into the back seat of a car. Always with the same man at his side. A bodyguard, judging by the stance, the clothes, the way he scanned the crowd.

Jeongguk inhaled, smoke burning his lungs before leaving his mouth in a slow exhale. His gaze moved through the pictures one by one. The boy wore simple clothes, nothing flashy, nothing like the heir to the city’s richest family. No smile in any frame. Just composed, restrained, unreadable.

Hollow. That was the word that came to mind. Rich, but still hollow.

His eyes lingered longer than necessary on one of the shots. The line of the boy’s jaw, the way sharpness glinted in eyes that otherwise looked too soft, too untouched. Fragile, maybe. But not weak.

He dragged on the cigarette again and moved on.

University details. Daily routines. The places where he was most exposed. One week hostage. No other instructions.

Clean, efficient. Nothing Jeongguk couldn’t do.

He shut the phone, slid it into the pocket of his trousers, and leaned against the window frame. Smoke curled around him as his eyes shifted outward.

The sky was heavy, swollen with clouds. Rain threatened, thick and unforgiving.

His expression didn’t change. Calm. Flat.

If the mission was to be carried out in the rain, then it would be carried out in the rain.

Jeongguk adjusted the brim of his cap, tugging it lower until the shadow ate half his face. The fabric brushed against his eyelashes when he blinked, and he let the motion settle like muscle memory, routine. His back pressed to the cool concrete wall of the hotel. He stood there like a piece of the building itself, blending, waiting.

The night was restless. A taxi hissed past, tires spraying over wet asphalt. Expensive shoes clicked across marble steps as sons and daughters of wealth slipped in and out of the glowing entrance, their perfume lingering in the air long after they vanished inside. Laughter spilled out, sharp and hollow, like champagne fizz cracking in the dark. Jeongguk didn’t shift. He didn’t blink. He simply waited.

His earbud buzzed to life, the voice breaking the hum of the street.

“The boy will be there in ten minutes.”

Jeongguk’s reply was barely audible, flat as stone. “CCTVs?”

“All cleared. Not even a ghost left behind,” his partner said. The tone was smug, but Jeongguk’s silence cut it down to nothing.

Time bled slowly. One minute, then another. Every headlight painted the walls in temporary gold, every passing figure cataloged, dismissed. His gaze never flicked for long—only enough to measure, to scan, to confirm.

Then the car arrived. Sleek. Black. The kind of machine that spoke of power without needing to announce it. Its engine hummed low, smooth, as it rolled to the curb.

Jeongguk’s pulse did not change, but his eyes sharpened.

The rear door clicked open.

A young man stepped out, and the noise of the street seemed to fold around him. Jeongguk’s gaze caught, unwilling yet anchored. The boy moved unhurriedly, one hand brushing the door closed with a casualness that felt rehearsed. His hair fell over his eyes, strands soft against skin pale under the hotel’s amber lights.

For the briefest beat, his face turned toward Jeongguk.

And for that fraction of a second, Jeongguk held him in focus: the line of his jaw, the stillness in his expression, the faint sharpness buried beneath softness. But the boy’s gaze slid past, not seeing him at all, like Jeongguk was nothing more than shadow on concrete.

The boy disappeared into the restaurant. The moment ended as if it had never existed.

Jeongguk moved then, slow and deliberate. He pulled his mask higher over the bridge of his nose, readjusted his cap until it became another shield, another wall between himself and recognition. His hands slipped into his jacket pockets, casual in appearance, weaponized in intent. He crossed the street without hurry, the steady rhythm of his steps vanishing into the city’s pulse.

At the back of the restaurant, the night air shifted, cooler, quieter. The cars were lined neatly, machines waiting for their owners. He traced them without thought, his steps carrying him to the one he had already marked. The boy’s car.

From his pocket, a small knife glinted under the dull light. A practiced flick and the blade slid open with the faintest click. Metal kissed lock. A twist, fluid and unbroken. The door yielded like it had been waiting.

The scent inside was faint but telling—expensive leather, smoke clinging to fabric, something sharp beneath it. Jeongguk sank into the driver’s seat, body folding into silence, his hands ghosting over the steering wheel.

He clicked his AirPod once. “Remove the CCTV in the parking area.”

“Already gone,” came the quick response.

The engine purred to life beneath his hand. He guided the car forward, slow, precise, until it settled near the exit. He didn’t move after that.

He sat still, smoke curling in his imagination where no cigarette burned, eyes locked on the empty street ahead. Waiting. Listening. Breathing in rhythm with the machine beneath him.

The rain hadn’t fallen yet, but the air tasted heavy—thick, metallic, charged.

And Jeongguk sat with the patience of a shadow, calm and unreadable, as if time itself would bend to his will.

“Check your phone,” his partner murmured through the line.

Jeongguk tapped the screen. The CCTV feed flickered alive—an interior view of the restaurant, grainy but clear enough.

The boy sat at a corner table, posture straight, face composed. Across from him, a man in his forties leaned forward. His back to the camera, his expression unreadable. The boy didn’t look at him. His gaze stayed on the table, empty, detached.

Then the man reached across, fingers brushing the boy’s hand. The reaction was immediate: a recoil, sharp and instinctive. The boy pulled back, jaw tightening. Words followed—quiet, too low for the feed—but the tone was clear. The man spoke, and the boy endured. A moment stretched. Then the boy rose without ceremony and walked away, shoulders stiff as he disappeared toward the hallway.

Jeongguk’s gaze lingered on the screen for three beats too long. Then he exhaled, flat, and pushed open the car door.

“I’m entering,” he said.

His partner’s reply was quick, eager. “All clear.”

Inside, the restaurant air was thick with perfume and roasted spice. Jeongguk moved through the corridor like shadow—steps unhurried, presence unremarkable. Only his eyes betrayed intent, sharp and watchful as he followed the path toward the restrooms.

The bodyguard stood near the entrance, posture tight, scanning the hall with professional boredom. Too relaxed to suspect, too disciplined to drift.

Jeongguk approached with the patience of a predator. One step, then another, silent. The knife in his sleeve shifted, the weight familiar.

The moment came and passed in less than a breath.

A hand clamped over the guard’s mouth. The blade slid clean across the throat, quick, efficient. Warmth spilled across Jeongguk’s fingers, but his grip didn’t falter. He dragged the body into the shadowed corner beside a service door, eyes flat, face unreadable as the man’s weight slackened.

When the last tremor stilled, Jeongguk stripped the jacket from the corpse. The uniform fit loosely across his shoulders, but passable. He tugged the cap lower, fastened the collar. In seconds, the assassin became another piece of background security.

His glove smeared across the knife once, wiping it clean, before sliding it back into his pocket.

The corridor was silent again. The guard’s body slumped in the dark, unseen.

Jeongguk pushed the restroom door open.

Inside, fluorescent light hummed above tiles too white, too sterile. The sound of running water echoed softly.

The boy stood at the sink, fingers wet, head slightly bowed. His reflection fractured across the mirror, blurred by droplets. He didn’t notice Jeongguk. Didn’t notice anything. His shoulders sagged just enough to betray the thoughts he was carrying alone.

Jeongguk closed the door behind him with a soft click.

The boy was still washing his hands. Still lost in whatever storm lived in his head.

And for the first time, the assassin found himself standing in the same room as his target.

Jeongguk moved closer, the soles of his shoes silent against the tiled floor. Step by step, the space closed until he stood just behind the boy.

The boy noticed. His head lifted slightly, his gaze flicking to the mirror.

For a fraction of a second, their eyes met in the fractured glass. Dark against soft. Sharp against something untouched. The boy blinked, lips parting as though a word might form, confusion flashing first—then recognition. His eyes widened.

But Jeongguk didn’t give him the time.

His arm moved with surgical precision. The needle bit into skin. A sharp hiss left the boy’s mouth, his body flinching, then softening, strength leaving him all at once. His knees gave out, but before he could hit the cold floor, Jeongguk caught him. Strong arms steadied his weight, pulled him up as if he were no more than a shadow to be carried.

The boy’s head lolled against his shoulder, hair brushing Jeongguk’s jaw. Limp. Unresisting.

Jeongguk adjusted the body with practiced ease, slinging him over his shoulder as though it was nothing, as though the human weight was no heavier than the rifle he used to carry. His face stayed unreadable, his movements efficient.

The restroom door opened with a soft push. The corridor swallowed them whole. He moved without hesitation, straight toward the back exit, steps steady, pace unbroken.

Outside, the night greeted them again—humid, charged, a storm waiting to break. He opened the car door with one hand and placed the boy carefully into the seat, arranging his body so that it looked like sleep.

For the first time, Jeongguk let his eyes linger. Just briefly. The soft fall of hair across closed lids. The faint crease in his brow, even unconscious. Fragility that didn’t match the weight of the name attached to him.

Then Jeongguk shut the door. The moment ended.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he started the engine. His voice crackled low through the line in his ear.

“Clear the area. Arrange a car on the bypass side.”

A pause. His partner’s voice came back sharp and certain: “On it.”

Jeongguk shifted the gear, the car pulling into the night without a sound.

Chapter Text

The rain whispered against the streets, soft patters building into a steady rhythm. Jeongguk walked along the pavement, hands buried deep inside his jacket pockets. A cap pulled low over his brow, mask covering the rest—his face was nothing but shadow. The air was sharp with winter, and the rain only carved deeper into the cold.

A small convenience store glowed faintly against the gray night. He stepped inside, silent, pulling a few things from the shelves. Packaged food. Bottled water. Nothing more. At the counter, the part-timer barely looked up. The scanner beeped, a plastic bag rustled, cash exchanged hands. Routine. Forgettable.

Then he was outside again, the door shutting behind him with a hollow ring.

His feet carried him away from the main street, into narrower paths where the neon signs gave up and the world turned dim. The alleyways stretched empty, abandoned, their walls damp and worn. Not a single person moved there, only the rain claiming the silence.

He stopped in front of a building that looked as though it had been left behind by time. Cracked walls. Rusted edges. The door groaned when he pushed it open, and the sound echoed in the emptiness as he stepped inside.

The stairwell smelled faintly of mold, the steps creaking under his weight. He climbed without pause, stopping only at the last door on the landing. From his pocket, a key turned with a scrape of metal. The door shut behind him, locking the world out again.

The room was small. Bare. An open space that fit everything at once: a corner meant for a kitchen, a narrow bathroom door, and the rest simply floor. A mattress lay flat on the ground, a bag propped beside it. A table and chair stood in the corner, more out of necessity than comfort. The kitchen counters were empty. In the far corner, two or three soju bottles gathered like discarded company.

A single light hung above, dim and thin, its glow failing to soften the shadows.

Jeongguk carried the plastic bag to the table, set it down without care, and dropped into the chair. The wood creaked under him, but he didn’t move again. His cap stayed low. His mask stayed in place.

From his pocket, he pulled out his phone, screen lighting the shadows around his hands.

He scrolled through his phone, thumb moving without much intent. The light from the screen painted his fingers in pale blue until a soft whimper cut through the room. The motion stopped mid-swipe; the phone landed on the table with a muted thud.

The sound came again—small, pleading—pulling him to the other side of the room. He moved without haste, each step deliberate, and crouched beside the curled shape in the corner. A piece of cloth hid the face; ropes bit into thin wrists and ankles.

Jeongguk’s fingers found the edge of the fabric and drew it away in one clean motion. The boy’s face appeared: young, painfully pretty, the features pinched by pain. His eyes were squeezed shut, and when they opened they did so slow, glossy with fear.

For a moment Jeongguk said nothing. He rose, crossed to the table, and pulled a packet of kimbap from the plastic bag. The kitchen light caught on the plastic as he unwrapped it with careful, efficient hands. He returned to the boy and crouched down again, close enough that the heat of his body reached the bound figure.

He placed the kimbap across the boy’s tied hands.

The boy’s eyes snapped up, fixing on him like a frightened animal. A thin strip of tape covered his lips; he looked at Jeongguk, mouthing something useless beneath it. He whimpered, a sound someone made when they were half-hopeful and half-terrified, and his body jerked against the ropes as if there might be a seam to tear through.

Jeongguk looked at him for a long breath.

“Try to whimper,” he said, voice low and flat, “and I will not hesitate to put a bullet in your head like I did with your bodyguard.”

The words landed with the soft finality of a verdict. The boy’s whole body stilled as if the air itself had thickened around him.

Jeongguk removed the tape in a single, efficient movement. The boy hissed, a sharp noise of pain and surprise, eyes darting to his captor, then holding there as if trying to read something he couldn’t name. Jeongguk unwrapped the kimbap, lifted the boy’s tied hands, and set them around the food.

For a heartbeat, the boy’s jaw tightened—an instinctive, angry clench. Then, in a motion that was equal parts defiance and desperation, he shoved the kimbap from his hands and it hit the floor with a dull slap.

Jeongguk closed his eyes briefly, the smallest pause, like an intake of breath between decisions. He turned back, slow enough that the movement felt measured, and the room hummed with the electricity of it.

The boy’s chest heaved; his eyes were bloodshot, pupils blown wide. He watched Jeongguk with something raw and exposed, a glare that had been sharpened by fright into something near hatred.

Jeongguk reached for another packet without haste. He peeled the wrapper away and, with deliberate firmness, took hold of the boy’s tied wrists again. He set the food into the open palm the way one sets a tool into a hand—no tenderness, just placement.

The boy thrashed, pulling at the ropes until his shoulders strained. For a moment the movement flared—violent, animal—but Jeongguk’s grip was steady, unmoved by the struggle. He held the boy’s hands open and pressed the kimbap into them as if stating a quiet fact: eat, or remember the cost of refusing.

The boy’s breathing hitched into short, ragged pulls. His lips trembled; his eyes flashed wet with something that could have been anger or humiliation or both. He did not eat. Instead, he threw it again. 

Jeongguk’s face showed nothing. He let his hands fall away and rose, the space between them folding like a shutter. The light hummed above; rain ticked against the window. The quiet settled again, heavy and absolute.

Jeongguk’s gaze lingered, unreadable, before he rose from the chair. His hand brushed the table, fingers closing around the gun. The metallic weight looked almost casual in his grasp as he crossed the short distance to where the boy sat crumpled against the wall.

He pressed the barrel against the boy’s forehead.

The boy flinched, breath hitching, his body instinctively scooting back until the wall left no more room. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, eyes climbing up to meet the shadowed stare above him.

“I don’t care if I kill you right here,” Jeongguk said, voice low, almost quiet, like a whisper that could strip the air bare. “If you want to stay alive, don’t make me angry. My patience doesn’t last long.”

The words settled heavy in the silence, each one slow enough to bruise.

Jeongguk withdrew the gun just enough to reach for another packet from the table. He held it out, the gesture precise and final. The boy’s hands shook as he accepted it, tied wrists trembling while his fingers curled around the food.

Only then did Jeongguk pull the barrel away from his skin. His gaze stayed on the boy for another moment—measuring, cold—before he turned his back and walked to the chair again.

He sat with a kind of carelessness that still spoke of control. Legs spread, spine against the chair’s back, one arm resting loose, gun dangling from his hand as though it was an extension of him. The other hand rested casually on his thigh. He looked like he owned not just the room, but the air inside it.

“Eat.”

The command startled the boy more than the gun had. His lips parted as if to speak, but the weight of Jeongguk’s stare pinned him. Slowly, reluctantly, he raised the food to his mouth and bit. Chewing was mechanical, each swallow tight, as if the food itself were punishment. He ate in silence, the sound of the rain outside louder than the small rustle of plastic between his fingers.

When the last bite was gone, Jeongguk moved. The chair scraped softly against the floor as he stood. His steps were unhurried, steady, as he peeled a strip of tape in one hand.

The boy’s breath caught. His eyes widened. His head shook wildly before words could even form, a frantic rhythm of no, no, no.

But Jeongguk didn’t pause. His shadow fell over the boy, and the tape pressed firmly across his lips, sealing his silence again. He didn’t even look at him as he did it—just an efficient motion, as though binding a wound.

The boy whimpered, muffled, his chest heaving in protest. Jeongguk reached for the cloth nearby, movements unbothered, practical. The boy’s panic sharpened, thrashing louder now, his head twisting away.

That was when Jeongguk’s hand shot out, gripping his jaw with unyielding strength. His fingers forced the boy’s face still, holding him as though he weighed nothing.

The boy froze, breath trembling against the tape. His eyes, wide and wet, locked onto the man above him. He was close enough to see the faint outline of the eyes under the brim of the cap—dark, endless, and merciless.

The boy gulped hard, his throat working against the ropes around his wrists. He fought to keep the tears back, blinking fast, but they slipped anyway—trailing down his cheekbones in fragile streaks.

For the briefest moment, Jeongguk’s hand stilled. His eyes caught the glimmer of wetness on pale skin. But then he tossed the black cloth over the boy’s face, shutting the world to darkness. The boy thrashed, muffled cries scraping through the tape, but resistance meant nothing against the firm knot of the blindfold.

The darkness swallowed him whole. His breath came faster, broken, chest heaving against the ropes. Tears soaked into the fabric, heat against cold skin. His fists clenched until his knuckles burned white.

Jeongguk turned away.

At the table, he removed his mask and tugged the cap from his head. His hair fell loose for a moment before he gathered it back, tying it with a rubber band. His movements were mechanical—tidy, unhurried—as though he were resetting the pieces of himself.

The phone lit up in his hand. Emails stacked in neat lines across the screen. He tapped one open.

His partner sent the mail. 

Client’s instructions:

Do not hurt the boy. Strict orders.

And He is mute.

Move him six times. Six different locations. Within one week. 

Jeongguk’s jaw tightened. His thumb lingered over the screen. Mute? This was new. His glare deepened, though no one was there to see it.

Another email dropped in—short, clinical. First installment sent to JK.

The phone hit the table with a dull clatter, screen still glowing against the wood.

From the corner, the boy’s whimpers grew sharper, too loud against the silence. Almost panicked. Almost tearing at the edges of Jeongguk’s patience.

He rose again, slipping the mask back over his face. The black fabric concealed him in shadow once more as he crossed the room. Without ceremony, he tugged the blindfold free.

The boy blinked against the sudden light, face damp, lashes clumped with tears. His chest rose and fell too quickly, almost frantic, like someone gasping for air after drowning. His eyes lifted toward Jeongguk—red-rimmed, glossy, trembling with the sharp edges of fear.

For a long moment, Jeongguk simply looked down at him, unreadable.

Don’t hurt the boy.

The client’s words echoed again, sharper this time, cutting through the fog in Jeongguk’s head.

He reached forward and tore the tape from the boy’s mouth. The boy’s lips parted on a hiss, gulping down air like it mattered, eyes lifting slowly to Jeongguk’s shadowed face.

“What do you want?” Jeongguk asked, his voice flat, unbothered.

The boy hesitated, gaze dropping to the floor as though searching for courage there. Then, with a slow tremor, he lifted his bound hands and shaped a gesture in the air.

Jeongguk’s eyes followed the movement, then rose back to the boy’s face. “What bullshit are you doing?” His voice stayed calm, but the weight of it pressed heavy, suffocating.

The boy faltered. His hands lowered uselessly to his lap, trembling slightly. His gaze darted around the room, searching, thinking, before he finally stilled. Then, with a sudden sharpness, he lifted his chin and gestured toward the door.

Jeongguk sighed through his nose, massaging his temple with one hand, the faintest crack of irritation surfacing. Still, he crouched down, gripped the boy by the arm, and hauled him upright.

The boy stumbled. His balance faltered, and in a desperate instinct he caught Jeongguk’s sleeve, his body colliding against the man’s chest. The impact was small, fleeting, but Jeongguk reacted instantly—jerking him back with a force that made the boy stumble again.

Dark eyes cut into him, sharp and warning.

The boy ducked his head, staring at his feet, then dared to glance up once more. There was no plea in his voice—because there was none to give—but his gaze carried what his mouth could not.

Jeongguk crouched, fingers tugging at the knot around the boy’s ankles. Rope fell loose, leaving faint red marks circling his skin. The boy stretched his arms forward cautiously, wrists aching with freedom,  Jeongguk remove the ropes on his wrists. 

He seized the boy’s arm again, grip harsh, and shoved him toward the narrow door. The boy stumbled inside, catching himself against the cold wall of the washroom.

“You have five minutes,” Jeongguk said. The door shut behind him with a final click, sealing the boy in.

The sound echoed too loud in the hollow room. For a moment, silence pressed back against him, heavier than the rain outside.

His fist lashed out, striking the wall beside him. The sharp thud vibrated through his knuckles, pain blooming up his arm, but his face didn’t shift. It was just noise. Just release.

He dragged in a breath, dropped heavily into the chair, and let his head fall back against the wall. The ceiling bulb glared weak and yellow above him, but he didn’t close his eyes to it.

This job was already a mistake. He could feel it in the hollow between his ribs, in the dull ache behind his eyes. He should’ve walked away when his partner first said hostage. He should’ve refused, even if it meant burning the bridge. But now he was here—with the client’s orders binding him tighter than any rope he’d tied.

His body sagged with exhaustion he hadn’t meant to feel. The edges of his vision blurred, lids lowering against his will. He fought it, fought the drag of sleep, but it pulled anyway, slow and certain.

The door creaked open.

The sound was small, deliberate, but Jeongguk’s senses flared like a tripwire. Soft steps crossed the floor—measured, hesitant. He didn’t move at first. He waited.

Then, in one sharp motion, his hand snapped forward and clamped around a thin wrist. The boy’s breath left in a startled gasp, the sound raw and fragile. His hand had been too close—hovering just by Jeongguk’s face, almost reaching.

In a fluid twist, Jeongguk forced both of the boy’s arms behind him, locking them tight. The boy hissed in pain, jerking, but the grip only tightened.

“Don’t act smart,” Jeongguk muttered, voice calm but edged like steel. “Not older than you are. Kid.”

The boy’s resistance flared, thrashing uselessly. Bruises burned against skin, his breaths coming fast, but Jeongguk didn’t yield. He dragged him back across the floor, retied wrists and ankles with unhurried precision, and shoved him against the wall where he couldn’t move.

Only when the boy was secured did Jeongguk straighten. His eyes were flat, his voice quieter than before, almost dismissive.

“If you make one sound and wake me again, I’ll shove the gun down your throat.”

The words dropped heavy in the dim air.

Jeongguk turned away, crossing the room without another glance. He dropped onto the thin mattress in the corner, the frame of his body folding into the shadows like he belonged there. One arm rested beneath his head, the other loose by his side, fingers brushing the gun as though even in sleep he would never let go.

Silence stretched.

The boy shifted against the ropes, testing them once, twice, before the fight drained from him. Slowly, he lowered himself onto the floor, his back pressed against the cold wall. The chill seeped through his thin clothes, biting into his skin. He curled his legs close to his chest, as if making himself smaller might shield him from the man across the room.

Wide, wet eyes lingered on the tape and the cloth beside him and then went to his captor—the shadowed figure stretched on the mattress, breathing steady, dangerous even in stillness.

The boy held himself tighter and said nothing.

Chapter Text

Morning bled in through the cracked window, pale strips of light cutting across the dust and shadows. The silence was broken only by the soft drag of fabric and the faint clink of metal.

Taehyung startled awake at the sudden shove against his side. His eyes snapped open, meeting the figure towering above him.

“You’re not on vacation here.”

The voice was muffled by the mask but still sharp, low, a warning more than a statement.

Jeongguk didn’t wait for a response. He turned away, moving with unhurried precision through the narrow room. His gloved fingers checked the weight of the gun before slipping it back into place; he pulled at straps, tightened zippers, every motion efficient. Nothing wasted. Nothing loud.

Taehyung pushed himself upright on the cold floor, gaze following. His captor was faceless in the dim light—cap pulled low, mask veiling half his features—but the boy caught a glimpse of dark eyes beneath the shadow, sharper than the barrel of the weapon he handled so easily.

When Jeongguk crouched before him, Taehyung’s chest tightened. Fingers worked at the rope around his ankles—one pull, one twist, and the knot gave way. Freedom, in theory. In practice, it was nothing.

Jeongguk straightened but didn’t step back. His voice dropped lower, steady as stone.

“Run, and I’ll chase you. Try anything, and I’ll put a bullet through your skull.”

The silence after felt heavier than the words themselves.

Taehyung’s throat bobbed, but no sound came. His hands twitched faintly in his lap, though the rest of his body stayed unnervingly still. Wide eyes stared up, unblinking, fixed on the shadowed figure.

Jeongguk felt the boy’s gaze like weight pressing against him. No trembling. No pleas. Just silence. A defiance carved in quiet.

His jaw clenched behind the mask. He broke the stare first.

With one rough tug, he hauled the boy to his feet. The grip on his arm was firm, bruising, a reminder of control.

“Walk.”

The word left no room for anything else.

Taehyung stumbled forward under the shove, the sound of his own breath loud in his ears. Behind him, Jeongguk’s footsteps followed—measured, unrelenting, inescapable.

Taehyung started, a small, sharp motion—as if sound had surprised him awake. He was about to turn when Jeongguk’s voice cut through the damp air, low and suddenly furious.

“I told you to walk.”

The sharpness of it made his shoulders tense. He shivered once, then obeyed, each step careful and hesitant, as if the floor itself might betray him.

The morning light followed them down the narrow stairwell, pale beams catching on the scuffed edges of concrete. Dust stirred under Taehyung’s slow descent, and Jeongguk’s steady steps echoed behind him—measured, unyielding, like a shadow that refused to lift.

When they reached the building’s ground floor, the scent of damp earth and the crisp morning air swept in through the open door. Jeongguk’s hand clamped firmly around Taehyung’s arm, dragging him toward the waiting car. The boy stumbled once, but the grip held him upright.

The rear door creaked open. Jeongguk shoved him inside with a roughness that was not careless, but controlled. Taehyung’s body shifted across the seat, instinct pushing him back until he pressed into the upholstery, clutching at it as though the fabric could anchor him.

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Jeongguk leaned in, close enough that his presence filled the space. The mask and cap shadowed most of his face, but his eyes—dark, sharp, unblinking—were revealed in the morning light. Taehyung stared back, his expression unreadable yet layered with something deeper than fear.

Jeongguk lingered, studying him as if trying to decipher the boy’s stillness. Then he pulled away, straightening, and Taehyung’s breath released—quiet, measured, almost a sigh.

From his bag, Jeongguk drew out a syringe. Each movement was deliberate, fingers precise as if the task were routine. When he leaned back into the car, Taehyung’s eyes widened, shock blooming across his face. His arm stiffened under Jeongguk’s grip, but there was no time to resist.

The needle slid in. A small, breathless sound escaped Taehyung before his body slackened. His gaze lingered unfocused for a heartbeat, then fell, and he collapsed against the seat, limbs heavy, head tipped to one side.

Jeongguk adjusted him without pause, positioning the boy carefully so he would not slump awkwardly. He let his hand hover for a second too long at the boy’s shoulder, then withdrew, closing the car door with a muted click.

The morning air was cool against his mask. Irritation clawed at him anyway, rising hot under his skin. He lashed out once, the sole of his boot striking the side of the car with a hollow thud.

Damn him. His partner’s orders echoed in his head until they coiled into a curse. One day, I’ll put a bullet in you myself.

Jeongguk exhaled, a slow drag of breath. He moved to the driver’s seat, started the engine, and let the car ease into the pale light of morning—each mile pulling them further from the silence of the room, yet deeper into the weight of what lay ahead.

The screen in the small convenience store flickered with the news feed—grainy images and a voice raised over them.

“Whoever took my son will face serious consequences. I will hunt him down. If anything happens to Taehyung, even a scratch, you will not stay alive.”

Jeongguk’s gaze slid to the television without him meaning to. The man on the screen was middle-aged, voice raw with promise; his face was set in a fury that didn’t quite reach the eyes. Beside him, a woman clutched a wad of tissue to her face. She looked hollow and small in the frame, half-hidden by shadow and grief. Jeongguk watched them both for a long, silent beat—the public display of panic folding into something private and bruising.

“Sir, your order.” The cashier’s voice pulled him back to the fluorescent lights and the hum of the store. The register beeped as she slid a small packet across the counter. Jeongguk fumbled for cash, fingers steady despite the pull of the image on the screen. He paid without looking, the coins cold and precise in his palm, then turned and left.

Outside, the morning pressed on him—cool and indifferent. He moved fast, purposeful, every step practical. At the car he paused only long enough to set the bag at his feet and slide in behind the wheel.

In the back seat, the boy lay like a small, collapsed thing: limbs slack, face turned to one side, breath even beneath the hush of drugged sleep. The light from the open door painted the edge of a cheekbone silver. Jeongguk let his hand hover over the fabric of the seat for a moment, then drew it away. He closed his eyes, a flicker of something—regret or irritation—blurring the line between thought and feeling.

He shouldn’t have taken a job like this, he thought. Clean kills were simple. Clean kills paid in silence. Hostage work carried too many hands, too many strings. It was messy. It made him think too much, worry about things he had trained not to care for. The knowledge settled in his chest like an unwelcome weight.

The phone buzzed against his thigh. He snatched it up; his partner’s name flashed. He answered with one word. “Speak.”

“Move him. Now.” The voice in the ear came sharp, urgent. “His father’s tracing every corner of the city.”

Jeongguk’s jaw tightened. He let the wheel rest under his palms. “I just moved him. Where the hell do you want me to take him now?” he said, the question cut with a thin edge.

“Anywhere,” his partner said, voice flat and urgent through the line. “His father is rich as hell. He can trace us at any moment. Change cars. Get out of the city. Now. Checkpoints are packed with police.”

Jeongguk kept the steering wheel loose between his palms. The city slid by in pale strips of morning—storefronts, wet pavement, a world that didn’t know what had just happened inside it. He let the partner’s words land and settle like grit in his mouth.

“I told you this would take us to hell,” he groaned, low enough that the complaint barely left him. He hated how the job had grown arms and tendrils that reached into possibilities he could not control. “And I don’t understand why the client wants him moved to a different place every day.”

“You’re the expert in running,” the partner snapped. “That’s why I took you. Now move.”

Jeongguk opened his mouth to answer when something shifted behind him—a small rustle, the tiny disturbance of fabric against leather. He tightened his fingers on the wheel.

“He’s waking. I have to inject him again. He only slept an hour.” The words came out before he could swallow them.

“No,” his partner hissed. “Don’t. It’s dangerous. He might have a heart attack—this drug is strong.”

The thought sat heavy and cold. Jeongguk’s jaw clenched. “I can’t handle his whimpers,” he snapped back, the edge in his voice thin and raw. “He’s irritating me.”

“He's mute,” the other said, too calm. “How would he whimper? Stop being dramatic.”

The word landed like an accusation. Jeongguk turned his head, something in him poised on a hinge.

The boy was awake.

Taehyung lay rigid against the upholstery, eyes wide open and furious, the tied hands resting pale in the weak light. He did not make a sound—no pleading, no plea for mercy—but the look in his eyes was loud enough: burning, scoreless anger that filled the small space between them.

Jeongguk met that gaze and felt a flicker of something—irritation, surprise, the faintest unnameable skip behind his ribs. He let it pass like smoke.

“I should move,” he said, voice clean, businesslike. “Update me every moment.”

He cut the call before the partner could answer. 

Jeongguk started the engine and eased the car onto the road. His jaw felt tight—an unfamiliar heat running under his skin that he couldn't name. Maybe it was the proximity of another person; maybe he simply wasn't used to other breathing bodies occupying the same space as him. He shifted the rearview mirror with a slow movement and glanced toward the back seat.

The boy met his look with the same furious stare from before. For a moment Jeongguk let the frown form and then dismissed it, eyes returning to the road as if that would settle the irritation.

They rounded a corner and the world changed: a police checkpost stretched across the lane, officers and cones, the wet asphalt crowded with stopped cars. Jeongguk felt his grip close on the steering wheel, the leather biting into his palms. The car slowed behind another vehicle; he scanned the area fast—exit lanes, gaps between patrol cars, anything that would let them slip through.

Turning now would only make it worse. Going forward meant risking scrutiny. The decision pressed at him like a burr.

When the road opened a fraction of a second later, he planted his foot on the clutch and slammed the throttle. The engine answered with a keening; the car lunged forward.

“Hey, stop!” someone shouted behind them. The shout was thin against the engine’s howl.

Jeongguk’s jaw tightened further. He jammed his earpod in and called his partner, fingers working the phone with impatient force. The line buzzed. No answer.

Blue lights flashed as police cruisers moved to intercept. Adrenaline threaded through him, sharp and focusing. He took the turns hard, the car tilting into each bend, tires hissing on the wet road. He didn't look back to see who might be in pursuit; his attention was a knife-edge on speed and the small white rectangle of the GPS.

“Pick up,” he hissed at the phone, slapping the call button with a thumb. The road blurred past in a smear of gray.

He swore under his breath, voice rock-hard. “Pick up the—” He couldn't finish. Every turn shoved the seat into his ribs; Taehyung's body slid with the motion, hands clawing at the upholstery to anchor himself. The boy tried to push up, to steady, but the car kept twisting and rolling, the world tilting under them.

Jeongguk's voice rose, ragged with anger. “I will—kill you. Pick the phone, damn it!” The words were hot and useless and meant for the empty line.

He took one corner after another, teeth gritted, the city folding and refolding around them until his airborne phone finally vibrated hard enough against his palm. The screen lit.

“Hey!!” His partner's voice came through, breathless, as if someone had yanked him into the present. “I was out of the room—”

“You fucker…” Jeongguk barked into the phone, breath rough. His partner jumped on the line. “Trace my location now — I’m being—” He ducked instinctively as shots cracked the air, the world narrowing to sparks and a single, metallic taste at the back of his throat.

“Woah, woah—” his partner stammered. “It’s— it got serious.”

“You think I’m joking?” Jeongguk snapped, every word a hard stone. Bullets pinged off metal nearby, a close, hot percussion. “Pray to whatever you pray to, because if I live through this, you’re going to—” He cut himself off as another gun rang out, sharp and too close.

“Okay, take a right,” his partner said fast, voice brittle with adrenaline. “There’s a small street—abandon the car there. I’ll hijack the cameras. Drop the car and take the boy. I’ll send the coordinates. Move. Now.”

Jeongguk didn’t argue; he turned the wheel hard. The car jolted, tires protesting on wet asphalt. A heavy thud reverberated through the frame and Jeongguk felt the vehicle skid. He shut his eyes for a fraction of a second and then brought the car to a hard stop. The engine idled as rain beaded on the windshield, each drop a tiny drumbeat.

He opened the door before the sound of the engine could fade. The night air hit him cold and sharp. He yanked open the back seat and leaned in.

Taehyung tried to rise, confusion and panic making him clumsy. He half-stood, then slumped as if his limbs had forgotten the order. Jeongguk’s hand closed around a shoulder and hauled him up with unromantic efficiency, fingers biting through fabric.

He dragged the boy out of the car. Taehyung’s knees met the pavement and the impact was ugly—skin rasping against the coarse ground as the ropes bit into his wrists. He made a small, involuntary sound and squeezed his eyes shut, the pain folding in on him. No pleading escaped his lips; only a tight, thin gasp.

Jeongguk forced him upright again, stance immovable, strength used like a rope. He tried to make the boy move but Taehyung planted his feet stubbornly, refusing to follow. The boy’s chest rose and fell, anger bright and without words in his eyes—wide, furious, unyielding.

Jeongguk’s grip remained firm. For a moment, everything was the damp smell of the street, the distant rush of cars, and the rigid set of the boy before him. Taehyung did not move. He did not bow. He only glared.

Jeongguk’s eyes narrowed, a cold glare slicing through. He tightened his grip on Taehyung’s arm and tugged sharply.

“Walk,” he ordered again, voice like iron dragged across stone.

But Taehyung didn’t move. Not an inch.

Jeongguk’s jaw flexed. His patience was already a fraying thread. He exhaled once, slow, then pulled the gun from his side and leveled it at the boy’s chest. The metal gleamed under the dull yellow glow of the natural light.

“walk,” he said, voice low, controlled, “or I shoot you here. Right now.”

For most, that would have been enough. But Taehyung stood his ground, his eyes locked on Jeongguk’s—dark, stubborn, unblinking.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted his bound hands. His fingers moved in small shapes, clumsy but certain, tracing signs into the space between them.

Jeongguk frowned, thrown off. His temple throbbed. He pinched it between two fingers, groaning under his breath. With a rough jerk, he tore his cap off and shoved a hand through his hair, tugging hard enough to sting.

“Never thought I’d die like this,” he muttered to himself.

When his gaze returned, Taehyung hadn’t flinched. Instead, the boy stepped forward, hesitated only a second, then caught Jeongguk’s free hand.

Jeongguk jolted like he’d been burned.

“What the hell—” he snapped, voice rising.

But Taehyung ignored him. His grip was trembling but insistent, forcing Jeongguk’s palm open. With careful pressure, his finger traced letters across the skin—slow, deliberate strokes that tickled more than they hurt.

Jeongguk squinted, following the movements, his mind catching up one word at a time.

You. Are. Stupid. And. Mean.

When Taehyung pulled his hand back, Jeongguk just stared. For a long moment, there was no sound but the distant wail of sirens and the rain spitting lightly on concrete.

His eyes snapped back to the boy.

“Did you just—” he started, incredulous, half an angry laugh caught in his throat.

But before he could finish, his partner’s voice cut harshly into his ear, crackling through the AirPod.

“Hey—are you listening? Jk. Jk. Answer me.”

“Yeah.” Jeongguk’s reply was low, the sound swallowed by morning air. He kept his eyes on the boy even as Taehyung looked away, forehead creased into that permanent frown that had started to settle there.

“They’re close,” his partner warned over the line. “When you cross the street there’s another way. Grab anything—leave from there. I’ll send a hotel. Stay there tonight.”

Jeongguk hummed—more a breath than an answer—and slid a hand under Taehyung’s elbow. He hauled him up. The boy moved because he was moved, legs obeying before thought could catch up. They crossed the slick pavement in a slow, careful rhythm; Jeongguk measured each step the way he measured everything: no hurry, no wasted motion.

A motorcycle crouched under a tarp against the curb, metal glinting where the cover had lifted. Jeongguk inspected it with a quick, practised scan and then turned back to the boy. Taehyung watched him, eyes sharp and wary.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a mask. The motion was so clean it looked rehearsed—slide, fit, press. Jeongguk pressed the fabric across Taehyung’s mouth, the elastic settling behind his ears. He took his own cap off and, without hesitation, dropped it over the boy’s head, brim low enough to throw Taehyung’s face into shadow. The swap anonymized him in a single, blunt movement.

Taehyung did not wrench away. He did not shove or plead or try to bolt. His hands remained quiet at his sides, the tension held in his jaw rather than in flight. He let Jeongguk work—let the ropes be cut with a quick, sharp slice of a knife—and the coils fell away onto the curb like abandoned promises.

Jeongguk guided him toward the bike. He set the small blade to the lock and worked it until the hasp surrendered with a tired click. He swung his leg up, settled on the seat, tested the throttle with a practiced twitch.

“Hop on,” Jeongguk said, flat. His tone left no room for argument.

Taehyung didn’t move. He only watched, shoulders tight, eyes fixed somewhere past Jeongguk’s shoulder. He did not climb, did not fumble—nothing. The ropes were off but his body stayed still, as if the act of moving required permission.

Jeongguk’s patience thinned. He shifted his weight on the bike and looked back. For a moment he thought the boy might be indecisive, or thinking, or planning some sudden flight.

Jeongguk felt the light press of him there, the presence close but steady. 

Just as he was about to start the engine, a sudden tug at his shirt made him look back.

Jeongguk looked at him only once. The boy’s hand dropped from the fabric and steadied on the handle. Jeongguk’s grip tightened on the throttle, then he revved the engine.

Despite the ropes gone, despite the mask and cap hiding him, The boy remained. He did not run. He did not try.And for the moment that was both surrender and defiance—small, stubborn, and impossible to ignore by jeongguk. 

Taehyung’s eyes darted around the narrow lobby as though each corner might be a trap. He squinted whenever someone passed too close, shoulders pulling in, his gaze flicking sharp to faces blurred by alcohol and late hours. Most of them stumbled through the hall in a haze, their words slurred, shoes dragging against the stained floor.

“We need one room,” Jeongguk said, his voice cutting flat across the counter.

The receptionist didn’t move right away. His eyes lingered on Taehyung—too long, too bold—narrowing at the way the boy kept his head lowered, blinking against the dim yellow light.

A muscle ticked in Jeongguk’s jaw. He snapped his fingers sharply, glare landing heavy on the man behind the desk.

The receptionist startled, throat working before he bent down and pulled a key from the drawer. He slid it across the scratched surface of the counter, not meeting Jeongguk’s eyes now.

“Room fifteen. Second floor.”

Jeongguk took the key, slow and deliberate, his stare still pressing into the man like a blade.

“Don’t come to check. If we need anything, I’ll get it myself.”

The man nodded quickly. “O-okay.”

Jeongguk’s hand closed around Taehyung’s arm—firm, not rough, but leaving no room for choice.

“Walk forward,” he murmured.

Taehyung obeyed without looking back, silent steps carrying him toward the stairwell. His movements were small, almost careful, like someone walking in shoes not their own.

The second floor was quiet, the carpet worn thin, the air heavy with the faint smell of smoke and damp. Jeongguk slid the key into the lock, pushed the door open, and ushered Taehyung inside. The door clicked shut behind them, and he turned the bolt with a final, solid snap.

For a moment he only stood there, hand still on the lock, shoulders dropping with a heavy exhale. His cap sat crooked on his head; his mask pulled slightly under his chin. He reached for his phone, thumb moving quick across the screen.

The line rang once, then twice, before a voice broke through.

“Hy… you reached?” his partner asked, casual, like this wasn’t burning holes in his veins.

Jeongguk’s eyes shifted, drawn back to the boy who had perched stiffly on the edge of the bed. Taehyung’s gaze wandered the small, dimly lit room, tracing the peeling wallpaper and the single crooked lamp in the corner. But Jeongguk could see it—how those eyes weren’t really seeing the room at all.

Something in his chest tightened. His steps carried him forward, unhurried, every footfall pressing into the silence.

“Yeah… we’re safe,” he muttered into the phone, though his attention never left the boy. His voice had lowered, distracted, almost rough. He stopped a short distance away, watching the way Taehyung’s shoulders hunched slightly, the way his hands clutched at the worn sheets beneath him.

“I’ll inform you later. Right now… I’ve got something else to do.”

The call ended with a sharp swipe, and Jeongguk shoved the phone into his pocket.

Taehyung’s eyes lifted, hesitant, dark lashes casting shadows under the weak light. They met his stare, only for a second, before darting away.

Jeongguk pulled the cap off his head in one swift, frustrated motion. The suddenness of it made Taehyung flinch, his body giving a small start. His eyes blinked rapidly, as though to steady himself.

“Remove the mask.”

The words came low, deliberate, leaving no room for doubt.

Taehyung hesitated, gaze flickering over Jeongguk’s face, searching, weighing something invisible. Then, slowly, his hand rose. Fingers trembled slightly as they hooked against the edge of the mask, dragging it down with reluctant caution.

Jeongguk stared. For a moment, nothing else seemed to exist but the boy in front of him. His jaw tightened.

“You don't want your family to find you.”

His voice pressed hard, demanding—not loud, but sharp enough to cut.

Taehyung’s lashes fluttered. He didn’t speak, only glanced down, his throat bobbing with the effort to swallow.

Jeongguk’s eyes dropped to his hands. The boy was clutching the bedsheet so tightly that his knuckles had gone pale, the thin fabric twisted between his fingers as though it was the only thing anchoring him.

Chapter Text

“You don’t want your family to find you.”

His voice wasn’t loud—just sharp enough to leave a mark.

Taehyung’s lashes fluttered. He didn’t respond, only lowered his gaze, his throat shifting with the effort to swallow.

Jeongguk’s eyes followed the movement, falling to the boy’s hands. Pale knuckles, tight grip—his fingers twisted in the bedsheet like he was holding on to something invisible, something that could keep him from breaking.

Jeongguk said nothing more. He turned away, the air in the room pressing heavy against the silence.

He walked toward the window, pulled it open slightly. The cold air slipped in, brushing against his skin. His eyes scanned the narrow street below—still, quiet, a little too calm.

From the bed, Taehyung watched him. The man’s movements were deliberate, steady. Even in stillness, there was something unsettling about him.

Jeongguk closed the window again. His hand lingered on the frame before he turned, his gaze landing on the boy. Taehyung stiffened immediately, clutching the sheets tighter, like a child caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Jeongguk’s jaw flexed. The hesitation crawling up his spine irritated him. He hated this feeling—the brief pause before action, the tiny flicker of something that felt too human.

“I’m going out for a while.” His voice was even, deliberate. “Don’t try anything stupid. If you do—”

His eyes lingered on Taehyung’s face.

“—you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

He didn’t wait for a reaction. The door shut behind him, the metallic click of the lock echoing in the small room.

Taehyung exhaled, a quiet breath breaking through the still air. He lay back on the bed, eyes on the cracked ceiling. For a while, he didn’t move.

Then, slowly, he raised his hands in front of his face. The skin around his wrists was red, bruised where the ropes had bitten into him. Small scratches lined his palms—marks of struggle, of restraint.

He looked at them for a long time, the faint tremor in his fingers fading into stillness. His expression stayed calm—too calm. His legs dangled off the bed’s edge, swinging slightly, as the dull hum of the city pressed faintly through the locked door. 

Jeongguk paced the narrow street outside the hotel, hands threading through his hair until the fabric of his cap tugged at his scalp. The evening pressed around him—cold, damp, with the distant rumble of traffic and the soft slap of rain off the awnings. He kept the phone to his ear, voice low and taut.

“Email the client. Tell him we’re releasing him.” The words came out clipped. “And don’t give me any more advice.”

Silence breathed through the line for a moment, then his partner answered, voice rougher than usual. “I’m going to do the same.”

Jeongguk let out a sound that might have been a laugh, dry and small. “Oh—first time you’re using your brain. Care to say why?”

There was a long pause, then the partner’s tone softened, edged with something like worry. “You know I care about you, Jk.” He swallowed—Jeongguk heard it. “We’ve never had it get like this. I’m—terrified. As long as he’s with us, they’re tracing. They can find us. They could kill you on the spot. I didn’t think it would get worse.”

Jeongguk didn’t answer. The work he did had always been risk folded into risk; death was an occupational certainty, a thing he had accepted enough to keep his hands steady. It was not a new calculus.

Still, the edge in his partner’s voice scraped at him. It was—annoying.

“But your face was never visible,” the partner pressed quietly. “If they get a glimpse—if they saw any part of you—then it’s different. Did he see your face?”

“No.” Jeongguk’s reply was short, practiced. “I covered it.”

“I’ll email and confirm,” the partner said. “Stay low in the hotel. Don’t move until I tell you.”

Jeongguk straightened, the phone warm against his ear. He let the words land and then cut the call. He folded his cap back over his head, breathed once—slow and controlled—and watched the hotel’s quiet doors as if they might suddenly explode into movement. The city hummed on, indifferent, while he planned the next small, careful step.

Jeongguk lingered outside the entrance for a moment before stepping back into the hotel, his gaze flicking along the corners of the small lobby as if cataloging every shadow, every movement. The air inside smelled faintly of stale smoke and disinfectant.

The receptionist—who had been half-asleep behind the counter earlier—straightened the instant Jeongguk appeared. His eyes followed him, wary but curious.

Jeongguk’s gaze cut toward him, sharp and silent. The man’s throat bobbed as he looked away, pretending to busy himself with something beneath the desk. Jeongguk started up the stairs but stopped mid-step. Slowly, he turned. His boots clicked softly against the worn tiles as he retraced his path back toward the counter.

The receptionist froze, a nervous laugh already bubbling in his chest. “H-hey, look, you can’t beat me just because I—looked at your boyfriend, alright? I’ve got eyes, they wander sometimes.” His grin was weak, more plea than joke.

Jeongguk didn’t react. His stare stayed steady—cold, unreadable. “Do you have any antiseptics?” His tone was even, but the weight behind it pressed heavy in the air.

The man blinked, relief and confusion mixing in his face. “Uh—yeah, yeah, I’ve got some.” He crouched quickly, shuffling through a small box beneath the counter until he found a half-used first-aid kit. He set it on the counter with shaking hands.

Jeongguk’s eyes dropped to it, then lifted again. “A pen. Something to write on.”

The receptionist hesitated, frowning a little, but he didn’t dare ask. Maybe, he thought, it really was for the boy upstairs—maybe for a note, or medicine. Maybe none of his business. He slid a small notepad and a pen across the counter.

Jeongguk took them without a word, fingers brushing briefly over the plastic edge of the kit. His gaze lingered on the man for a moment longer—just long enough to make the silence uncomfortable—before he turned and walked away, his steps steady, unhurried.

Behind him, the receptionist exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus,” he muttered to himself, the air around him finally easing after the weight of Jeongguk’s presence lifted from the room.

Jeongguk’s fingers brushed the cold metal of the keys as he reached for the lock—only to still halfway when something faint filtered through the door.

A sound. Soft. Muffled.

He frowned, leaning closer, the dull hum of the corridor fading under the quiet that followed. Then he heard it again—a small laugh, light enough that it barely existed.

His brows knit tighter. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it. The sound was out of place—too alive, too… gentle for a room that was supposed to be filled with silence and fear.

He tilted his head, pressing his ear to the wood. The giggles came again—barely a whisper, yet oddly melodic. His jaw tightened, irritation twitching in his muscles. And still, beneath the annoyance, something else slipped through—something that felt almost like… wonder. It made no sense.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing the thought away, and turned the key. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.

Taehyung jerked up instantly. He had been sprawled on his stomach, his fingers moving over the wall—shadows dancing faintly against the light. Now, he sat upright in a blink, hands folded tightly on his lap, eyes wide and startled like a deer caught in headlights.

Jeongguk stepped inside, his expression unreadable. He crossed the room without a word, placing the antiseptic kit and the small notepad on the bed a bit too roughly. The sound made Taehyung flinch, his eyes flickering from the items to Jeongguk.

Without looking at him, Jeongguk lowered himself onto the worn sofa nearby. One leg crossed over the other, the faint glow from his phone lit the hard lines of his forehead visible as he began scrolling absently.

The quiet stretched. Taehyung blinked once. Twice. Then, hesitantly, he gestured toward the items—tapping the box lightly, as if asking permission.

Jeongguk’s gaze lifted, sharp and steady. “What are you staring at?” he asked flatly.

Taehyung paused, then gestured again—something halfway between confusion and asking for help.

“Are you blind?” Jeongguk muttered, voice low but cutting. “I don’t want to hear your whining in the middle of the night. Treat your wounds.”

His eyes dropped back to his phone, though his thumb stilled on the screen.

Taehyung frowned faintly but didn’t argue. He pulled the box closer, opening it with quiet care. The faint rustle of wrappers filled the room as he found the antiseptic and a cotton swab. His movements were slow—deliberate. He dipped the tip in the solution and began to clean the bruised skin around his wrists.

Jeongguk’s eyes lifted again, drawn against his will.

The boy’s hands were slender, moving carefully over the reddened marks. His face held no trace of fear, no tremor of defiance—just calm, almost unnervingly so. Like the pain was ordinary. Like Jeongguk’s presence meant nothing at all.

Jeongguk’s jaw clenched.

He looked back down at his phone, the screen glowing idle against his palm. 

His thoughts snapped when the phone in his hand buzzed against his palm. He looked down, thumb swiping the screen open more out of habit than curiosity.

“I emailed,” his partner said  “No answer yet. Just an auto-reply.”

He typed a line, then another, fingers quick and businesslike. "What's his name? Anything of him mentioned? What's his relation with the boy?"

Silence answered. A moment stretched thin over the line.

Are you Jk? the reply finally asked.

Jeongguk frowned at the screen. What the hell, he muttered,

then his partner typed: You never ask these things.

He typed back. Just answer my question.

After another pause: No name. Just an email through which he contacted.

The name on it? Jeongguk tapped.

Just made up. “Leo.” I will try to contact him again. 

He didn’t reply. He slid the phone back into his pocket and raised his head only to find Taehyung already watching him—wide-eyed, blinking with that slow, careful rhythm of someone who measured everything twice.

“What the hell,” Jeongguk said, more to break the silence than to ask.

Taehyung didn’t speak. He reached for the notepad and pen left on the bed, fingers deft despite the faint tremor in his hands. He wrote, slowly, each letter deliberate. When he held the paper up, Jeongguk read the cramped words:

You did not buy the food?

Jeongguk’s brows lifted. He let out a dry sound. “Are you forgetting? You were kidnapped.” The words came out flat, almost automatic, but the question hung between them with an absurd weight.

Taehyung’s frown deepened. He wrote again, sharper this time, and held the paper up like an accusation.

Are you not going to be responsible if something happens to me?

Jeongguk’s gaze cut cold across the room.

“I don’t care about your bullshit,” he said, voice flat as iron. “I’ll put bullets in your head and nobody will question me.”

Taehyung met the stare with his own—hard, steady—then reached for the pen. He wrote slowly, each letter a careful, deliberate strike, and held the page up.

You are so stupid. You will get a lot of money by keeping me alive.

Jeongguk’s lips tightened. “Do you have a death wish?” he asked, the words more tired than angry.

Taehyung rolled his eyes in answer, then bent to the small diary again. He took his time, the pen scratching softly as he formed longer lines. When he finally lifted the page, his hand trembled only faintly.

Let’s make a deal. Whatever your client says you do— I will behave. I will not make a scene.

Jeongguk cocked his head, sarcasm soft at the edges. “And what do you get out of that?”

Taehyung’s fingers closed harder around the pen. He wrote, then hesitated, scratching out the first attempt. He looked up once—brief, guarded—and then wrote again, slower, as if each word cost him. When he slid the diary toward Jeongguk, his hand was wet with the faint sheen of effort. Then, without watching, he closed the cover and set it down on the bed.

Jeongguk read the words, the slow pulse of thought behind them. He looked at the boy—at the way he wouldn’t meet his eyes—and something like patience thinned across his features.

The knock at the door cut through the room like a snapped wire. It was small, polite, ordinary—an intrusion that made the hair on Jeongguk’s arm prick. He moved before he thought, standing, fingers closing around the grip of the gun at his back. His approach was careful, silent; each step measured.

He stopped before the door, breath steady, then wrapped his hand around the knob. “Who is it?” he asked, voice low and controlled.

A voice from the other side—boyish, practiced—answered. “Sir, your food.”

“We didn’t order,” came a sleepy reply from inside.

“It’s our service, sir,” the delivery man insisted, voice polite but insistent.

Jeongguk hesitated for a moment—just long enough for the silence to stretch thin—before unlocking the door. It opened with a soft click.

A young waiter stood outside, holding a tray balanced on one hand. The smell of food drifted into the room—warm, rich, something fried.

Jeongguk stepped aside just slightly, enough to make space. “Eyes down,” he said, voice even but edged.

The waiter stiffened, nodding quickly before stepping inside. His gaze dropped to the carpet, every motion careful, rehearsed. He set the tray on the small table near the sofa, arranging the plates as if each placement mattered.

When he started to straighten, his eyes flickered up—just for a glance toward the bed.

“Eyes down,” Jeongguk’s voice cut again, sharp enough to make the man freeze mid-movement.

The waiter swallowed hard, muttered a quiet apology, and all but backed out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him, followed by the dull turn of the lock.

The air seemed to settle again.

Jeongguk turned, his gaze landing on the boy. Taehyung was already on the sofa beside the table, tearing into the food like someone who hadn’t eaten in days. His fingers were clumsy, too quick, sauce smudged faintly on his skin.

Jeongguk watched him in silence, the faint sound of chewing filling the room. He crossed the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, phone in hand but eyes flicking toward the boy now and then.

Taehyung paused, noticing the stare, then wordlessly held out a piece of chicken—awkward, hesitant, almost shy in the smallest way.

Jeongguk glanced at it, expression unreadable. He said nothing, only unlocked his phone and began scrolling through the screen, thumb moving slow over the glass.

A faint roll of Taehyung’s eyes followed, barely there but visible enough to tug at the corner of Jeongguk’s mouth. The boy turned back to the food, chewing quietly, the tension in the room softening—not gone, just quiet. Like a pause between storms.

Jeongguk exhaled, the weight of the day still pressing behind his eyes.

He grabbed one of the pillows from the bed and tossed it toward the sofa.

“Sleep there,” he said flatly, his tone leaving no room for questions.

He lay down on the bed without looking back, pulling off only his cap. The mask stayed. He wasn’t careless enough to take that risk.

For a long moment, there was no sound—just the faint hum of the old ceiling fan. Then, the rustle of hesitant movement.

Jeongguk turned on his side, facing the wall, ready to finally let sleep win when the mattress dipped ever so slightly. His brows furrowed. The quiet breath beside him wasn’t his.

His eyes snapped open. He switched on the lamp.

Taehyung was there—curled up on the far edge of the bed, clutching the pillow tight to his chest, his eyes wide, watching him.

Jeongguk pushed himself up on an elbow, disbelief cutting through the fatigue.

“What the hell—” His voice rose, sharp. “I told you to sleep there. Do you want me to tie you again?”

Taehyung didn’t flinch. He just blinked, once, twice, before sitting up slowly. His expression didn’t hold fear, only a quiet resignation. Without a word, he stood and walked toward the sofa, his head lowered.

Jeongguk turned off the light again, lying back down. He pressed his arm over his eyes, trying to let the darkness swallow everything—the boy, the day, the noise in his chest.

Then came a sharp sound. A soft crash.

His eyes snapped open again.

He sat up, muscles tense, flicking the light back on.

Taehyung stood frozen near the table, a broken lamp at his feet. His hands trembled slightly, his eyes wide but unyielding as they met Jeongguk’s.

Before Jeongguk could speak, Taehyung reached for the small notepad. His fingers shook a little as he wrote, quickly, and then lifted the page.

Can I sleep on the bed? I will not make any movement.

Jeongguk stared at the words, the scrawl uneven but determined. His gaze lifted to the boy—small, standing barefoot among the shards, clutching the diary like a lifeline.

For a moment, Jeongguk said nothing. He just looked. Then he sighed, long and quiet, and fell back against the pillow.

His voice came out rougher than before, low and resigned.

“Should an invitation be written to you now?” A pause. “Lay down. I can’t sleep with the lights on.”

The tension in the room broke like a held breath.

Taehyung’s eyes softened, almost shining under the yellow light. He nodded quickly, moving carefully so he wouldn’t step on the glass. He set the pillow down again, climbing onto the bed with small, careful movements—like someone afraid to disturb the peace he’d just been given.

Jeongguk turned off the light.

For a while, the silence stretched again. Then, the faint shuffle of fabric—the soft, restless movements of someone trying to find comfort in an unfamiliar place.

A quiet giggle, barely there, slipped through the dark.

Jeongguk didn’t move, just lay there listening. His hand twitched once before settling back against his chest. He stayed awake until the sound faded—until the boy’s breathing evened out into soft, steady snores.

Only then did he close his eyes.

Chapter Text

Jeongguk slid the gun into the back of his waistband, the motion sharp and practiced.

He checked the charger, the cables, the small items he’d scattered across the table—each one packed neatly into the bag. The air in the room was still, heavy with the faint smell of antiseptic and last night’s food.

When he turned, Taehyung was already watching him.

Those same wide eyes, too clear, followed his every movement. His fingers toyed with the pen, hovering above the small notepad like he was deciding whether to write or not.

Jeongguk’s gaze lingered there for a moment before he spoke.

“Give me that.”

There was no hesitation. Taehyung handed it over immediately, the pen slipping from his grasp halfway but caught by Jeongguk’s quick hand. He stuffed both into the bag without another glance.

Then his phone buzzed—sharp and cutting through the silence.

Jeongguk looked down at the screen. His partner.

He picked up. “Any update?” His tone was clipped, eyes flicking briefly to Taehyung again.

The boy sat on the edge of the bed, legs dangling loosely, looking around the room as if none of it—none of this—really touched him.

“Nothing,” came the reply. “I got no answer from the client.”

Jeongguk’s jaw tightened, the muscle twitching just once before he exhaled through his nose.

“Email him again,” he said flatly. “Tell him if he doesn’t respond soon, we’re abandoning the person.”

The silence stretched after his words, but he didn’t notice the small shift in Taehyung’s posture—the way his shoulders stiffened just slightly, or how his fingers gripped the bedsheet behind him.

“I’m moving out of the city,” Jeongguk added, ending the call before a reply came.

He slipped the phone into his pocket and swung the bag over his shoulder.

“Get up.”

The word came out harder than he meant it to. He threw a mask toward Taehyung, who caught it clumsily.

The boy stood but didn’t move further, eyes dropping to the mask in his hands.

Jeongguk sighed, irritation bleeding through restraint. “We don’t have the whole day,” he said quietly.

Jeongguk watched the mask hit the bed, the toss sharper than necessary. The fabric splayed out like an accusation. Jeongukk look towards taehyung, who is in full mood of fight. 

He stepped forward, slow enough that each movement felt deliberate. His hand curled into a fist at his side.

“You really want to die by my hands, don’t you?” His voice was low, dangerous—less a question than a promise.

Taehyung stared back, eyes bright with something like fury. He raised his bound hands and, with quick, practiced motions, began to form words—fingers working fast despite the tremor at their edges.

Jeongguk glanced down at the flurry of movement, then up at the boy. “I don’t fucking understand,” he said, the words rough. He reached into his bag, yanking the notepad free.

Taehyung snatched it back with equal force, scrawling faster, letters jagged with anger. He held the page up until Jeongguk read the words:

We had a deal yesterday. Why did you say you’d abandon me?

Jeongguk’s jaw tightened. “So you want me to babysit you for the rest of my life?” he snapped. “When I get a message, I don’t need an extra headache.”

Taehyung’s face went white at the edge of his mouth, teeth clenched. He wrote again, the ink blotting slightly where his hand shook. He held the paper up like a blade.

I hope you never get a message. Your client will die.

Jeongguk read it twice, the letters settling in his chest like stones. The boy’s eyes were flat on him—no pleading now, only something hard and dangerous.

Taehyung shoved the notepad back into Jeongguk’s bag, then moved like a small, sudden current. He grabbed the mask from the bed, jammed it on, and stepped close enough that Jeongguk could see the wet line at the boy’s lip. Without warning, Taehyung’s hand darted up and ripped Jeongguk’s cap from his head, mask hiding his features from taehyung. 

For a beat, Jeongguk didn’t move. He stood with his cap clutched in the boy’s hand, the room narrowing to the two of them and that single, startling gesture. Jeongguk’s stare was steady—cold and unreadable—but beneath it, something like a pulse quickened he didn’t bother to hide.

Jeongguk watched Taehyung for a long beat—felt the boy’s stare like a small, deliberate thing—then the cap dropped onto taehyung's  head and he pushed off him, the movement a light, mocking shove against Jeongguk’s shoulder. The sound of the door clicked open.

Jeongguk tilted his head. “He needs to learn a lesson,” he said, jaw tight, voice low. He slinged the bag over his shoulder and stepped out into the corridor. Taehyung had already started down the stairs.

He fell into step behind him, the hotel’s quiet padding around their footsteps. At the desk he paused to return the key. The receptionist’s eyes tracked Taehyung as he passed, then flicked back to Jeongguk with a look that tried for concern and landed somewhere near fear.

“He is looking angry.” the man began, voice small. “You’ll be in trouble I guess.”

Jeongguk’s glare cut across him like a blade. The man straightened immediately, hands folding as if to make himself smaller. Jeongguk dropped the key onto the counter and left without a word.

Outside, the air hit him—cool and sharp, the city moving in slow, indifferent rhythms. He kept his distance but didn’t let Taehyung out of sight. The boy walked with a steady gait, not looking back once, shoulders squared as if every step was an act of will.

“Hey,” Jeongguk called, the single word even but edged, a low wire pulled tight. Taehyung didn’t turn.

“Stop.” The command was firmer this time, a stone dropped into the silence.

Taehyung’s pace didn’t change. He kept walking, jaw set, eyes fixed somewhere ahead.

The sound of his own anger surprised Jeongguk—too hot and immediate. He closed the distance with long strides, stopping only when he was close enough that Taehyung could feel his presence behind him.

“Don’t test me,” Jeongguk said, each syllable clipped. “Stop there.”

For a moment, only the city answered—the soft hiss of tires, the distant call of a vendor. Then Taehyung slowed, not turning, but the small shift in his shoulders told Jeongguk more than a glance ever could.

Taehyung stopped some distance away and turned, slow and deliberate. He met Jeongguk’s stare, fingers crossing an invisible line in the air—an impatient, final motion—and then started walking again without looking back. His shoulders were tight, each step measured.

Jeongguk let him go for a moment. The street smelled of rain and oil; the city moved in a lazy, indifferent pulse. He watched the boy move, the line of his back taut as a drawn bow.

Then Jeongguk’s patience snapped—quiet but absolute. He called out, voice low and cold. “Hey.”

Taehyung nearly halted, then resumed. It was a small defiance. Jeongguk’s hand closed, sudden and hard, on the boy’s arm. The motion was rough; Taehyung went with it, pulled off the path and toward the curb.

A car’s tyres screamed somewhere close. The vehicle shuddered to a stop half a breath from them. A man’s voice—sharp, drunk with accusation—cut the air. “Are you blind? If you want to die, go somewhere else!”

Something in Taehyung’s chest hitched; the color drained from his face. He opened his eyes wide and felt arms close around him like a shield—someone catching him, pressing his head against a hard chest. For an instant everything blurred: the man beside him, the car lights, the hard press of someone’s body holding him still.

Jeongguk yanked him back by the arm with an ugly force. “Are you fucking stupid?” he almost shouted, the words harsh enough to crack the quiet.

Taehyung didn’t reply. He shoved at Jeongguk, a small, hot push that tried to make space between them, and for a breath they stood against each other like two coiled things.

Jeongguk’s grip returned, firmer this time, and he hauled Taehyung toward the parked bike. He dumped the bag across the seat, then turned to look at the boy—really look.

“Do you forget what position you’re in?” he said, voice low but sharp. “I am lenient with you. That does not mean I accept everything.”

The tone hit harder than any shouted threat. Taehyung’s face flinched—just a flicker—but it was there, honest and small. Panic tightened his breath for a second.

Jeongguk tightened his hold; the knot of his hand bit into Taehyung’s skin. The boy hissed, a soft sound edged with pain. Jeongguk didn’t care. “I don’t care about any deal. I can kill you here and be gone before anyone finds me. Don’t test me.”

Taehyung swallowed it down. His jaw worked; his hands trembled.

Jeongguk mounted on the bike. Not glancing back. Taehyung, Without answering, he turned and climbed onto the bike, keeping his movements controlled, mechanical. He did not look back. He did not reach for Jeongguk. He only braced himself, fingers curling around the handle as if that small grip could tether him to something.

Jeongukk, He thumbed the starter and eased forward. His breath was shallow, faster than it had been—stung by the stranger’s car, heated by the boy’s unblinking eyes. He pushed the throttle a little harder than necessary, forcing his thoughts away with speed.

Behind him, Taehyung watched the silhouette of the man he’d been forced to follow. He stared at Jeongguk’s back—broad, steady, dangerous—feeling something like confusion coil into something tighter: wary, helpless, strangely alert.

They moved through the washed-out morning, two figures stitched to the motion of a single bike, each carrying the quiet that had settled between them.

The bike rolled down the empty road that led out of the city, the world slowly dissolving into open space. The evening air was sharp, restless—making both their hearts thud faster in their chests.

Jeongguk didn’t know how long he had been riding. The night kept stretching further, the road unspooling endlessly ahead of them. The wind grew colder, biting against his skin and tugging at his clothes.

The silence between them was deafening. Usually, Jeongguk found comfort in silence—he lived in it, breathed it. But now, it pressed against his ears like needles, every second scraping against his patience.

He felt no movement behind him. No shifting, no sound. Taehyung might as well have turned into air. Jeongguk didn’t care—or told himself he didn’t.

The city lights had long vanished behind them when faint, flickering lights appeared in the distance. He slowed the bike, eyes narrowing. A rundown place—part motel, part club. The kind of spot where no one looked twice at strangers. Perfect.

He stopped the bike at the edge of the dirt road. The engine died, leaving only the faint thrum of music in the air.

Behind him, Taehyung climbed off quietly, his shoes scraping the gravel. Jeongguk followed, slinging his bag over one shoulder without a glance.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the boy wrapping his arms around himself, looking around the place with wide, darting eyes. The way he blinked too much—like trying to focus on something real—made Jeongguk’s jaw tighten for reasons he didn’t understand.

He looked away quickly and started walking toward the building. A quick message went out to his partner—location sent, no details. He didn’t wait for a reply.

Inside, the noise hit them like a wave. The air smelled of alcohol and smoke, heavy and electric. People stumbled past, laughing too loudly, hands all over each other. Some were pressed against walls, mouths moving hungrily. Nobody cared who watched—or who didn’t.

Jeongguk moved through the crowd, expression blank, body tense. Someone slammed into his shoulder hard enough to make him stagger a step back. The man didn’t even look at him before disappearing into the haze.

Jeongguk’s head snapped around immediately, searching.

Taehyung was still there—but too close to the crowd, nearly swallowed by the shifting bodies. His hands hovered awkwardly near his chest, trying not to touch anyone.

Jeongguk pushed forward and caught his wrist, his fingers closing tight around the thin skin. Taehyung’s head jerked up, startled, eyes wide.

Without a word, Jeongguk pulled him closer, guiding him ahead. He positioned the boy in front of him, one arm angled protectively at his sides, carving out a narrow path through the chaos.

They moved deeper inside—the crowd pressing, the music pulsing, and the air thick with noise. But beneath all that, something quieter stirred between them: a sharp, unspoken tension neither could name, threading through the noise like static.

He walked toward the reception area, the thrum of music shaking the walls. The man behind the counter wasn’t alone—someone was perched on the desk beside him, laughing too loudly, touching too freely.

Jeongguk’s eyes darkened in disgust.

The man finally noticed him and straightened a little.

“We need a room for the night,” Jeongguk said, his voice raised just enough to cut through the noise.

“It’s booked. No rooms left,” the man replied lazily, barely looking up.

“I can pay double,” Jeongguk said flatly.

That got his attention. The man’s eyes slid toward Taehyung, lingering a moment too long before he turned back, a smirk crawling across his lips.

“From where did you get him?” he asked, grin widening.

Jeongguk’s jaw tightened. “It’s none of your business. Can you give the room or not?”

The man chuckled, bending down to pull a key from the drawer. He placed it on the counter and leaned closer.

“Bringing your toy here, covered up like that—it’s not a good look,” he said, still smirking.

Jeongguk didn’t answer. He simply took the key, his glare sharp enough to cut, and turned away.

He caught Taehyung’s hand and moved through the crowd, his grip firm, jaw locked. The music blurred behind them, heavy and hollow. But just as they reached the hallway, Jeongguk felt it—small tremors in the hand he was holding.

He slowed down without meaning to. His steps faltered; his hold loosened. For a brief moment, he didn’t know if he wanted to let go or hold tighter.

They stopped at the door. The hallway was dim, the bass from the club vibrating through the floor. Jeongguk hesitated a beat, then unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The noise dulled instantly when it shut behind them. Silence filled the small room.

He slipped the bag from his shoulder, dropping it onto the sofa with a dull thud. Turning around, his eyes found Taehyung standing near the center of the room, arms wrapped tightly around his small frame, eyes moving uncertainly over the unfamiliar space.

Jeongguk felt a quiet, unwanted ache stir somewhere deep inside. He hated it. He hated everything about this moment—the noise still ringing in his head, the warmth lingering on his palm, the way that boy made his chest feel too tight.

He looked away quickly and moved closer, making Taehyung flinch slightly.

Jeongguk pulled off his cap and mask, setting them aside. The cold had left his face red; the faint color across his nose made him look human again, and he hated that too.

“Cover yourself with the blanket,” he said quietly, nodding toward the bed.

Taehyung looked up at him, eyes wide, then walked slowly toward the bed. He sat down, tugging the blanket around his shoulders like a shield. He looked completely out of place—like he didn’t belong anywhere in this kind of world.

Jeongguk noticed. He saw every small movement, every nervous blink.

And still, he forced himself to look away.

He had already decided—he wouldn’t care.

Jeongguk sat down on the couch, pulling out his phone. The screen glowed faintly in the dim room as he typed out the location to his partner.

The reply came almost immediately.

 Stay there for a while. We’ll contact the client and update you.

He frowned, waiting a moment before typing again.

> Check the email server. Track the sender. Something’s off. We only got one message before the kidnapping—and then nothing. I want the registration name behind that address.

There was a short pause before another message appeared.

 We’ve never done that. It’s against our work rules.

Jeongguk exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening as his thumbs moved across the screen.

Forget the rules. I want out of this mess—now.

A single word blinked back at him.

 Okay.

He leaned back slightly, scrolling through his emails again, eyes moving over lines of text that no longer made sense. Then he checked the nearby locations, scanning maps and small details, trying to figure out if the area was safe.

The battery bar blinked red.

With a quiet sigh, he reached for his bag and pulled out the charger. He got up, walking toward the bed where the nearest outlet was. As he knelt down, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to the bed.

Taehyung was lying on his side, facing him. His eyes were closed, the blanket pulled all the way up to his chin. Strands of hair fell messily across his face, catching the faint light from the window.

Jeongguk’s hand stilled around the charger. His fingers tightened slightly before he looked away, forcing his focus back to the plug that refused to fit into the socket. He pushed it in roughly, the sound of plastic scraping against metal too loud in the quiet room.

He placed his phone down on the small table, connected it, and then sat back on the couch again. The air felt heavier somehow.

He pulled off his mask, tossing it aside carelessly. Then he leaned back, resting one arm along the couch’s edge, his other hand pressed against his lips. His eyes drifted to the bed again—toward the still figure under the blanket.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. He just stared, lost somewhere between thought and something he didn’t want to name.

Finally, he exhaled and turned away, grabbing his bag again to distract himself. He opened it, shuffling through the contents until his fingers brushed against something familiar—a notepad.

He took it out slowly, tracing the rough cover with his thumb before flipping it open. Page after page passed beneath his fingers, filled with small, sharp handwriting. His expression softened, eyes steady as he read through the words.

Then he stopped.

One page caught his attention—words crossed out, but not completely hidden. His eyes lingered there.

In his mind, his own voice echoed quietly:

What do you get in return?

His gaze lowered to the page again.

One word sat there clearly, unbothered by the dark lines of ink:

Freedom.

The other word—though scratched and nearly buried—was still faintly visible beneath the mess of ink.

Safety.

Jeongguk’s hand stilled on the page. His jaw flexed once before he quietly closed the notepad, his thumb brushing over the worn cover.

The room was silent again, except for the faint hum of the charger and the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

Jeongguk leaned back against the couch, the notepad clutched loosely in his hand.

His head fell against the cushion, heavy with noise that wasn’t there but still wouldn’t stop.

Thoughts blurred. The quiet felt too thick, pressing against his temples.

He stayed like that for a long time—

until the weight behind his eyes finally pulled him under.

Sleep came slow, then deep.

His breathing evened out.

The room fell still.

Until a sound broke through.

Small.

Unsteady.

A whimper—barely there, but sharp enough to pull him awake.

Jeongguk’s eyes opened in an instant.

For a second, he didn’t know what he heard,

then the sound came again—fragile, trembling.

He turned toward the bed.

Taehyung was moving restlessly,

his body twisting beneath the blanket,

hands clutching the sheets like they were slipping away from him.

His lips parted but no voice came,

only a breath—small, broken—like a cry caught in his throat.

Jeongguk pushed himself up and walked toward him.

The boy’s face was twisted in pain, brows drawn together,

eyelids pressed too tightly shut.

Then the tears came—slow and helpless,

trailing down his cheeks until they sank into the pillow.

A sound followed, so quiet Jeongguk almost didn’t hear it.

A sob, muffled by sleep.

He stopped beside the bed.

Just stood there.

Watching.

Something in his chest tightened,

an ache he didn’t have words for.

He lowered himself to sit on the edge of the mattress.

His hands stayed on his knees at first—

clenched, uncertain.

Then, almost without thinking,

one hand lifted.

Fingers brushed against warm skin.

He wiped a tear from the corner of Taehyung’s eye,

then another.

The boy’s grip on the blanket eased a little,

his expression softening,

the pain fading into something gentler—

the smallest bit of peace.

Jeongguk’s eyes lingered on him.

That face—

too calm, too fragile,

as if one wrong breath could shatter it.

His hand moved again, tracing the curve of a cheekbone,

then the flutter of long lashes.

He didn’t know what he was doing,

only that it felt impossible to stop.

And then—

Taehyung’s eyes opened.

For a heartbeat, they were soft with sleep.

Then wide—startled—

then quiet again.

Those eyes met his.

Deep, unblinking,

as if neither of them dared to move first.

Jeongguk froze, hand halfway between reaching and retreating.

His breath hitched.

The air between them thickened,

stretched thin like glass about to crack.

He started to pull back.

But Taehyung’s hand moved first—

reaching out, fingers catching his.

A quiet hold.

Too bold.

Too alive.

Jeongguk didn’t move.

Neither of them did.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other—

no words, no sound.

Just the weight of something building,

something they both pretended not to feel.

Jeongguk didn’t move.

They just stared — the air between them trembling, heavy with something neither of them could name.

Taehyung’s lashes fluttered once before he turned slowly onto his side, still holding Jeongguk’s hand.

The motion was unhurried, almost fragile — like a secret being kept.

His fingers tightened around Jeongguk’s for a second, as though to make sure the world was real, and then he closed his eyes.

Silence.

Only the faint hum of the city outside the window, the uneven rhythm of two breaths sharing the same air.

Jeongguk stayed frozen, the weight of that small hand pressing into his skin like heat that refused to fade.

He couldn’t understand why his chest felt too tight —

why it felt like something was clawing to get out,

why he wanted to run, or scream, or just feel nothing at all.

This warmth —

it was too real.

Too alive.

Too dangerous.

He let his head fall forward, eyes fixed on where their hands were still joined — one calm, one trembling.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

But it did.

And that realization burned through him like fire meeting cold air.

Then —

a vibration.

Soft, persistent.

His phone.

Jeongguk blinked, the sound pulling him back. He looked down, his focus slow to return, like surfacing after too deep a dive.

Carefully, he reached out with his free hand, his other still caught in Taehyung’s loose grip.

He crouched a little, picked up the phone, and turned the screen toward himself.

A line of unread messages filled it — his partner’s name glowing faintly in the dim light.

His brows furrowed.

He scrolled.

And as the words appeared, one after another,

something inside him stilled.

Jk... I got the info.

The email—it’s registered under Kim Taehyung’s name.

The boy… he planned his own kidnapping.

The first payment—it was scheduled a week before we took him.

Jeongguk’s hand went still around the phone.

The room felt suddenly too quiet —

the kind of quiet that swallows sound whole.

He looked up from the screen, his throat dry.

His gaze fell to the bed, to the sleeping boy who still held onto his hand like a lifeline.

The faint rise and fall of Taehyung’s chest. The soft line of his mouth.

So peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Jeongguk’s jaw clenched. His fingers tightened around the phone until it pressed hard against his palm.

He couldn’t tell if the ache in his chest was anger —

or something far more dangerous.

He looked at Taehyung one more time.

And for a moment, the only thing louder than his thoughts

was the sound of his own heartbeat —

beating against something he wished he hadn’t found.

Chapter Text

'Cause I dream of you 

In the colors that don't exist

Jeongguk’s eyes lingered on him.

That face—

too calm, too fragile,

as if one wrong breath could shatter it.

His hand moved again, tracing the curve of a cheekbone,

then the flutter of long lashes.

He didn’t know what he was doing,

only that it felt impossible to stop.

And then—

Taehyung’s eyes opened.

For a heartbeat, they were soft with sleep.

Then wide—startled—

then quiet again.

Those eyes met his.

Deep, unblinking,

as if neither of them dared to move first.

Jeongguk froze, hand halfway between reaching and retreating.

His breath hitched.

The air between them thickened,

stretched thin like glass about to crack.

He started to pull back.

But Taehyung’s hand moved first—

reaching out, fingers catching his.

A quiet hold.

Too bold.

Too alive.

Jeongguk didn’t move.

Neither of them did.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other—

no words, no sound.

Just the weight of something building,

something they both pretended not to feel.

Jeongguk didn’t move.

They just stared — the air between them trembling, heavy with something neither of them could name.

Taehyung’s lashes fluttered once before he turned slowly onto his side, still holding Jeongguk’s hand.

The motion was unhurried, almost fragile — like a secret being kept.

His fingers tightened around Jeongguk’s for a second, as though to make sure the world was real, and then he closed his eyes.

Silence.

Only the faint hum of the city outside the window, the uneven rhythm of two breaths sharing the same air.

Jeongguk stayed frozen, the weight of that small hand pressing into his skin like heat that refused to fade.

He couldn’t understand why his chest felt too tight —

why it felt like something was clawing to get out,

why he wanted to run, or scream, or just feel nothing at all.

This warmth —

it was too real.

Too alive.

Too dangerous.

He let his head fall forward, eyes fixed on where their hands were still joined — one calm, one trembling.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

But it did.

And that realization burned through him like fire meeting cold air.

Then —

a vibration.

Soft, persistent.

His phone.

Jeongguk blinked, the sound pulling him back. He looked down, his focus slow to return, like surfacing after too deep a dive.

Carefully, he reached out with his free hand, his other still caught in Taehyung’s loose grip.

He crouched a little, picked up the phone, and turned the screen toward himself.

A line of unread messages filled it — his partner’s name glowing faintly in the dim light.

His brows furrowed.

He scrolled.

And as the words appeared, one after another,

something inside him stilled.

Jk... I got the info.

The email—it’s registered under Kim Taehyung’s name.

The boy... he planned his own kidnapping.

The first payment—it was scheduled a week before we took him.

Jeongguk’s hand went still around the phone.

The room felt too quiet—

that heavy, hollow kind of quiet that swallows the smallest sound,

until even your own breath feels intrusive.

His throat burned as he looked up from the screen,

his eyes falling on the bed.

The boy was still there—

fast asleep, curled under the blanket,

his hand still holding onto Jeongguk’s

as if clinging to something he believed could save him.

The faint rise and fall of Taehyung’s chest.

The soft line of his mouth.

That fragile peace—

too fragile to belong to someone like him.

Jeongguk’s jaw tightened.

His fingers curled around the phone until it dug into his palm,

until the pain felt like something he could hold onto—

something that might keep him from losing his mind.

He didn’t know if what stirred inside him was anger

or something worse—

something far more dangerous.

He looked again at the boy,

at the quiet curve of lashes resting against flushed skin,

and for one long, unbearable moment,

the only sound he could hear

was the frantic beating of his own heart—

loud, unwanted,

like it was trying to escape his chest.

He looked back down at the screen,

then shut his eyes, exhaling through his nose.

The warmth around his hand

—the softness of Taehyung’s fingers still wrapped around him—

it shouldn’t mean anything.

But it did.

And that made him furious.

He pulled his hand free, too quickly,

too harshly.

The small flinch from Taehyung’s body

was almost imperceptible—

a tremor that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

But Jeongguk noticed.

And that only fed the storm rising in his chest.

He clenched his fists,

stood up,

and stared one last time at the boy—

a mess of contradictions wrapped in calm.

Then he turned away,

his steps heavy,

and slammed the door behind him.

The sound made Taehyung jolt awake.

His eyes fluttered open—

wide, glassy, lost.

He stayed still for a moment,

listening to the silence that followed.

Then slowly, his hands uncurled from the blanket,

fingers trembling.

He looked down at his palms—

the warmth still lingering there,

as though the touch hadn’t quite left.

His chest ached in a way he couldn’t explain.

He pressed his hand to his sternum,

then turned toward the door where Jeongguk had disappeared.

It stayed closed,

unforgiving and silent.

Jeongguk walked down the narrow staircase,

the thrum of music swelling with each step.

The noise hit him hard—

bass, laughter, drunken voices blending into a blur.

Too much life in one place

when his own veins felt like they carried nothing but static.

He moved through the crowd,

brushing past people lost in their own chaos.

The stench of sweat and alcohol hung thick in the air.

Two strangers were pressed against a wall,

laughing, kissing, oblivious to the world.

Jeongguk’s jaw tightened—

he couldn’t tell if it was disgust or envy.

He reached the counter and dropped onto a stool.

The bartender glanced at him,

a man used to reading brokenness in silence.

“What do you need?” he asked, voice rough over the music.

Jeongguk didn’t look up.

“Something strong,” he said simply.

The bartender hesitated,

then started to pour, eyes flicking up now and then,

as if trying to figure out what kind of ghost he was serving.

Jeongguk’s gaze drifted over the room,

over faces that meant nothing—

each movement, each sound

only worsening the ache under his ribs.

Irritation simmered in his veins,

a restlessness he couldn’t name.

The bartender slid the glass toward him,

amber liquid catching the dim light.

“Are you here alone?” he asked casually.

Jeongguk looked at the bartender, eyes flat and unreadable, then reached for the glass.

“It’s none of your business,” he said, voice low, quiet enough to disappear beneath the music.

He took a slow sip. The alcohol burned down his throat, leaving a trail of warmth that didn’t reach anywhere that mattered.

The bartender studied him with a knowing smile—the kind that belonged to someone who’d seen too many stories begin and end at a bar counter.

“You look heartbroken,” he said simply.

Jeongguk’s eyes lifted, dark and sharp. A short, humorless chuckle slipped out.

“Heartbroken?” he repeated, lips twisting. “I don’t own that bullshit.”

He finished the glass in one go and placed it down with a sharp thud that cut through the bass of the music.

The bartender smiled again, quiet but stubborn, and refilled it.

“I don’t think so,” he murmured, sliding it back toward him.

Jeongguk didn’t respond. He just grabbed the drink, took another long sip, his gaze distant—

like he was watching something only he could see.

The bartender leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand.

“Are you sure you’re not just trying too hard to hate something,” he said softly,

“when your heart wants the opposite?”

Jeongguk froze mid-drink.

For a second, the rim of the glass lingered near his lips,

his knuckles tight around it.

His eyes flicked up—cold, dangerous—but behind that, something fractured.

The bartender raised both hands quickly, laughing under his breath.

“Hey, just saying what they do in movies,” he said.

“People drink like this when they’re heartbroken.”

Jeongguk tilted his head slightly, then downed the rest of the glass in one sharp motion.

The burn didn’t even make him flinch.

He reached for the bottle himself, poured another—

and finished it just as fast.

“Whoa, slow down, man,” the bartender said, half-worried now.

“That’s the strong stuff. Who’s gonna take you back like this?”

Jeongguk wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

His voice was a low murmur, stripped of warmth.

“Do your work,” he said, standing up.

“Don’t meddle with people you can’t handle.”

The bartender’s smile faltered as Jeongguk stepped away.

He didn’t look back.

The music grew louder as he walked through the crowd,

every beat striking against his skull,

every laugh and shout slicing through his thoughts.

Someone brushed against his shoulder; he pushed past without a word.

A few turned to glare, but he didn’t notice—

or maybe he didn’t care.

The world around him was a blur of light and noise,

and somewhere beneath it all,

his heart beat too fast—

angry, aching, alive.

Jeongguk pushed through the crowd, the noise falling behind him like a curtain closing.

The cold air outside hit him sharp, slicing through the haze of alcohol and smoke that clung to his skin.

He dragged in a breath that felt heavier than it should.

His hands trembled slightly as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket. The lighter flickered once, twice, before catching.

A thin flame. A soft inhale.

Smoke curled in front of his face, twisting with the night wind.

He leaned against the wall, letting the weight of his body rest there as if the ground wasn’t enough to hold him.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket—sharp, persistent.

He sighed, exhaling a slow ribbon of smoke before answering.

One hand lifted the phone to his ear. The other hung at his side, cigarette burning low—

burning less than the ache inside his chest.

“Did you read my messages?”

His partner’s voice came through, edged with tension.

“I did,” Jeongguk replied. His tone was flat. Too steady.

A short pause followed.

“You sound calmer than I expected,” his partner said carefully.

Jeongguk’s eyes stayed on the empty road ahead.

“Why did you call?” he asked, voice quiet but heavy.

“What do you mean, why?” the voice snapped back.

“Our client is our target now. You know what to do. End this—immediately—so we can move on.”

“End,” Jeongguk repeated, almost to himself.

The word felt strange on his tongue. Too final.

“Are you drunk?” his partner asked, irritation seeping in.

“You were the one panicking to dump this mission, and now you’re acting like—”

Jeongguk said nothing.

Only the faint crackle of his cigarette filled the space.

His partner sighed, softer this time.

“I’ll send the location. Drop him there. We need to disappear before Intelligence finds the link.

His family’s already reached out to them. We can’t risk exposure.”

A hum escaped Jeongguk—barely a sound—before the call ended.

The screen went dark in his hand.

He stared at it for a long moment before tilting his head back, eyes tracing the black stretch of sky above him.

No stars tonight. Only smoke and wind.

He took another drag, longer this time, and closed his eyes.

For a while, there was nothing—just the sound of his own breathing, uneven and tired.

Then, faintly—

the soft scuff of shoes against gravel.

A quiet rhythm, hesitant but deliberate.

He didn’t need to open his eyes to know.

The air shifted.

So did the scent—

sweet, almost painfully familiar. Strawberries.

His jaw tightened. The muscles in his hand flexed, the cigarette bending slightly between his fingers.

He hated this—

the way his body recognized before his mind wanted to.

The way silence could feel like someone’s gaze.

Still, he didn’t open his eyes.

The footsteps stopped—

right in front of him.

And then, silence again.

The kind that stretches thin and fragile in the cold air.

Jeongguk stayed still, his back pressed to the wall, eyes closed.

For a moment, he pretended not to feel the weight of the presence in front of him.

When no sound came—no movement, no breath—he finally spoke, voice low and rough against the quiet.

“Who allowed you to come out of the room?”

He opened his eyes.

Taehyung stood there, small beneath the weak light spilling from the motel sign.

His hair brushed across his forehead, and his eyes—those soft, unguarded eyes—looked at him like he was something to be understood.

Jeongguk frowned.

That look—it made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t like.

“I asked you something,” he said, pushing himself off the wall. His tone was sharper this time, the command of a man trying too hard to hold control.

He took a few slow steps forward.

Taehyung didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared—calmly, curiously—like he was memorizing him.

Jeongguk’s jaw worked, tension building. He opened his mouth to speak again when Taehyung suddenly lifted a hand, signaling him to wait.

Jeongguk stopped mid-step.

He watched as Taehyung pulled the notepad. The boy’s fingers trembled slightly from the cold, but his movements were deliberate.

He began to write—one line, then another, flipping the page as if words couldn’t come fast enough.

Jeongguk just stood there, watching.

The sound of the pen scratching on paper filled the quiet between them.

When Taehyung finally stopped, he looked up and held the notebook toward him.

Jeongguk’s gaze lingered—not on the words at first, but on the face behind them.

The way the dim light brushed across Taehyung’s skin.

The pink flush on his cheeks from the night air.

And that faint curve on his lips—

a smile.

He was smiling.

Jeongguk’s breath hitched before he caught it, his eyes flicking down to the notepad in his hands.

The letters were neat, the message simple:

“I came to find you. You were away for too long.”

For a long moment, Jeongguk didn’t move.

The words blurred slightly under his gaze, his heartbeat filling the space between them.

Then slowly, his eyes lifted again—meeting Taehyung’s, which were still soft and unblinking.

Jeongguk’s glare returned, but it didn’t hold the same strength.

Something inside him wavered.

And in that flicker—between anger and something he couldn’t name—

the world went quiet again.

Taehyung’s smile lingered—

soft and real in a way Jeongguk didn’t know how to look at.

He flipped the page again, that same smile still tugging at his lips.

It was steady. Unbothered.

And for reasons Jeongguk didn’t want to admit, it felt addicting.

His eyes moved without permission—drawn to the curve of Taehyung’s mouth, then back to the notepad.

Another line was written there:

“Aren’t you going to sleep?”

Jeongguk’s gaze lifted, slow and sharp.

Their eyes met.

The air thickened between them.

Taehyung’s smile faltered under the weight of that look,

his hand lowering the notepad as if afraid he had said too much.

Jeongguk took a step forward. Then another.

The distance between them closed until the night air couldn’t fit through it anymore.

Taehyung swallowed hard, eyes flickering over him—

from his jaw to the faint shadows under his eyes, to the way his breath looked sharp against the cold.

He looked at him like he was trying to read the unsaid.

And Jeongguk hated how seen he felt.

With a slow exhale, Jeongguk dropped the cigarette to the ground.

The ember dimmed as he crushed it beneath his boot.

The faint crackle of it was the only sound between them.

Taehyung’s eyes followed the movement, then lifted again—hesitant, but unyielding.

For a moment, Jeongguk just stared.

And then his phone buzzed.

He pulled it out, eyes catching on the screen.

A message.

A location attached.

His jaw tightened.

The hand holding the phone trembled, fingers curling around it too tightly.

“Get back inside,” he said, voice rough—louder than he meant.

Taehyung flinched at the sudden tone,

his lashes fluttering before his gaze dropped to the ground.

“Are you deaf too?” Jeongguk’s voice came again—lower now, but edged with something heavier than anger.

Taehyung’s lips parted, but no sound left him.

The silence that followed was louder than a shout.

His eyes dulled slowly, the light dimming from them—the kind of look that makes the heart ache if you stare too long.

Jeongguk’s chest twisted.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t soften.

Jeongguk’s jaw flexed.

His head felt heavy — the weight of alcohol pressing behind his eyes,

a dull burn that only made everything sharper.

“I should’ve killed you the day I took this mission,”

he said, voice low but trembling under the weight of his own control.

His words hung in the cold air, bitter and raw.

Taehyung blinked.

His hands tightened around the notepad, the edges trembling in his grip.

His lips parted as if to say something —

but no sound came.

For a moment, he just looked at Jeongguk.

Those wide, wet eyes.

Something fragile sitting right behind them.

He started to write, the pen trembling on paper —

then stopped halfway.

The ink bled into a single dot.

And instead of finishing, he just lifted his gaze.

No words.

Just a look — glistening, sharp, wounded.

Then he turned.

And walked back inside.

His steps were quiet, almost too careful.

Jeongguk stood there, watching the path he left behind.

Something inside him cracked.

He cursed under his breath and kicked the wall,

the sound echoing through the narrow space.

His hands went to his hair — clutching, pulling,

like he could rip the chaos out of his skull.

A sharp breath left his mouth as he dragged his palm down his face.

But then—he froze.

His fingertips lingered on his skin,

and a thought struck him like lightning.

He’s not wearing his mask.

His eyes snapped open.

His pulse stuttered.

When did that happen?

When did he become this careless?

The memory of Taehyung’s gaze flashed behind his eyes —

those soft, startled eyes that saw him.

He saw my face.

“Damn it,” Jeongguk hissed,

his voice breaking against the silence.

His jaw tightened again, anger clawing its way up his throat.

The alcohol in his blood didn’t help — it only made it worse,

made everything burn hotter.

He turned sharply, storming back inside.

The lights, the laughter, the stench of smoke and cheap perfume

hit him all at once.

He pushed through the crowd,

people brushing against him, music pounding against his skull.

He needed to do something — anything —

to stop the fire tearing through his chest.

Because if he didn’t,

he wasn’t sure what part of himself would survive the night.

He was about to pass the counter when the bartender’s voice floated out,

half amused, half tired.

“Ahhh… why’s this asshole always creating drama here?”

a short laugh followed,

“Why he gotta throw himself everywhere… poor boy.”

The words hit the air like sparks against oil.

Jeongguk didn’t stop.

He didn’t even look back.

His anger was already boiling,

his steps heavy as he climbed the stairs.

At the top, he didn’t knock — he kicked the door open.

The sound echoed down the narrow hallway.

“You should—” he started,

but the words caught in his throat.

The room was silent.

Still.

Empty.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring.

The sheets were untouched.

The air felt cold.

Something twisted inside his chest — sharp, fast.

He moved toward the bathroom,

grabbing the handle, yanking it open.

Empty.

He froze, fingers tightening around the metal knob until it creaked.

The air felt too thick to breathe.

Then it hit him.

A cold rush of realization that made his stomach drop.

He spun around — ran for the door.

It slammed open against the wall as he burst out into the hallway,

then down the stairs, two steps at a time.

His breath came out uneven, harsh.

Each exhale burned his throat.

By the time he reached the bottom,

the sound of music hit him — loud, pulsing,

mocking the panic that was starting to claw up his spine.

He pushed through the crowd,

faces blurring, laughter spilling everywhere.

Every flash of light made his chest tighten.

He searched — once, twice, again —

but all he saw were strangers.

All the wrong eyes.

All the wrong faces.

His heart thudded against his ribs,

hard enough that it hurt.

He moved to the counter,

slamming his hand down near the bartender,

who was still on his phone.

Without thinking, Jeongguk snatched the phone away.

“Hey—!” the man flinched, eyes wide.

“Woah, man… that’s not nice.”

He reached out to catch his phone,

but Jeongguk’s glare froze him in place.

The bartender’s smirk faltered.

Something in Jeongguk’s eyes —

the mix of anger and fear —

wasn’t something he wanted to mess with.

Jeongguk didn’t let go of the phone.

His breath came out in short, uneven bursts.

“What happened?” the bartender asked, frowning now,

eyes flicking between Jeongguk’s hand and his face.

“Where is he?” Jeongguk’s voice was low,

too controlled — like he was holding something back.

“Who?”

“The person you were talking about before.”

Jeongguk’s words trembled,

not from fear —

from the heat that comes before it.

“Oh… that drunken case?” the man said,

snatching his phone back with a quick tug.

“Yeah. He just left.”

Jeongguk went still.

“Left?” his voice cracked the air —

“what do you mean left?”

His hand shot out,

grabbing the man’s collar before he could blink.

The bartender’s smile faltered.

“Hey—hey, man. You’re getting out of line—”

“Where did he go?” Jeongguk’s jaw flexed,

every word ground out between clenched teeth.

“I don’t know, alright?” the bartender pushed at his chest,

straightening his shirt.

“ Maybe some room upstairs. Who knows.”

He shrugged and went back to his phone

as if nothing had just split open in front of him.

But Jeongguk was already gone.

He ran —

through the corridor,

past the flickering lights and pounding bass.

Doors.

One.

Two.

Three.

Each one he opened was wrong.

Too much laughter,

too many strangers tangled together.

He slammed one shut,

then another —

his hand trembling when he reached for the next knob.

The noise blurred behind him —

music, laughter, footsteps —

all muffled under the sound of his own heartbeat.

He reached the end of the hallway.

The last door.

His chest rose and fell,

breath catching halfway.

He didn’t think.

He just turned the handle.

The door swung open.

And he froze.

A man —

half drunk, half dressed —

was gripping Taehyung’s arm,

pulling him close.

Taehyung’s face was pale,

eyes wide and glassy in horror,

his other hand pushing weakly against the man’s chest.

“Who the hell—?” the man barked,

his voice slurred.

But Jeongguk wasn’t hearing him.

For a heartbeat,

the world went soundless again —

just the sight of that small wrist in someone else’s hand.

Then everything snapped.

Jeongguk moved before he even thought.

The world blurred —

a flash of motion, a sound of breath —

and then his fist connected.

The man staggered backward with a shout,

his hand flying to his mouth, blood already smearing his lip.

Behind them, Taehyung flinched hard,

his back pressing against the wall,

hands trembling at his sides.

“Leave the room,” Jeongguk’s voice broke through,

raw, ragged, too loud for the walls.

Taehyung stumbled once before his feet carried him out,

eyes still wide —

like he didn’t know what hurt more,

the fear or the man saving him.

The door shut behind him with a heavy sound.

Jeongguk turned back,

his breathing sharp, uneven.

He grabbed the man by the collar,

slamming him against the wall.

“How the hell did you touch him?”

The words came out like thunder,

shaking with something more than rage.

The man tried to shove him away,

words slurring from his mouth.

“He—he was in the damn way!

Looking around like someone’s gonna—gonna catch him—”

He didn’t get to finish.

Jeongguk’s fist found his face again.

Then again.

Every punch echoed in his ears,

the sound heavy, dull,

until his knuckles began to sting.

The man’s head lolled to the side,

but even then, Jeongguk couldn’t stop —

his breath came out in ragged bursts,

his chest heaving, his eyes wild.

Then —

a flash of movement.

The man’s hand darted out,

grabbing something from the nearby shelf —

a heavy decoration piece —

and before Jeongguk could react,

it smashed against his forehead.

A sharp crack.

A white flash of pain.

He stumbled back,

one hand flying to his head,

warm blood trailing down to his temple.

The man didn’t wait.

He pushed past,

his footsteps uneven but fast,

disappearing through the door and down the hall.

Jeongguk stood there,

the sound of retreating steps fading into the music below.

His head throbbed.

The world tilted for a moment.

He pressed his palm harder to the cut,

fingers coming away red.

He cursed under his breath —

low and shaking —

then looked down.

Something small on the floor caught his eye.

A notepad.

Its corner smudged with dust,

pages bent like it had been dropped in a rush.

He crouched slowly,

ignoring the pain pulsing through his skull,

and picked it up.

The faintest scent of strawberries lingered on it —

soft, almost sweet,

mocking the blood on his fingers.

He stared at the notebook in his hand,

his reflection caught in the glossy cover —

a face he barely recognized anymore.

The notepad lay open in his hand —

its page fluttering faintly in the cold air from the hallway.

The ink was smudged where a thumb had brushed it,

and the last line stopped halfway through,

as if the thought itself had been interrupted.

I am not that bad, I—

The sentence ended there.

Jeongguk’s jaw tensed.

He stared at it too long,

the words blurring until they almost disappeared.

His fingers curled around the paper,

the edge biting into his skin.

He exhaled through his teeth,

a shaky, uneven breath that did nothing to steady him.

He turned,

his steps slow and heavy as he climbed the stairs —

each one creaking beneath his boots.

The hallway stretched endlessly,

the dim light barely touching the walls.

His hand found the door handle,

cold under his palm.

He hesitated for a second.

Then pushed it open.

The sound of the door closing behind him

seemed louder than it should’ve been —

final, almost suffocating.

His eyes adjusted to the dim room.

Taehyung sat on the edge of the bed,

his shoulders slightly hunched,

fingers knotted together in his lap.

His head was bowed,

strands of hair falling forward to hide his face.

The stillness of him —

it almost made Jeongguk falter.

He took a step closer.

Then another.

And without a word,

he tossed the notepad to the side of Taehyung —

the soft thud against the blanket louder than it should’ve been.

“When will you stop making my life miserable?”

His voice came low,

barely more than a growl,

the exhaustion bleeding through it.

Taehyung didn’t look up.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even breathe differently.

He just sat there —

small, quiet, still —

like a shadow that had given up trying to be seen.

The silence that followed

wasn’t peaceful.

It was heavy.

It filled the room like smoke.

Jeongguk’s fists clenched at his sides,

his eyes fixed on the crown of Taehyung’s head,

waiting for something —

a word, a glance,

anything that could make sense of the storm inside him.

But there was nothing.

Just that same fragile stillness,

and the half-written sentence still echoing in his head.

I am not that bad, I—

Jeongguk’s jaw tightened,

his breath unsteady,

a thousand things burning on the tip of his tongue.

He was about to speak again —

something sharp, something he might regret —

when he noticed it.

The tremor.

Barely there at first.

Just a shiver running through Taehyung’s shoulders,

small, uneven.

Then it grew.

His entire frame trembling,

like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

Jeongguk froze.

The room felt smaller suddenly,

the air too thin to breathe.

He reached out before he could think —

his hand closing around Taehyung’s wrist.

The boy flinched.

Not a small twitch, but a full-body reaction,

as if the touch itself hurt.

Jeongguk’s fingers instinctively tightened,

steadying him.

“Hey—”

his voice caught somewhere in his throat.

He pulled him gently to his feet.

Taehyung didn’t resist.

Didn’t pull away either.

Just stood there, silent.

Too quiet.

Jeongguk’s hand moved — hesitating —

then found its way to his jaw,

fingers trembling slightly as he tilted his face upward.

“Look at me.”

The words came out softer than he intended.

Not an order anymore.

Almost a plea.

Taehyung hesitated.

Then, slowly, his lashes lifted.

And Jeongguk forgot how to breathe.

Those eyes — wide, glimmering —

were filled with fear,

so raw it almost burned to look at.

But beneath it,

something else hid there too —

something fragile.

Worry.

Why worry?

His lips trembled,

a small, helpless motion,

as if he was trying not to cry —

and losing.

Tears clung stubbornly to the corners of his eyes,

refusing to fall.

And Jeongguk’s chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with anger.

It was something quieter.

Something that hurt deeper.

For a moment, neither of them moved —

his fingers still resting against Taehyung’s jaw,

the distance between them filled with nothing but uneven breaths.

The night outside was silent,

but inside, everything was too loud —

the pulse in his veins,

the warmth of skin against skin,

the sound of a heart that didn’t know what it wanted anymore.

Jeongguk’s gaze lingered —

until it fell lower.

To the side of Taehyung’s neck,

where faint red scratches marred the pale skin.

Something in him stilled.

Something cold,

and something burning.

Before he could think,

his hand moved on its own —

fingers brushing the curve of Taehyung’s throat,

tracing the marks as though his touch

could erase them.

Taehyung shuddered beneath the contact,

a soft, barely there movement,

his breath catching in the space between them.

“Was I… late?”

Jeongguk’s voice cracked —

half-whisper, half-confession.

Their eyes met again.

Too close now.

Too unguarded.

Taehyung didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached up,

his smaller hand wrapping around Jeongguk’s wrist,

pulling it gently away from his neck.

He turned Jeongguk’s palm upward,

opened it like a page,

and his fingers began to move slowly —

writing something against the skin.

Jeongguk’s breath stilled.

His eyes dropped to watch,

tracing the invisible letters formed

by the careful drag of a fingertip.

Yes.

One word.

But it landed like a weight in his chest.

His lips twitched —

not quite a smile,

more like a breath caught somewhere between guilt and relief.

Taehyung kept his gaze lowered,

his hand still resting in Jeongguk’s palm,

until something warm touched his skin.

A drop.

Small. Trembling.

Jeongguk’s heart stuttered.

The sound in his chest grew too loud,

too wild.

Taehyung pulled back quickly,

wiping his tears with the sleeves, 

as if pretending they were never there.

And then he let go.

The sudden emptiness in Jeongguk’s hand felt heavier than before —

the warmth fading too quickly,

leaving only the ghost of touch behind.

He watched him —

this quiet boy,

this contradiction made of silence and storm —

and something inside him cracked open,

quietly.

He knew it then.

This was wrong.

All of it.

And yet,

the thought of walking away

hurt worse than the wound on his skin.

Jeongguk turned away, forcing his eyes off the trembling figure before him.

The air between them still felt heavy —

a pulse, a silence that clung to the skin.

He reached for his bag on the couch, hands searching inside until his fingers brushed against a small tube.

He took it out and turned back, the faint sound of the cap clicking in his grip.

Without a word, he stepped closer and took Taehyung’s hand —

the touch brief, careful, almost hesitant.

He placed the ointment in his palm.

“Apply this… on your neck,” he said quietly,

his voice low, rough at the edges.

Taehyung blinked, looking at him —

those soft, questioning eyes searching his face

like they were looking for something more than words.

Jeongguk didn’t hold the gaze.

He turned away, jaw tight, and walked toward the washroom.

The door opened, then closed with a muted thud —

and for a moment, the sound of running water

was the only thing alive in the room.

He leaned over the basin,

hands gripping its cold edge as if to steady himself.

The water hit his skin, sharp and cold,

running down his face in uneven streaks.

The sting on his forehead made him flinch.

He looked up.

The mirror looked back —

a stranger staring at him with his own eyes. 

He wiped his face with a towel,

glaring at his reflection as though it had answers.

But the longer he looked, the less he recognized himself.

The water kept running.

He didn’t notice.

When he finally opened the door and stepped out,

the room was still —

Taehyung sat on the edge of the bed,

the ointment clutched loosely in his hands.

Jeongguk’s eyes moved to his neck —

the faint shine of medicine already there.

Something in him twitched —

an ache he didn’t want to name.

He looked away,

walked toward the door,

and checked the lock from the inside.

The soft click echoed through the quiet,

a sound too final for such a small act.

Jeongguk circled around the bed, each step feeling heavier than the last.

He sank down on the other side, the mattress dipping under his weight.

With a sigh, he pulled off his shoes, his body aching — not just from exhaustion, but from something deeper, something harder to name.

Taehyung hadn’t moved.

He was still sitting there, hands folded in his lap, eyes cast low — a statue carved from quiet.

Jeongguk reached for the switch beside him. The light dimmed, washing the room in a dull amber hue. Shadows stretched softly across the walls.

He lay down, eyes closing.

The silence thickened, pressing between them.

When the quiet became too deep, he spoke — voice low, almost hesitant.

“Sleep. We have to leave early tomorrow. We can’t stay here… not after what happened.”

No answer.

Only silence — and the slow hum of the air in the room.

Then, after a long pause, he heard the faint rustle of movement.

The creak of the mattress.

A blanket shifting.

And then stillness again.

Jeongguk exhaled slowly, eyes still shut.

Sleep didn’t come. His mind refused.

Everything kept spinning — the scene, the noise, the blood, the fear in those eyes.

He should feel nothing.

He wanted to feel nothing.

But his chest wouldn’t stay quiet.

Every breath hurt.

Every thought burned.

He was about to turn onto his side when he heard it — the soft shuffle of the sheets beside him.

He stilled, his breathing shallow.

The bed dipped — this time, close. Too close.

He could feel the presence near his face, the warmth of it in the darkness.

There was no movement for a moment. 

Then, a touch.

A small fingertip brushed against his cheek.

A poke. Hesitant.

Then another — the other side of his face.

As if testing whether he was real.

Jeongguk didn’t open his eyes.

He stayed still, heart loud against his ribs.

The next touch came slower.

The finger traced up to his forehead — over the wound.

The skin there burned faintly, but under that soft touch, the pain dissolved.

It was careful. Too careful.

Like petals tracing over thorns, unaware of the danger waiting beneath.

His chest tightened.

Something deep inside him ached — not from the wound, but from the way that tenderness felt so undeserved.

The hand withdrew.

The weight on the bed shifted.

He heard the quiet rustle of Taehyung lying back down on his side.

The room fell silent again.

Just when he thought it was over —

a touch again.

Fingers brushed his hand under the blanket, searching, trembling —

and then they found his.

A light grip.

A silent plea.

Jeongguk didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

He just lay there, staring into the darkness with his eyes closed, his pulse loud and uneven.

He had faced death without flinching,

but this—

this small, fragile touch—

left him completely undone.

For the first time in his life,

Jeongguk felt miserable and terrified. 

Chapter Text

And now I wish we never met

'Cause you're too hard to forget

Morning light crept through the curtains, brushing against Jeongguk’s face. He squinted, frowning at the sting behind his eyes. His head pounded — the aftertaste of alcohol, the dull throb from last night’s hit. A low hiss left his lips as he sat up, rubbing the side of his forehead.

His eyes drifted to the other side of the bed — empty. The sheets cool. He looked toward the couch and stopped.

Taehyung was there.

Curled up, legs folded beneath him, a notepad in his lap. The pencil moved slowly, carefully, like he was building a secret world on paper. His hair fell into his eyes, soft brown strands catching the morning light.

Jeongguk found himself staring. His frown deepened when he noticed the quiet curve of Taehyung’s lips — a smile, faint but real. Then, out of nowhere, a soft laugh escaped him. Barely there, but it filled the still room.

Jeongguk’s chest tightened. He couldn’t tell why.

“What are you doing?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Taehyung froze. His eyes went wide — caught, like a child hiding stolen candy. The pencil stopped mid-air. Slowly, he looked up at Jeongguk, who now had a clear view of his face.

Taehyung’s fingers curled around the notepad, clutching it to his chest like a secret.

Jeongguk pushed himself up from the bed, his movements unhurried. He took a few steps closer and reached out a hand. His eyes said what his lips didn’t — give it to me.

Taehyung hesitated, then quickly tucked the notepad behind his back. His shoulders tensed.

Jeongguk raised a brow.

“That looks suspicious,” he murmured, voice low.

He leaned closer, not really trying to scare him — but Taehyung reacted like he did. He scrambled to his feet, almost tripping as he stumbled back. When Jeongguk reached out again, Taehyung pushed past him, a flash of panic and laughter mixing in his eyes.

Before Jeongguk could say a word, Taehyung darted across the room, clutching the notepad like his life depended on it.

Jeongguk stood there for a second, lips parting in surprise, before a quiet scoff slipped out — something between disbelief and the faintest trace of a smile.

Jeongguk tilted his head, his brows arching slightly. He turned to look at Taehyung — the boy standing a few feet away, clutching his notepad behind his back like a child caught stealing.

Taehyung’s eyes said don’t come closer.

But Jeongguk’s curiosity was stronger than his sense.

He took a slow step forward. Both of them bare feet moving in sync on cold floor. 

Taehyung, without breaking eye contact, took a step back.

Another step. Then another.

The space between them shrank and stretched in the same breath — quiet and fragile.

“You know you can’t hide it,” Jeongguk said softly, his voice just above a whisper. “So why the struggle?”

Taehyung’s lips pressed into a pout — small, unintentional, and unfairly distracting. His brows knitted together, that gentle frown almost too innocent for the trouble it stirred in Jeongguk’s chest.

It irritated him.

How could something so soft make him feel like he was unraveling?

He took another step forward, his hand twitching like it might reach for the notepad. Taehyung startled — a flash of panic in his eyes — and turned to run. But Jeongguk moved faster.

He caught his arm.

The movement was clumsy, too quick. Taehyung stumbled, his feet tangling. A soft gasp escaped him, quiet and sharp, and Jeongguk reacted before thinking —

his arm wrapped around Taehyung’s waist, pulling him close, spinning them before they both fell backward.

The mattress gave under their weight.

A dull thud. A caught breath. The sound of hearts that forgot their rhythm.

Taehyung’s head landed against Jeongguk’s chest. He stayed like that for a heartbeat — still, dazed — before slowly lifting himself. His palms pressed against Jeongguk’s shirt, and his eyes lifted, meeting the pair already watching him.

Jeongguk’s gaze didn’t waver. The nearness felt dangerous — too close, too real. He could feel Taehyung’s breath against his skin.

Something flickered in his chest, sharp and unwanted.

“Did you curse at me in your notepad?” Jeongguk muttered, his voice low, the faintest edge of mockery trying to hide the sound of his own heart.

Taehyung blinked — startled, maybe confused — and Jeongguk’s glare softened for just a moment, though he didn’t let it show.

Taehyung stared at him for a moment, eyes unreadable, then a small frown formed on his lips.

“Are you terrified I’ll kill you after seeing those words?” Jeongguk asked, his tone quiet but edged with challenge, brows lifting slightly.

Taehyung’s reply came as a shake of his head — small, almost teasing, like he was mocking the idea. He pressed a hand against Jeongguk’s chest, meaning to stand up, but Jeongguk’s hand came down on his shoulder instead. In one swift motion, he pulled him up with him.

Taehyung’s breath caught. His eyes flickered up for a second — just long enough for Jeongguk to notice the faint tremble in his lashes. But Jeongguk said nothing. He turned his face away as Taehyung crouched down to grab the fallen notepad, his movements hurried, almost defensive.

Jeongguk watched him — not intentionally, but he couldn’t help it. His eyes drifted down from the soft mess of Taehyung’s hair to the slope of his neck, to the loose fall of his shirt, and finally to his feet tucked under those oversized pants. Something about it — the quietness of him, the smallness — pressed against Jeongguk’s chest.

He looked away at once. The air felt too close.

He walked to his bag, placed the charger inside, fingers moving faster than needed. A distraction. Anything.

Zippers, fabric, the sound of his own breath.

When he turned toward the door, he hesitated — just a small turn of his head, a glance over his shoulder.

“Freshen up. We have to leave in half an hour,” Jeongguk said quietly. “I’ll come back after clearing at the counter.”

He opened the door, but his steps paused.

Something in him hesitated — an instinct that made no sense.

He turned around, and Taehyung flinched slightly at the sudden movement.

Jeongguk’s hand reached into his bag. His fingers brushed against a single folded shirt — the only clean one left. For a second, he just stared at it, wondering why he was doing this at all.

Then, without a word, he pulled it out and tossed it toward Taehyung.

The shirt landed softly against Taehyung’s chest. He caught it, blinking up at Jeongguk in quiet surprise.

Jeongguk didn’t explain.

He only looked at him once — brief, unreadable — and then turned away, walking out and shutting the door behind him.

For a few seconds, Taehyung stood still, staring at the closed door. The silence stretched in the small room.

Then his eyes fell back to the shirt in his hands.

A small smile tugged at his lips — the kind that comes before you realize you’re smiling at all. He bit the inside of his lip, holding the shirt gently, almost carefully, like it meant something he couldn’t name.

He tucked his notepad beneath the pillow, a habit more than thought, and walked toward the washroom.

The sound of his soft laugh filled the air — quiet, light — as if he’d just been given a secret.

He held the shirt close to him like it was a prize.

Later, when Jeongguk returned, the room was empty.

He set a small shopping bag on the side table and looked around once, his eyes landing on the closed washroom door. The faint sound of running water came from inside.

He sank down onto the couch, pressing his fingers against his temples. His head throbbed — maybe from lack of sleep, maybe from thoughts he didn’t want to name.

He leaned back, closing his eyes.

The room was quiet again, except for the sound of water and his slow breathing.

Then the sound changed — a door opening, the soft click of it closing again. Bare footsteps brushed against the floor.

Jeongguk stayed still, eyes closed.

He didn’t move, but his heartbeat did.

“Your breakfast is there,” Jeongguk said quietly, still not opening his eyes. “Eat so we can leave.”

He heard the soft rustle of the shopping bag. Something light — the sound of a wrapper, maybe a sigh. Then, his phone buzzed against the couch.

With a small groan, he reached for it, blinking his eyes open. The screen glowed with a message — a reminder from his partner. Something about schedules, check-ins, responsibilities. Things that felt far away in this quiet room.

He clutched the phone in his hand and exhaled slowly. “You have five minutes,” he said, his tone low and distracted. He lifted his head—

And froze.

His words fell apart halfway through his throat.

His eyes forgot to blink.

Taehyung stood a few feet away, holding a burger in both hands. His hair was still damp, small drops tracing down his temple. The shirt — his shirt — hung loose on him, brushing just above his knees. The fabric swallowed his frame, the sleeves nearly covering his fingers.

Bare legs peeked out from beneath the hem, skin still marked by faint morning chill. His lashes, damp and clumped together, lifted as he looked at Jeongguk — innocent, unguarded.

Jeongguk’s chest tightened. He forgot how to breathe for a second.

Then, realization hit him like a slap.

He tore his eyes away, turning his head sharply.

“What the— What are you wearing?” His voice came out louder than he meant. Too sharp for the stillness between them.

Taehyung blinked, startled. He didn’t answer, just stood there, frozen with wide eyes and the half-eaten burger in his hand.

Jeongguk looked back at him, irritation creeping into the space where his breath had caught. 

Jeongguk let out a long sigh, rubbing his temple.

“Are you dumb?” he muttered, standing up.

He walked closer, slow steps across the floor, but stopped halfway — keeping a space between them. The kind of distance he needed to breathe.

Taehyung frowned, his lips pressing into a pout. He put the burger down and grabbed his notepad again, scribbling quickly. When he turned it around, his face held that quiet defiance Jeongguk had come to know.

 You are dumb. You just gave me a shirt. There were no pants.

Jeongguk stared at the words. Then at him.

He groaned and dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head.

“Wear your pants. We’re getting late,” Jeongguk said, sinking back onto the couch. His voice was calm, but distant.

He picked up his phone, scrolling aimlessly, pretending to focus.

Taehyung didn’t reply — just turned and walked towards the washroom. The sound of his soft footsteps faded, replaced by the quiet hum of running water. Jeongguk’s eyes stayed fixed on his screen, though he hadn’t read a single word.

When Taehyung came back, he was dressed properly again — the oversized shirt still hanging loosely over his frame. He picked up his burger from the table and sat down beside him.

Jeongguk didn’t look up.

But he could feel him there — the faint sound of him chewing, the soft rustle of the wrapper, the quiet hum in his throat that came whenever he was content.

Then there was a light tap on his thigh.

Jeongguk blinked and looked up.

Taehyung was smiling — a small, shy curve of lips — holding the half-eaten burger towards him like an offering.

For a moment, Jeongguk just stared.

At the burger.

Then at him.

Those same wide eyes met his — bright, gentle, and a little too close.

And Jeongguk felt his chest tighten.

“I’m not hungry,” he said finally, his voice a little lower than before.

He looked back at his phone, though the screen had gone dark.

The silence stretched between them again — not heavy, but not light either.

He could still hear the soft sound of Taehyung chewing beside him, the faint brush of his sleeve against his own arm, and the warmth that shouldn’t have been there but was.

Jeongguk didn’t understand it — how someone could make the quiet feel this loud.

How this boy, who barely said a word, could make him question everything he’d built his walls for.

Jeongguk rose from the couch, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Taehyung was already done, sitting quietly. 

Jeongguk pulled his own mask on, the fabric stretching over his jaw. Then, without saying much, he held the other one out.

Taehyung took it carefully, his eyes flickering up once before he slipped it over his face.

They stepped out into the soft morning light. The sky was pale and cold. Jeongguk unlocked the bike and swung his leg over, settling in.

He turned his head slightly, tilting it as a silent signal.

Taehyung moved closer, climbing on behind him. The seat dipped with his weight.

Jeongguk reached back, removed his bag, and hooked it in front of him. He started the engine — the sound breaking the quiet — and the bike trembled to life beneath them.

Then he felt it.

Those hands.

Light at first, hesitant, then firmer around his waist.

He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

His throat felt tight for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold air brushing past them.

The bike rolled onto the empty road, the morning wind biting against his cheeks. But there was warmth behind him — a warmth that crawled through his jacket, resting against his ribs like something alive.

He didn’t know where he was going.

He just kept driving.

The world blurred at the edges, and all he could feel were those hands — steady, trusting, and far too close.

A part of him wanted the road to never end. Wanted the miles to stretch forever so he wouldn’t have to let go.

But he knew better.

He knew what this was.

And what it wasn’t supposed to become.

His jaw tightened; his grip on the handles turned white. The wind roared louder, but it couldn’t drown the voice echoing in his head — cold, familiar, merciless.

Our client is our target. You know what to do. End this—immediately—so we can move on.

The words hit him harder than the wind ever could.

“There’s no one around this area,” Jeongguk said into the phone, his voice low.

The bike was parked at the side of a narrow dirt track, its engine quiet now. Around them stretched wide fields — tall grass bending under the weight of the wind. There were no people, no sound of cars, not even birds. Just space and silence.

“Of course,” came his partner’s voice through the line. “You haven’t reached the city yet.”

“There’s no one around this area,” Jeongguk said into the phone, his voice low.

The bike was parked at the side of a narrow dirt track, its engine quiet now. Around them stretched wide fields — tall grass bending under the weight of the wind, the horizon blurring in a faint morning haze. There were no people, no sound of cars, not even birds. Just space and silence.

“Of course,” came his partner’s voice through the line. “You haven’t reached the city yet.”

Jeongguk exhaled, pressing two fingers against his temple. His head still ached faintly. When he glanced sideways, he saw Taehyung crouched near the bike, one hand rubbing his leg softly, the other steadying himself against the ground.

“I’ll look for a place to stay for a bit,” Jeongguk muttered. “The bike’s acting up. I need to rest it… and myself.”

“I doubt you’ll find anything nearby,” his partner said, a trace of impatience slipping through. “And you shouldn’t be wasting time. We don’t have breaks for this.”

Jeongguk’s jaw tightened. He stared at the endless stretch of field — a flat sea of green and gold. The air was too still, too open. He didn’t answer.

“I’ll call you if I need something,” he said finally, and ended the call.

The silence returned all at once.

He turned, tucking his phone into his pocket. Taehyung was still crouched down, one hand resting on his lower back now, massaging it in slow circles. There was a faint crease between his brows.

Jeongguk looked away, scanning the distance — nothing but dust and sky. His fingers drummed against the handle of the bike, restless.

Then, from far away, came a sound — low, uneven, growing closer.

A loader.

Jeongguk straightened, his senses sharpening. He turned toward the noise, watching as the bulky vehicle approached along the track, its paint faded, the metal body trembling with every bump. Probably a farmer heading back from work.

He looked over his shoulder.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

Taehyung looked at him, hesitated for a moment, then stood and walked closer, his steps slow against the gravel.

Jeongguk shifted subtly, moving in front of him, blocking him from view as the loader drew nearer. His stance protective without meaning to be.

The wind picked up just then — carrying the smell of earth and metal, brushing against their sleeves.

Jeongguk’s eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, but his hand twitched slightly at his side.

Too aware of the presence just behind him.

Jeongguk raised a hand, signaling the loader to stop. The vehicle slowed with a creak, dust rising around its wheels before it came to a halt beside them.

An elderly couple sat in the front — the man at the wheel, his skin tanned and wrinkled from years under the sun, and beside him, a woman with kind eyes and a scarf wrapped around her head.

Jeongguk kept one hand at his back, lightly resting against Taehyung as if to steady him, or maybe to hide him a little. The couple’s gaze lingered on the two of them, curious but calm.

“Can you tell me if there’s any place nearby to stay?” Jeongguk asked, keeping his tone polite. “My bike… it’s having some issues.”

The woman glanced at her husband, who gave her a quiet nod. Then she turned back to Jeongguk, a small, warm smile spreading across her face.

“There’s no inn or motel around here,” she said gently, “but our house is just behind the fields. You can stay there for the night.”

Jeongguk looked at her, then at the man. The back of their loader was stacked with vegetables, fresh and green, smelling faintly of earth. He hesitated for a moment, his hand still at Taehyung’s back — a silent, protective gesture.

The old man caught his expression and chuckled softly.

“We live alone,” he said, his voice steady and kind. “Don’t worry, son.”

Jeongguk’s lips parted as if to say something, but before he could, the woman spoke again, her voice carrying through the soft wind.

“Hurry up. The sun will set soon,” she said, glancing at the horizon where light was already dimming into gold. “This area isn’t safe when it gets dark.”

For a moment, Jeongguk looked at the fading light, then at the couple — their faces kind, unguarded. His shoulders eased a little, though his hand remained behind him, steadying the boy who still hadn’t said a word.

Jeongguk turned slightly, glancing at Taehyung. The boy looked up at him, eyes wide, blinking as if waiting for a signal.

“He can ride on the loader,” the woman offered kindly.

“No,” Jeongguk said at once, his voice calm but firm. “You just show us the way. He’ll be on the bike with me.”

The woman nodded quickly. “Alright, alright,” she said with a small laugh.

Jeongguk took Taehyung’s hand and led him back toward the bike. His touch was brief but steady, guiding more than holding. They climbed on — Jeongguk first, then Taehyung, who settled behind him quietly.

The couple drove ahead in their old loader, and Jeongguk followed, the sound of the bike low against the soft hum of evening wind.

After a short ride, the loader turned off the track and stopped near a small wooden house at the edge of the fields. It looked worn but cared for — a single light flickering faintly inside.

Jeongguk parked his bike near the entrance. The couple stepped down, busy unloading the vegetables.

“Come in,” the woman said warmly, carrying a basket in her arms. Her husband followed her toward the door.

Taehyung took a small step forward, ready to follow, but Jeongguk’s hand shot out, catching his arm.

Taehyung turned to him, eyes questioning.

“I can’t trust anybody,” Jeongguk said quietly, his voice low enough that only Taehyung could hear. “Don’t do anything on your own. Understand?”

Taehyung nodded, a faint smile forming — soft, almost playful.

Jeongguk frowned lightly. “And don’t just follow people because they seem kind,” he added. “People can be… scary.”

Taehyung lifted his hands and signed that he knew. His movements were gentle, calm.

Jeongguk looked at him for a long moment — that quiet face, those patient eyes. Then he let out a breath, not sure if it was from worry or something else, and took his arm again.

“Come on,” he said softly, and led him inside.

The old man was outside, rinsing vegetables in a bucket. His hands moved slow, steady, like someone who had done this all his life.

The woman noticed them and smiled.

“Come in,” she said, waving them closer.

They followed her inside. The house was small — wooden floor, a few chairs, a faint smell of dried herbs and soil. It felt quiet, almost too quiet.

She opened a small door on the side.

“You both can stay here,” she said. “It’s clean.”

Jeongguk nodded. His eyes followed Taehyung, who stepped into the room first, looking around with that soft, curious gaze of his.

Jeongguk was about to go in too when the woman spoke again.

“You should rest a bit. I’ll prepare dinner for you.”

He started to refuse, but she had already turned away.

Inside, the room was simple — thin blankets folded on one side, two small pillows, and a few wooden things that looked handmade. Jeongguk placed the bag down near the wall, then walked to the window. The air coming in was cool. He looked outside for a moment, scanning the empty fields. Nothing suspicious. Just silence.

When he turned back, Taehyung was sitting cross-legged on the floor, pulling out his small notepad from jeongukk's bag. He opened it and started scribbling something, lost in his own little world again. His hair fell in front of his eyes. He brushed it away with the back of his hand, focused and calm.

Jeongguk watched him longer than he meant to.

“I’ll check the bike,” he said finally. His voice came out quieter than he expected. “Stay here. Don’t leave the room.”

Taehyung looked up and smiled, giving him a thumbs-up.

Jeongguk turned quickly, as if that smile had caught him off guard, and left the room.

Outside, he found the old man still by the bucket. Jeongguk asked for some tools, then knelt by the bike. The metal was cold against his fingers. He worked quietly, the sound of the spanner turning echoing softly in the empty air.

It took him almost half an hour to fix it. When he finally kicked the engine, it started without a sound of protest. He exhaled slowly, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

For a moment, he just stood there, the fields stretching out around him — quiet, endless — and thought about the boy waiting inside, scribbling on a notepad as if the world outside didn’t exist.

“Are you done, kid?” the old man called from inside.

“Sora is calling you in. Dinner’s ready.”

Jeongguk washed his hands at the pump outside. The water was cold against his skin. He wiped them roughly on his jeans and walked back toward the small room to get Taehyung.

He pushed the door open — and frowned. The room was empty.

His jaw tightened.

He turned sharply, walking toward the other side of the house. Then he heard soft laughter — the woman’s voice.

When he reached the doorway, he saw Taehyung sitting on the floor near her, showing something with his fingers. The woman was laughing at whatever he was trying to say.

“I told you to stay—” Jeongguk’s voice rose, but he stopped when they all looked at him.

Taehyung froze. His hands dropped to his lap, eyes wide, staring up at him like a child caught doing something wrong.

“Calm down, kid,” the old man said, chuckling. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Jeongguk blinked, his jaw still tight. His heart was thudding for no reason he wanted to admit.

“Sit down. Dinner’s ready,” the woman said kindly.

Jeongguk sat on the floor near the low table. Without thinking much, he reached for Taehyung’s wrist.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

Taehyung startled, then nodded and moved beside him. Their shoulders brushed for a second before Jeongguk shifted slightly away.

The woman chuckled under her breath. She served them food — warm rice, vegetables, something that smelled faintly of herbs. The old man started eating first, and they followed.

For a while, no one spoke. The sound of spoons and soft chewing filled the room.

Jeongguk ate slowly, his hand brushing Taehyung’s once by accident. He pulled it back, pretending it didn’t happen.

“He told me you both ran from your house to marry each other. ” the woman said suddenly.

Jeongguk looked up from his food so fast the spoon almost slipped from his hand. He choked, coughing once, eyes wide.

The woman blinked at him, surprised. “Oh—don’t be so shocked,” she said gently. “We’re not old-fashioned. If you love each other, it’s okay.”

Jeongguk froze. His heartbeat quickened, thudding in his chest. He glanced sideways.

Taehyung sat stiff beside him, head low, fingers twisting lightly in his lap. He didn’t look up.

Jeongguk stared at him for a moment, searching his face — the stillness, the silence, the faint pink spreading on his cheeks.

Then he turned back toward the woman.

“It’s not—” he started, but stopped when he saw Taehyung move his hands in quick gestures. The woman nodded in response, smiling softly.

Jeongguk just sat there, watching them, lost.

The old man chuckled. “She knows sign language,” he said.

That wasn’t the problem. The problem was why Taehyung had said those words — or let her think that.

Dinner ended quietly after that. The woman went to the kitchen, and Taehyung followed her, helping with the dishes.

Jeongguk stayed silent. His chest felt tight for no reason he could name.

He stepped outside into the cool air. The fields were quiet, the sky fading into night.

He sat on the wooden bench, pulling out a crumpled cigarette from his pocket. Only one left. He turned it between his fingers, then patted his pockets again. No lighter.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, the sound of Taehyung’s faint laughter drifting from inside.

Jeongguk sat there, staring at the dark stretch of sky above. The air smelled faintly of earth and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird called.

Then he heard it — the soft pattern of footsteps behind him.

He didn’t have to look to know.

He knew that sound too well. Too familiar, too precise.

It was ridiculous how even the smallest thing about him had carved its place in Jeongguk’s mind.

Even when he hated it.

Taehyung came to sit beside him, quiet, leaving just enough space between them. He tilted his head up, eyes tracing the stars.

Jeongguk turned slightly, and for a second, forgot how to breathe.

The moonlight fell across Taehyung’s face — soft against his skin, catching on his lashes, his lips. It was almost cruel, how something could look that calm.

Jeongguk’s jaw tensed. He looked away quickly, his fingers curling into fists against his thighs.

He took a slow breath, forcing his voice out steady.

“Why did you say that… to her?” he asked, eyes fixed on the empty field ahead.

Taehyung lowered his gaze, fiddling with the pen in his hand, tracing circles on the ground. He didn’t answer.

Jeongguk looked at him again. The boy’s lashes trembled slightly, and then his eyes lifted — just for a second — before falling again.

Jeongguk sighed, leaning back on his palms. The sky stretched endless above them.

“At least they trusted us,” he muttered. “This time you didn’t mess things up for me.”

His tone was calm, but something softer hid behind it — something he didn’t want to name.

Taehyung blinked at him, a small smile tugging at his lips. Without a word, he climbed up onto the wooden bench, folding his legs beneath him. The wood creaked softly under his weight. He rested his notepad on his lap, looking at Jeongguk with eyes that seemed too calm for this quiet night.

Jeongguk frowned, meeting that gaze.

“What?” he muttered, trying to sound annoyed.

Taehyung quickly scribbled something, his pen moving in small, hurried strokes. He turned the notepad around.

Can I ask you a question?

Jeongguk stared at the words, then at him.

“No.” His voice was flat, clipped.

Taehyung’s shoulders fell slightly, but the pout on his face didn’t fade. He scribbled again, his brows furrowed in focus. Then, gently, he reached out and tugged at Jeongguk’s sleeve — making him turn.

Jeongguk exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping to the notepad again.

It’s just one question. 

He looked up, glaring, though not as hard as before.

Taehyung smiled at that — the kind of smile that makes people forget how to stay angry — and quickly wrote something more. He held the notepad up again.

Can you tell me your name?

Jeongguk froze. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck drawing tense. He looked at the neat words on the page, then at the boy sitting there waiting, eyes wide and quiet in the pale light.

“Why?” he asked finally, voice low. “You planning to report me when we get back?”

The words came out sharper than he meant. But his heart wasn’t steady anymore — it hadn’t been since that smile.

Taehyung frowned at him, a soft crease forming between his brows. He shook his head slowly, the movement almost childlike.

Jeongguk let out a small, tired laugh that didn’t sound like one.

“How can I trust you?” he said, voice rougher than he intended. “I don’t fucking know you at all.”

He exhaled sharply, looking away toward the dark horizon. “I don’t tell my name to anyone.”

For a moment, Taehyung just blinked at him. There was something fragile in his gaze — like the faint glimmer of hurt that appeared and disappeared before it could be seen. He lowered his eyes, scribbling something quickly.

When he turned the notepad around again, he was smiling — a small, shy curve that didn’t reach his eyes.

Jeongguk frowned, his gaze dropping to the words.

And for some reason, his breath caught.

I will call you Hyung then.

The air seemed to still around them. The night hummed quietly, the only sound the soft rustle of the notepad pages in Taehyung’s trembling hands.

Jeongguk looked up at him, his chest tightening without warning.

The title hit him deeper than he expected — not as respect, not as teasing, but as something gentler… something that made the wall he’d built feel thinner.

“You’re forgetting,” Jeongguk said quietly, his tone harder than before, as if he needed to remind himself too. “I kidnapped you, Kim Taehyung.”

His jaw clenched. “I’m a killer.”

Taehyung’s eyes softened. He didn’t look afraid — not even a little. He pouted slightly, then scribbled again. His handwriting trembled just a bit this time.

He held the notepad up.

But you kept me safe.

Jeongguk’s throat went dry.

He wanted to look away, to say something cruel, to put the distance back between them — but he couldn’t. Not when Taehyung was sitting there, smiling so softly, like danger didn’t exist.

And for the first time in a long while, Jeongguk didn’t know who was really saving whom.

Jeongguk’s jaw tensed. The silence between them was thick, almost heavy enough to touch.

“Because my client demanded your safety,” he said finally, his tone low, almost flat. “I got money to keep you safe. I work for money, that’s all.”

Taehyung looked at him for a long moment — the kind of look that made Jeongguk feel seen in ways he didn’t want to be.

Then, without a word, Taehyung lowered his eyes and started writing. His fingers moved carefully, each stroke of pen deliberate, fragile.

When he turned the notepad around, Jeongguk’s eyes hesitated before looking. He didn’t want to. He already knew it would chip at something inside him that he’d buried too deep.

You will keep me safe without money too.

His breath faltered. The words stared back at him — soft, simple, terrifying.

Jeongguk’s eyes darkened. He glared at the notepad, at Taehyung’s quiet certainty, at everything he couldn’t afford to feel.

“Why would I?” he said sharply. His voice came out harsher than he intended. “You’re nothing to me.”

The smile that had been playing faintly on Taehyung’s lips disappeared. His fingers tightened around the notepad, knuckles whitening. The laughter that once filled the space between them was gone — only silence remained.

Jeongguk exhaled through his nose, his eyes turning away.

“Don’t trust someone like that,” he muttered, standing up from the bench. “It’ll hurt you in the end.”

Taehyung watched him for a moment. Then, slowly, he stood on the wooden bench, the night air brushing through his hair. He scribbled a word on the notepad, his face glowing faintly under the moonlight.

He turned it toward Jeongguk with a proud, small smile.

You will.

Jeongguk froze, staring at the word — two tiny syllables that weighed more than they should.

Taehyung jumped down from the wooden bench and walked inside, his steps soft against the old floorboards.

Jeongguk stayed where he was, his eyes following the retreating figure until the door closed behind him. His jaw tightened. Something heavy pressed in his chest — something he didn’t want to name.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket, breaking the stillness.

He pulled it out and looked at the screen. His partner.

He answered.

“Are you safe?” the voice asked.

Jeongguk only hummed in reply.

“Kim is holding a conference in Busan tomorrow,” the voice continued, clipped and businesslike. “You have to bring him there.”

Jeongguk’s grip on the phone hardened. “Are you sure?”

“Hundred percent,” the voice said. “I’ll guide you through.”

Jeongguk didn’t answer. The silence stretched long.

“JK,” his partner said sharply, “don’t do anything stupid. I’m warning you.”

“I’m not—” Jeongguk started, but the voice cut through him.

“You will not,” his partner repeated, the tone leaving no space to argue. “You know better than me — we don’t belong in these things. It’s just a job. Just a moment.”

Jeongguk’s jaw tensed. “I know how to keep my mission clean,” he said, voice low and rough.

“Good,” the voice replied. “Then rest.”

The line went dead.

Jeongguk stood there for a while, the phone still in his hand, the echo of that voice fading into the wind. His chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

He finally moved, his steps heavy as he walked back toward the small cabin. The air inside was still, carrying the faint scent of wood and damp air. He stopped at the doorway, hand resting on the frame, and pushed the door open quietly.

The light was dim. Only the pale moon spilled through the window.

Taehyung was lying on the floor, wrapped in a thin blanket, one arm tucked beneath his head. His face was turned toward the faint glow, soft and calm — too calm for someone who’d been kidnapped.

Jeongguk sat down on the ground across from him, his back against the wall. For a while, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed fixed on the sleeping figure — on the soft curve of his cheek, the small furrow between his brows, the quiet rhythm of his breath.

The moonlight made his skin glow like glass.

Jeongguk ran a hand through his hair and let out a slow, quiet breath. His thoughts tangled — sharp and messy.

He didn’t understand his own mind anymore.

Didn’t understand why his eyes refused to look away — why his chest felt heavy watching a boy he was supposed to hand over like a package.

Yet he stayed.

Long after the night turned still, long after reason slipped away.

He stayed — because leaving suddenly felt harder than it should.

it's 3 a.m, and the moonlight's testin' me

If I can make it till dawn,

then it would not be hard to see

That I ain't happy

Chapter Text

 Started giving up on the word "forever"

Until you gаve up heaven, so we could be together

Taehyung opened his eyes slowly. The room was quiet, touched by the pale morning light slipping through the small window. He blinked a few times, sitting up, his hair messy and his blanket half tangled around him.

The space beside him was empty.

He frowned softly. The air still carried Jeongguk’s warmth, but he wasn’t there anymore.

He stood up, rubbing his eyes. When he opened the window, the morning sun spilled in, warm and gentle. Outside, the world looked still — only the sound of distant birds, a soft breeze swaying the old wooden fence.

And then he saw him.

Jeongguk sat on the same wooden bench from last night, his broad back turned, shoulders slightly hunched as if he was deep in thought. His hands were doing something he couldn’t see — maybe fixing something, maybe just keeping himself busy.

Curiosity bloomed quietly inside Taehyung.

He tiptoed out of the room, careful not to make a sound. The house was empty; the old couple must’ve gone out early for work. The floor creaked under his bare feet as he walked, light and slow, like a small animal sneaking closer.

He was just behind him now, leaning in a little to peek.

“Why are you barefoot?”

Jeongguk’s voice came low, quiet but sharp enough to freeze him in place.

Taehyung looked down at his feet instantly. His heartbeat stumbled.

Jeongguk turned slightly, tucking something into his pocket before standing up. His eyes found Taehyung — steady, unreadable — and for a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Jeongguk walked to the side, picked up a pair of old slippers, and came back. He placed them quietly near Taehyung’s feet.

“Wear these.”

Taehyung’s throat went dry. He nodded, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the oversized shirt he was wearing — Jeongguk’s shirt.

When he finally looked up, Jeongguk was already watching him. His gaze, calm but too deep, too close, made something flutter uneasily inside Taehyung’s chest.

He bit his lip, slipped his feet into the slippers. 

Jeongguk looked away first.

“You want to eat breakfast here,” he asked quietly, “or on the way?”

Taehyung fidgeted with his fingers, quiet and small.

“They went to work,” Jeongguk said, voice low. “We’re here alone for now.”

Taehyung looked up at him — just blinking, calm eyes watching.

Jeongguk met his gaze for a second before looking away, his throat tightening for no reason he wanted to name.

“Go freshen up,” he said, turning toward the kitchen before those eyes made him forget what he was supposed to do.

He heard Taehyung move behind him, heard the faint sound of his steps toward the washroom. When Jeongguk glanced back once, Taehyung smiled — soft, simple — before disappearing around the corner.

Jeongguk exhaled. He ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath, “Get a grip.”

He reached for the knife and vegetables, letting the simple act fill the silence. Chop. Chop. The sound was steady, almost peaceful. He let the rhythm drown out the thoughts crawling into his head.

He put the pot on the stove and added the vegetables. Steam started to rise. He stared at it, eyes fixed but unfocused.

What was he doing?

Why did his chest tighten every time Taehyung smiled?

Since when did something so ordinary start feeling like danger?

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

His life never had space for softness — not for someone like him.

He pressed his lips together, trying to quiet the thoughts. He would just keep moving, keep pretending none of it mattered.

But then, a sharp pull — his arm jerked back.

He blinked, confused, until he saw Taehyung in front of him, panic all over his face. Taehyung quickly turned off the stove, his movements rushed.

Jeongguk followed his gaze down — his own hand, red, stinging, wet with spilled soup. He hadn’t even felt it.

For a moment, silence. Only the sound of Taehyung’s shaky breath.

Jeongguk looked at him — the worry written so clearly, the trembling fingers holding his wrist. Something in his chest twisted, painfully soft.

He wanted to say it didn’t hurt. That he was fine. That he didn’t need this kind of care.

But the words stayed locked in his throat.

Because maybe, for the first time in years, it did hurt — not the burn, but what it meant.

Taehyung grabbed his wrist, pulling him toward the sink. His movements were quick, nervous — he turned on the tap and pushed Jeongguk’s hand under the cold stream of water.

Jeongguk stared at him. The worry on Taehyung’s face — so open, so real — made something twist inside his chest. Why did he look like that? Why did his eyes hold pain, as if the burn were his own?

It irritated him.

It scared him.

Why was this boy making him feel so much?

Why did the ache in his hand mean nothing compared to the one he felt just looking at him?

He pulled his hand away suddenly, the movement sharp. Taehyung flinched, startled. He looked up at Jeongguk, eyes wide, soft, too pure — and Jeongguk’s breath caught.

Always the same. That face, that quiet gaze. Every time it hit him like a wave he didn’t see coming.

He turned away quickly, pretending to fix the mess at the stove. His chest felt too tight.

He filled two bowls with soup, moving in silence. Then he sat down on the wooden floor and started eating without looking up.

But he could feel it — Taehyung’s eyes still on him, warm and stubborn.

Jeongguk glanced up. “Why are you standing there?” he muttered.

Taehyung hesitated, then walked over slowly and sat down across from him.

Jeongguk lifted his bowl again, eating quietly, trying to ignore the way Taehyung’s gaze kept drifting to his hand. He could almost feel the weight of it — soft, heavy, burning.

He finally looked up. Taehyung met his eyes, caught.

Jeongguk narrowed his gaze. “You’re cursing at me with your eyes, you know that?”

Taehyung didn’t even hesitate — he nodded, bold and honest.

Jeongguk’s lips twitched, a breath of disbelief leaving him. “Unbelievable,” he murmured, but there was no anger in his voice. Only something that sounded too close to fondness.

Taehyung stood up quietly and walked out of the room.

Jeongguk sighed, “Where are you going?” he called, voice low but tired.

Taehyung turned halfway, glaring at him. Jeongguk raised his brows but stayed silent, watching as Taehyung disappeared through the door.

He was about to take another spoonful when he heard the faint sound of footsteps again. Taehyung came back, holding something in his hands.

Jeongguk frowned. “What now—” He stopped when he saw the glint of metal.

A knife.

“Woah, woah—hey—” he started, almost standing up.

But Taehyung didn’t even look at him. He crouched down, cutting something green on a small plate — an aloe vera leaf, freshly picked. Then he came closer, sitting beside Jeongguk like nothing happened.

Jeongguk stared at him, a little lost.

Taehyung lifted his gaze, calm and steady, and reached his hand out. Asking silently.

Jeongguk’s throat went dry. For a moment he didn’t move. But something in those eyes—quiet, patient—made him give in. He placed his burned hand in Taehyung’s palm.

Taehyung didn’t even blink. He tore the leaf open and started spreading the cool gel across the back of Jeongguk’s hand. His touch was gentle, careful—like he was afraid of hurting him.

Jeongguk couldn’t look away.

The warmth of that hand. The soft brush of his fingers. It was too much.

His chest felt heavy, and his pulse wouldn’t slow down.

Taehyung looked up once he was done—and the world just… stopped.

Their eyes locked.

Neither moved.

Jeongguk’s breath stilled in his chest.

He could see every little thing—the faint line of Taehyung’s jaw, the soft curve of his cheek, the slight parting of his lips. His thoughts went silent, replaced by the sound of his heartbeat.

Before he knew it, he was leaning in.

Closer. Too close.

His mind screamed at him to stop, but his body didn’t listen.

And then—

“Did they leave?”

The woman’s voice came from outside, breaking the air between them.

Jeongguk flinched, pulling back so fast it hurt. His jaw tensed, his heart still wild in his chest. Taehyung blinked, eyes wide, the faintest color rising to his cheeks.

“Oh, you’re here,” the woman said, walking inside with a small smile.

Jeongguk looked at her, his thoughts still scattered. His pulse hadn’t settled yet. He didn’t dare turn toward Taehyung. He couldn’t see his face right now — not when his own chest felt like a storm.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said, his voice lower than usual. “Eat and come.”

He grabbed his bag, avoiding her eyes, and walked toward the small room.

The woman frowned slightly, watching him disappear. A few moments later, Jeongguk came back out with his bag slung over his shoulder. He muttered a polite thank you, then walked out the door without looking back.

She turned to Taehyung, who was still sitting on the floor, his hands resting on his knees, face quiet but flushed.

“What happened?” she asked, tilting her head. “Why’s your pretty boy acting so strange?”

Taehyung looked up, startled. His lips parted, but no words came.

The woman stepped closer, noticing the faint pink on his cheeks.

“Why are you so red, huh?” she said, concern mixing with curiosity. “Are you sick?”

Taehyung shook his head quickly, waving his hands.

She pressed her palm gently to his forehead. “You feel warm,” she murmured. “Maybe too much sun?”

Taehyung only smiled weakly and looked away — down at the spot beside him where Jeongguk had been sitting.

Jeongguk stepped out of the house, the cool air hitting his face. He almost kicked his bike out of frustration but stopped himself halfway. His hands tangled in his hair as he let out a low groan.

What was he thinking?

What was he even going to do?

He bent his head, breathing hard. His chest burned with something he couldn’t name — anger, guilt, confusion — all tangled together.

This was stupid. All of it.

He wasn’t supposed to lose control like that.

“What’s wrong with you?” he whispered under his breath, gripping his hair tighter. “Are you out of your mind?”

He shut his eyes, forcing himself to calm down. But the memory wouldn’t leave — the way Taehyung had looked at him, the closeness, the silence between them that had felt too loud.

He opened his eyes again when he heard voices.

Taehyung was walking out with the woman, listening quietly as she spoke.

Jeongguk’s eyes went to him — just for a second.

He tried to read his face, to see if there was anything there, any trace of what had almost happened.

But then the woman pulled Taehyung into a hug, patting his back softly.

Something twisted inside Jeongguk’s chest.

He hated it.

Hated how it made him feel.

Hated that he cared.

The woman looked at Jeongguk next.

“Don’t make him cry ever,” she said, smiling faintly. “You won’t find a sweet boy like him again.”

Jeongguk stared at the woman for a moment, then his eyes shifted to Taehyung — who was already looking at him.

Their gazes met just long enough for something to stir inside him, and then Jeongguk quickly looked away.

He turned back to the woman.

“Thanks… for letting us stay,” he said quietly.

She smiled, warmth in her eyes.

“Don’t worry about it. Just go safely,” she said, her tone light. “And meet us again if you ever have time for old people.”

Jeongguk gave a small nod — almost a bow — before walking toward the bike.

He climbed on, the movement stiff, careful.

Behind him, Taehyung waved at the woman with a soft smile before taking the seat.

Jeongguk’s heart started to beat faster.

He could feel the air change the moment Taehyung’s arms wrapped around his waist — not tight, but enough to make him weak. His fingers tightened around the handles. He could feel the faint press of Taehyung’s chest against his back, the steady rhythm of his breathing.

The engine came alive with a low rumble.

The sound filled the silence between them.

The wind met them as they moved — cold and wild, brushing against their faces, tugging at their clothes.

Jeongguk didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

The road stretched long before them, the sound of the bike echoing through the quiet fields.

Every turn of the wheel felt heavier than it should, as if the road itself wanted to keep them there, in that moment — between what almost happened and what could never be.

The airpod in Jeongguk’s ear caught the light for a second, a small glint against the grey surroundings. 

The bike kept rolling, steady and fast, carrying them forward through the cold wind — into the waiting road, and whatever came next.

The airpod in Jeongguk’s ear buzzed softly.

“Take the car from the location I mentioned. Don’t go by bike.”

The voice faded, but it lingered in his head, echoing through the silence between them.

He slowed the bike near a narrow alley. The engine coughed once before going still. The world around them grew quieter — the hum of wind replaced by the soft clicking of cooling metal.

Taehyung climbed down first, his shoes brushing against the gravel. He looked around, his eyes darting from one shadowed corner to another. His breath came out uneven, small clouds forming in the cold air. There was restlessness in his gaze — like he was searching for something he couldn’t name.

Jeongguk got off the bike, silent. He opened his bag, pulling out a black mask and a cap. He fixed them on his own face with practiced ease, his movements sharp, careful. Then he turned to Taehyung.

Before the younger could even ask, Jeongguk placed the mask gently over his face too.

“Don’t,” he murmured — not letting him speak, not letting him think.

Taehyung blinked, startled by the closeness, by the quiet steadiness in his eyes.

Jeongguk’s fingers brushed against his cheek for the briefest second while fixing the mask’s strap. The touch was accidental — but it burned.

He put the bag back on his shoulder and grabbed Taehyung’s hand. His grip was firm, almost desperate.

“Come.”

They walked deeper into the alley — where the light barely reached, and the air felt heavier. Their footsteps echoed softly, mixing with the faint dripping sound of water somewhere in the dark.

Jeongguk didn’t speak again.

His hold on Taehyung’s hand didn’t loosen either. It was as if letting go would break something fragile inside him — something he wasn’t ready to admit existed.

After a while, they reached a small garage tucked behind rusted gates. Jeongguk stopped beside a car covered in dust. He let go of Taehyung’s hand slowly, the warmth fading too quickly.

From his pocket, he pulled out a small knife — the metal glinting faintly under the dim light.

A soft click followed, and the car door unlocked with ease.

He opened it halfway and turned to Taehyung.

“Sit inside,” he said, his voice quiet but steady — the kind that carried no room for argument, yet still held a faint tremor that betrayed his calm.

Taehyung gulped, not understanding anything. The air felt too heavy to ask.

He sat down slowly, his eyes lifting to Jeongguk — who didn’t look back.

The door clicked shut, soft but final. Jeongguk walked around the car, his steps measured, his face unreadable beneath the cap’s shadow.

“I’m in,” he murmured, tapping his airpod once before settling into the driver’s seat.

The words were calm, but his voice carried something tight beneath it — something pressed down hard, the way people do when they’re trying not to feel.

He placed his bag at his feet, his hands moving automatically. Then the engine came alive, humming low between them. The sound filled the silence that neither of them tried to break.

The car rolled onto the road.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the leather groaning quietly beneath his grip.

Taehyung blinked, watching him.

He wanted to ask where they were going. Wanted to ask why Jeongguk looked so far away even though he was right beside him. But he stayed quiet, only parting his lips, then closing them again.

He leaned forward, pulling the bag onto his lap. His hands trembled slightly as he unzipped it, shuffling through the things inside. Jeongguk's belongings — all of it moving under his shaking fingers.

Jeongguk took a turn without a word. His eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead — expression cold, distant. The cap hid most of his face, but the sharp line of his jaw gave him away. He was clenching it. Hard.

Taehyung finally found his notepad.

He scribbled quickly, small words across the page — the only way he could speak when the air between them was too thick to breathe.

When he finished, he turned slightly, looking at Jeongguk.

But Jeongguk didn’t look back. He just drove.

Focused. Silent. Untouchable.

Taehyung’s hand tightened around the notebook. His eyes stayed on the side of Jeongguk’s face, tracing the lines of a man trying too hard to stay calm — and failing.

The car kept moving until it slowed near a crowded parking lot. Rows of cars stretched under the soft light, shadows bending and folding around them.

Jeongguk stopped the car in the far corner of the parking lot.

The engine went silent, but his hand stayed on the steering wheel — tight, unmoving.

His partner’s voice buzzed in his ear, low and constant, words spilling like static.

He wasn’t listening.

Not really.

He knew Taehyung was looking at him.

He could feel it — that quiet stare burning through the small space between them.

He didn’t have to look to know the boy wanted to speak. Not just one thing… but everything he wasn’t allowed to.

Jeongguk’s jaw tensed.

He shut his eyes for a second, trying to lock himself back into the man he was supposed to be.

Then, without saying anything, he reached for his bag.

The zipper opened with a harsh sound that filled the silence.

His hand brushed the cold metal inside, and he pulled out the gun — smooth, black, familiar. Something that made sense when nothing else did.

He pushed the door open and stepped out.

The air outside was colder than before. It bit at his skin, made him feel alive — or maybe just reminded him he still was.

He rounded the car, opened the passenger door.

Taehyung blinked up at him, startled, and stepped out carefully. His notepad slipped from his hand, falling onto the seat inside with a soft sound neither of them acknowledged.

Jeongguk tucked the gun at the back of his waistband. His hands hung stiffly at his sides.

He stood in front of Taehyung — the air thick between them, filled with all the things he couldn’t let himself feel.

He looked up, meeting Taehyung’s eyes — the only part of him visible behind the mask.

Those eyes always saw too much.

Always tried to read him.

Jeongguk’s chest tightened. He looked away first.

The earpiece crackled again.

“Jk… Room twenty-one. Get there now,” his partner’s voice came, sharp and distant.

“You have thirty minutes before they arrive.”

Jeongguk didn’t answer.

He just stood there for a heartbeat longer — his fists curling at his sides, his mind screaming at him to move.

Jeongguk didn’t say a word.

He just reached out, his hand closing firmly around Taehyung’s wrist, and pulled him along.

The touch was cold — not rough, but final.

It said don’t ask, don’t speak.

They moved through the narrow back lane, where the air smelled of dust and silence.

There was no security there. No cameras. Just the soft echo of their footsteps and the quiet rhythm of their breathing.

Jeongguk’s hold never loosened.

His steps were steady, too steady — the kind of steadiness that comes from someone trying hard not to feel anything.

They reached the building. Instead of the lift, he turned toward the stairs.

The metal door creaked softly behind them as they began to climb.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

Taehyung’s eyes wandered up the stairwell — the clean walls, the faint scent of expensive perfume lingering in the air.

It felt too rich, too polished, too wrong.

He glanced at Jeongguk’s back, wondering what they were doing here.

Why this place?

Wasn’t it dangerous?

But Jeongguk didn’t look back. Didn’t slow down.

When they finally reached the floor, the hallway stretched before them — soft carpet, golden lights, the quiet hum of air conditioning.

Taehyung could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

Jeongguk stopped.

Right in front of a door.

His grip on Taehyung’s wrist tightened — almost unconsciously — and Taehyung winced softly.

He stepped slightly forward, trying to see past him, trying to understand.

Then his eyes landed on the nameplate.

Room 21

Mr. and Mrs. Kim

For a moment, everything in him went still.

His throat dried, his heart stuttered — and then began to race so fast it hurt.

He looked at the name again, his eyes burning.

His chest tightened painfully, the air suddenly too heavy to breathe.

And beside him, Jeongguk still hadn’t let go.

His hand remained firm around Taehyung’s wrist — the warmth of it cruel, steady, almost trembling — as if he was holding on to more than just his mission.

Jeongguk unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The sound of the latch echoed in the still air.

He stepped inside first, pulling Taehyung in after him.

The door closed quietly behind them — soft, but final.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Jeongguk’s back faced him, his hand still wrapped loosely around Taehyung’s wrist.

It wasn’t forceful anymore… just there.

Like he didn’t know how to let go.

Taehyung’s throat tightened. His eyes blurred.

He could barely breathe.

And then — Jeongguk released him.

The air between them shifted, heavy and uncertain.

Jeongguk turned slowly, his gaze finding him in the dim light.

Taehyung looked up, trembling, eyes shining with unshed tears.

He didn’t understand.

Why here?

Why now?

Jeongguk’s hand slipped into his pocket.

Something small glinted between his fingers.

He reached out — not saying a word — and took Taehyung’s hand.

Gently, he turned his palm upward.

Something light dropped into it.

Then Jeongguk’s hand closed around his, firm and careful.

Taehyung blinked, his eyes lowering.

In his palm lay a thin thread necklace — its center holding a single shirt button, worn and familiar.

His breath caught.

His heart ached with something he couldn’t name.

Jeongguk’s fingers lingered on his closed hand.

Then his gaze lifted, meeting Taehyung’s eyes.

Neither of them spoke.

But the silence said everything they were trying so hard to hide.

“My mission has come to an end, dear client,” Jeongguk said quietly.

His voice was steady… too steady.

But underneath it, something cracked.

Taehyung froze.

The words hit him like a blow — soft, but sharp enough to tear through his chest.

His eyes widened, his breath stuttered.

Jeongguk did not wait he turned towards door. 

Taehyung stared at Jeongguk’s back, searching for a lie in his voice, for anything that said this wasn’t true.

Taehyung’s trembling hand reached out, grabbing Jeongguk’s sleeve — hard, desperate, his shaking grip seemed to beg.

But Jeongguk stood still.

The silence stretched, heavy enough to break them both.

Taehyung’s body shook as he tried to pull him around, but Jeongguk resisted — his muscles tight, his jaw locked.

Then the sound came.

Soft, broken sobs that filled the room.

Taehyung’s tears fell fast, blurring everything.

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t form words, only choked sounds of protest leaving his lips —

No… no, it can’t be like this.

He stumbled forward, his hand trembling as he pushed in front of him.

Jeongguk still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Taehyung’s chest heaved. He tore the mask from his face, his breath shuddering.

His fingers found Jeongguk’s hands, clinging tightly, but Jeongguk pulled away — rough, almost like it hurt to touch him.

He turned, reaching for the door.

He grabbed Jeongguk’s hand around the knob, his sobs growing louder, his small hands hitting against Jeongguk’s — desperate, pleading.

Each cry cracked the air like glass shattering.

Jeongguk stood frozen, his back to him, eyes closed.

And for a moment — just a moment — his hand stopped fighting the touch.

Jeongguk’s hand froze on the doorknob.

Something warm touched his skin.

He looked down — his fingers were wet.

Tears.

Taehyung’s tears were falling on his hands, one after another, quiet but heavy.

Jeongguk shut his eyes tightly, his breath catching somewhere in his chest. Then, suddenly, he turned and grabbed Taehyung by the shoulders, pulling him closer.

Taehyung jerked at the touch, startled, his whole body trembling.

“What are you doing?” Jeongguk’s voice came out rough, almost like a yell, but it broke halfway through.

Taehyung shook his head again and again, crying harder now. His small hands tried to push against Jeongguk’s chest, but his strength gave out halfway.

“You cried when I took you,” Jeongguk’s voice trembled, words spilling out too fast, too uneven, “and now you’re crying when I’m returning you?”

He laughed softly — a bitter, broken sound — and looked away.

“What do you want from me?”

Taehyung’s eyes lifted to him.

His cheeks were soaked, his lips shaking, but no sound came out.

Only silence — that same silence that had always surrounded him.

And God… Jeongguk wanted to kill himself for the way it hurt.

The way those eyes spoke louder than words ever could.

The way they begged — stay — without saying anything at all.

“Stop crying,” Jeongguk said, his own voice cracking this time.

He gripped Taehyung’s arms tighter, like he needed to convince himself too.

“You can’t stay with me.”

The room fell quiet again.

Only the sound of Taehyung’s broken breathing filled the space — soft, uneven, and unbearably human.

Taehyung shook his head, hard. His eyes were wide, desperate.

He tried to tell him no — he can. He can stay.

Jeongguk’s earpiece buzzed again.

“Jk… leave the room. Damn it, why are you still there? You have five minutes.”

Jeongguk’s eyes shut tight. His jaw clenched. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, without looking at Taehyung, he grabbed him by the arm — not harshly this time, but with trembling fingers.

He dragged him toward the bed, pushing him down just enough for him to fall back onto the mattress.

The sheets wrinkled under Taehyung’s small weight. His breath hitched.

Taehyung’s eyes widened as Jeongguk turned away.

He scrambled up, his body shaking, his hands reaching — don’t go, don’t go.

But Jeongguk was already at the door. His hand touched the knob.

He was halfway out when his body froze.

Behind him, something small and broken slipped into the air.

“...Hyung,”

It was a voice — hoarse, quiet, fragile — like a sound that had forgotten how to exist.

“Please.”

Jeongguk’s fingers went still on the knob.

The hallway light bled in from the open door, spilling across the floor between them.

And in that thin strip of light, his heart cracked open — silent, helpless, and heard.

His fingers loosened on the knob.

Jeongguk’s heart throbbed painfully in his chest. The sound of it filled his ears, louder than the wind outside, louder than the voice in his earpiece.

His eyes turned blurry. It hurt —  but because he was able to hear him now.

That single word still echoed inside him, breaking something he didn’t know could break.

“Fucking leave the room! They’ll be there in any minute!”

His partner’s voice snapped through the air.

Jeongguk didn’t answer.

He didn’t even breathe.

And then — the door shut.

Taehyung ran toward it, his fingers brushing the wood just as it clicked locked from the outside. The sound echoed in the small room, sharp and final.

He hit the door with his fists, again and again, the thread clenched tightly in his hand.

Tears rolled down his face, falling soundlessly onto the floor.

His knees gave out, and he sank down, his forehead pressing against his clenched hand.

He stayed like that — shaking, breaking, whispering the word that had finally found its way out of him.

He didn’t know how long had passed before the sound came again — the sudden creak of the door opening.

Taehyung froze.

He shut his eyes tight and lifted his trembling hands in front of him, as if to shield himself from whatever waited there.

Jeongguk walked out of the building.

His hands were clenched tight at his sides. Every step felt heavier than the one before. The sound of that voice — hyung, please — still struck somewhere deep inside his chest, again and again, like a dull blade refusing to stop cutting.

He kept his head down as he moved down the stairs, his breath uneven.

The further he went, the more it hurt.

Each step was supposed to make it easier.

It didn’t.

He kept telling himself — it was a mission.

That’s all. Nothing more.

But his heart wouldn’t listen.

By the time he reached the parking lot, the air felt colder.

He stopped beside the car and exhaled shakily.

The silence around him pressed against his ears.

He opened the door and sat inside, the seat creaking softly under him. His head leaned back for a moment, eyes half-closed — tired, confused, breaking.

Then he noticed something near his feet.

A small notebook, its corner bent.

Taehyung’s.

Jeongguk froze. Slowly, he crouched, picking it up with trembling hands. His thumb brushed the paper, and for a second he thought he could still feel Taehyung’s warmth on it.

That’s when he heard voices nearby — faint, careless.

> “Aren’t your uncle a real piece of work?”

A man’s voice, sharp with a laugh.

Jeongguk’s head lifted slightly.

“Watch your mouth,” a woman answered.

“Why? He’s using his own son’s kidnapping to make money. Taking donations, pocketing it all. He doesn’t care if the kid’s alive or dead. Nobody even knows where he is.”

Jeongguk froze completely.

The sound of the words hit him like gunfire — cold, ugly, real.

The woman shut the car door, her tone careless as she fixed her dress.

"Uncle got him to use in the first place. Beside he is helping us get rich too.”

Jeongguk’s jaw tightened.

The voices outside didn’t stop.

“You’re right,” the man said, laughing. “Even our company’s stock price shot up. The public’s full of sympathy for us now.”

Their laughter echoed faintly across the parking lot as they walked away — light, careless, cruel.

Jeongguk sat frozen.

Something deep in his chest twisted.

His fingers tightened around the notepad until the paper almost tore.

It had fallen open, and the words on the page stared back at him —

childlike, soft, written in uneven lines.

Are we going to another fun place?

His vision blurred. He blinked hard, but the words stayed — bright, innocent, mocking him with everything he’d just heard.

A harsh sound escaped him.

He slammed his fist against the dashboard.

Once. Twice. The sound cracked through the air, sharp as glass.

He bent forward, clutching his hair, his breath breaking in his chest.

Why?

Why was it hurting like this?

Why did it feel like his body was bleeding when there wasn’t a single wound?

Why did his heart keep stuttering every time he thought of that boy?

He wasn’t his.

He wasn’t supposed to be.

It was never meant to be this way.

Then why did it feel so wrong to let him go?

Why his pained face not leaving his eyes right now? The mission is completed then why? 

The airpod buzzed softly in his ear.

“Jk… are you back?”

The voice was calm, detached — everything Jeongguk wasn’t.

He didn’t answer.

He just sat there, the notepad pressed against his chest, as if holding it could stop the ache from spreading. 

Why is he not leaving? His work has been done? He has to leave now? He just left him in the room when he was crying then why now softness? 

Jeongguk looked down at the notepad again.

His vision trembled. The words blurred until they weren’t words anymore — just shapes, faint and soft, like the voice that haunted his head.

He swallowed hard, breath shaking.

Then his voice came out, rough and low.

“Can you turn the CCTV off… for twenty more minutes?”

There was silence on the other side of the line.

“Why?” his partner asked, suspicious, distant.

Jeongguk’s jaw clenched.

“Just do it.”

He opened the car door.

He stepped out, leaving the notepad on the seat, open — the small words staring after him like they were alive.

“Jk— no. You will not go inside.”

The voice buzzed in his ear again, sharper this time.

Jeongguk didn’t answer.

He was already running.

His boots hit the ground hard, echoing in the quiet street.

Every step hurt. Every breath burned.

His heart was pounding too loud to hear anything else.

Why did I leave him there?

The thought tore through him like a knife.

Why did I walk away when he called me?

He climbed the stairs two at a time. His chest was tight, throat closing.

“Jk… please,” the voice came again, frantic now. “They’ll kill you if they saw you.”

He stopped midway, gripping the railing.

His head dropped forward, eyes shut.

“I don’t care,” he said, voice shaking.

“I fucking don’t care.”

He looked up, eyes burning with something between fury and grief.

“I’ll die anyway,” he breathed.

“Just tell me…” he paused, almost pleading, “will you help me or not?”

There was a pause on the line.

“Okay… okay,” his partner’s voice finally came, low and tense. “I don’t fucking know why you’re doing this—but be careful. I’ll keep an eye on the CCTV. I think no one’s reached the floor yet. If you can, hurry up.”

The words barely registered.

Jeongguk was already moving.

He ran.

His footsteps echoed in the narrow hall, sharp and uneven. His lungs burned, but he didn’t stop. Every step carried the same thought—please, please let him be safe.

He reached the door.

His hand shook when he touched the knob, cold sweat clinging to his palm. The lock clicked open, and the door creaked slowly inward.

Taehyung was still on the ground.

He was sitting close to the door , his knees pulled close, face buried, shoulders trembling. The faintest sound of his crying filled the quiet room—small, broken, helpless.

When the door opened, he flinched hard, scooting back until his back hit the wall. His hands came up in front of him, as if to shield himself.

Jeongguk froze.

His heart dropped straight to his stomach.

He moved closer, each step careful, quiet—like he was approaching something fragile that could shatter at a touch.

He crouched down, close enough to see the tears clinging to Taehyung’s lashes, the way his lips trembled soundlessly.

Slowly, Jeongguk lifted a hand.

He hesitated for a second—his fingers hovering in the air—and then gently, he placed it on Taehyung’s shoulder.

Taehyung flinched again, a soft sound escaping him. His whole body shook beneath the touch.

Jeongguk’s throat tightened. He bent a little closer, his voice breaking into a whisper that barely carried between them.

“It’s me,” he breathed.

“It’s H-hyung.”

Taehyung’s hands slowly dropped from his face.

His eyes—red, swollen, wet—found Jeongguk. For a heartbeat, he just stared, breath breaking apart in soft, uneven gasps. And then the tears came again—quiet, desperate, unstoppable.

Before Jeongguk could move, Taehyung did.

He lunged forward, collapsing into him, arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His body shook against Jeongguk’s chest. Every sob hit like a small crack through Jeongguk’s ribs.

Jeongguk blinked, breath catching. Then he exhaled—a long, shaky sound—and his arms came up, circling Taehyung, pulling him in just as tightly.

A single tear slipped down his own cheek. He shut his eyes and buried his face into Taehyung’s hair, his hand trembling as it slid up to cradle the back of his head.

Taehyung only sobbed harder, his voice breaking through the air between them—hoarse, fragile.

“H-hyung…”

“I got you,” Jeongguk whispered, voice rough and low.

His throat closed around the next words. “I’m sorry. Please… forgive me.”

Taehyung cried more.. 

Jeongguk’s heart gave in. Completely.

He held him tighter, the weight of every wall he had built falling away piece by piece. Somewhere deep inside, he knew—he had crossed every line he ever drew.

And there was no going back now.

This boy—shaking, crying in his arms—was the only thing that felt real anymore.

The only thing he wanted to keep.

You came out the blue on a rainy night

No lie

I'll tell you how I almost died

While you're bringing me back to life