Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 — Ribbons in the Dark

The alley had the damp breath of a thing that had just swallowed. Rain slicked the bricks into a seam of black glass, catching the blue-and-red pulse of the squad cars and throwing it back in broken strips. Detective Choi Seungcheol kept his hands in his coat pockets so he wouldn’t clench them. He had learned that trick early—if you didn’t give your anger anywhere to go, it stayed where it belonged: inside.

“Victim’s male, late thirties,” Officer Park said, voice low, as if the dead were sleeping. “ID says Kwon Minsoo. No wallet, no phone. But he… left us something.”

They both looked.

It was small enough to be almost silly. A narrow satin ribbon—crimson—tied in a neat bow around the victim’s wrist. Perfect loops, perfect tails, the knot centered like a practiced signature. No blood on the ribbon. Whoever put it there was patient.

Seungcheol crouched. Even through the latex he could feel the coolness of skin. The body was arranged with almost ceremonial care—hands folded, eyes closed. A kindness that made his teeth grind.

“Same print as the last one?” he asked.

Park shook his head. “No prints recovered. Again.”

“Cameras?”

“Three around the corner. All conveniently broken. Again.”

Seungcheol looked up at the alley mouth, at the clean rectangle of light where the city still hummed and bought coffee and missed buses and believed in morning. He’d barely slept. He hadn’t meant to take this case personally, but the case had taken him. Four victims in six weeks. Each with a red bow. Each in a place that made sense only if you enjoyed watching the police do needlework in a haystack.

He leaned closer, reading the quiet. No defensive wounds. No panic in the set of the jaw. Either he never knew, or he was made to be still. Drug? Threat? Whisper?

The CSU tech, Jina, arrived with her kit, breath fogging. “Morning, Detective.”

“Tell me something good,” he said.

“I can tell you this ribbon isn’t generic.” She slipped on magnifiers, her tone turning clinical. “It’s hand-cut. The edges are sealed, probably with heat. And—see here?—there’s an imprint on the inner tail. Very faint.”

She angled a flashlight. There it was: a pressed oval, no ink, only texture. The suggestion of letters.

“Can you lift it?” he asked.

“I’ll try.” She glanced at him. “You okay, sir?”

“I’m fine.”

Which meant he was not. The case had fixed itself behind his eyes. He had carried it home, set it on the table, tried to eat around it. It watched him brush his teeth. It crawled into bed and arranged itself under his sternum like a second heart.

“Minsoo,” he murmured, looking at the face. “What were you to him?”

To them, he corrected, though he didn’t believe in plurals here. The bow was too consistent, the humor too mean. The city had all kinds of cruelty, but this was curated.

Park cleared his throat. “We canvassed the nearest blocks. No one saw a thing. But—uh—there is this.”

He held out a small evidence bag. Inside: a napkin, cheap diner stock, folded in half. On it, a message in tidy block letters:

FOR YOUR TROUBLE, DETECTIVE.

Seungcheol stared at the words. “Where?”

“Trash can by the alley mouth. No prints.”

He let out a soft laugh that wasn’t amusement. “He’s getting bold.”

“Or bored,” Park said.

“Which makes him dangerous.”

Jina lifted the ribbon carefully with tweezers. “That imprint… it’s almost like a maker’s mark. Someone takes pride in their bows.”

“Someone takes pride in everything,” Seungcheol said.

He stood and looked up. A single window in the building opposite was cracked a finger’s width, a yellow rectangle breathing out heat. Rain stuttered off the fire escape in a thin silver chain. The city was a body, and right now he was listening for a skipped beat.

His phone buzzed. Captain Seo.

“Talk to me,” she said.

“One more. Same signature. No witnesses. He left us a note.”

“Taunting?”

“Yes.”

“Press will chew on that. Keep it quiet.”

“Understood.”

A pause; her voice softened. “Choi. Don’t drown in this.”

“I won’t.”

He hung up and felt the lie settle.

The medical examiner arrived. The alley filled with the ritual choreography: photographs, measurements, soft voices speaking to the dead with courtesy they hadn’t had in their last minutes. Seungcheol stepped back, giving room, and let his gaze drift to the mouth of the alley again, to the napkin bagged like an insect. For your trouble, Detective. Not Detective Choi. Not Seungcheol. But someone who knew he existed, who cared enough to write it down.

He touched the edge of his coat pocket where a crumpled receipt lived—a habit from another life, before detective, before the divorce, before the promotion had given him a nicer office and a worse diet. He needed coffee. He needed a cigarette he wouldn’t have. He needed this person’s face. He had only the ribbon.

“Jina,” he said. “If you get a match on that imprint, you call me. Any hour.”

“I always do.”

He nodded and started for the street. Park fell into step. The rain had slowed to a mist that beaded on hair and eyelashes. Traffic hummed like a throat clearing.

“Where to?” Park asked.

“Victim’s apartment. Then his workplace. Then the last place he was seen. He’s not picking them at random. They intersect somewhere.”

Park hesitated. “You ever think he’s… into you? The way he writes. The bows. It feels—”

“Personal,” Seungcheol finished.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t answer for a few steps. The truth was: yes. The truth was sitting on his tongue like a coin. He didn’t like the taste of it, but it was currency. Cases like this ran on arrogance and attention. If the killer wanted an audience, fine. Seungcheol could be a very good audience. He could applaud at the right places. He could boo. He could leave early. He could also walk onstage.

He looked back once more at the alley, at the ribbon bright as a wound.

“Let him be into me,” he said finally. “It means he won’t be careful forever.”

—

The victim’s apartment was two flights up in a building that had given up on pretending to be clean. The hallway smelled like boiled cabbage and old smoke. Minsoo’s door opened on a narrow living room with a single succulent on the sill and a stack of newspapers tied with twine. A man who liked order. A man who, judging from the single pair of shoes by the mat and the neat line of mail on the console table, lived alone.

They moved through the place systematically. Kitchen: tidy, nothing odd but the absence of food that looked like it had been cooked recently. Bedroom: bed made, drawers organized—too organized. The closet was the only mess, a thicket of suits pressed shoulder to shoulder. On the top shelf, a box labeled with careful handwriting: Keepsakes. Inside, an old school ID, two movie ticket stubs, a postcard from Busan. And a photo—Minsoo in his early twenties, arm around another man neither smiling nor frowning, both of them squinting into winter sun.

“Boyfriend?” Park asked.

“Maybe,” Seungcheol said, slipping the photo into an evidence sleeve. “Find me that man.”

He turned to the desk. Bills. A planner. A slim black notebook without markings. He put on fresh gloves and opened it. Lists. Names. Dates. Sums of money. The tidy skeleton of a life.

Halfway through: a page starred in red ink. Three initials. A number. And beneath it, a single line, written smaller, as if ashamed to be there:

“Friday. 11 pm. Side door.”

“Side door of what?” Park asked.

“Of anywhere,” Seungcheol said, but he’d felt it: a little click, the puzzle moving one tooth forward.

He snapped a photo of the page. Something tugged at him, a noise under the noise. He looked up and saw it: in the corner of the bookshelf, tucked behind a row of law textbooks, a sliver of satin.

He eased the books aside. Another ribbon, crimson, tied into a bow so small it might have been a secret kept only for the dust. No one had placed it with care. It had slipped or been tucked thoughtlessly, a hurry after a rehearsal.

“Jina’s going to love that,” Park murmured.

Seungcheol bagged the bow. He thought of the alley, of the neatness of the knots, of hands that practiced for pleasure. He felt the case settle deeper into him, a weight he didn’t want to put down. He didn’t see the shape of the killer yet, but he knew the texture: precise, theatrical, patient. Someone who liked to make the first move and the last.

His phone buzzed again. A text from Jina:

IMPRINT READABLE. POSSIBLE MAKER: YH BOUTIQUE RIBBONS. CUSTOM ORDERS.

“YH,” Park said over his shoulder, reading. “Yoon-something? Yang-something?”

Seungcheol didn’t answer. The coin on his tongue had dissolved into heat.

“Let’s go,” he said. “I want to see who sells our friend his bows.”

He closed the notebook, slid it into an evidence bag, and straightened. In the window, the city had brightened by a shade, morning peeling itself open. Somewhere, in all that light, someone was tying another perfect knot.

Seungcheol locked the door behind them and thought, not for the first time: Talk to me. Show me your face.

And, unbidden, another thought, quiet as a prayer and just as dangerous: I’ll know you when I feel you.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 — Smoke and Honey

The bar was crowded enough to feel anonymous, dim enough to make anyone beautiful. Bass rolled like a pulse under the floorboards, heavy enough to get into bones. Detective Choi Seungcheol sat slouched at the counter, a glass of whiskey sweating in his hand, jaw tense from hours spent staring at crime scene photos.

He wasn’t here for company. He was here to breathe without blood in his nose.

“Long night, detective?”

The voice slid into his ear smooth as smoke. He turned.

The man was already too close. Pale hair curled around his temples, dark eyes glinting like they knew the punchline to every joke. He smiled slow, lips plush, tilting his head like a cat measuring whether you’d pet or push.

Seungcheol stiffened. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” the stranger said, slipping onto the stool beside him without invitation. His fingers brushed the rim of Cheol’s glass. “But you look like a man who could use a distraction.”

“I’m not—” Cheol began.

The man leaned in, just enough for the scent to catch him: something expensive, faint spice with a sweetness that lingered. He lowered his voice.

“Or maybe you are.”

Cheol exhaled through his nose. “What’s your name?”

The man smiled wider. “Tonight, you can call me Hannie.”

Hannie. Light, careless. But his eyes said: remember me.

Cheol downed the rest of his drink. “You always talk to strangers like this?”

“Only the ones who look like they’re about to break in half,” Jeonghan replied. He tapped the bar for another drink, but didn’t look at it when it came. He was looking at Cheol. “So. What’ll it be? Sit here brooding, or… something better?”

Cheol should’ve said no. Should’ve left. Instead he found himself staring at the curve of Hannie’s mouth, the daring in his eyes. His chest tightened. He hadn’t been touched—really touched—in months. Maybe years.

He swallowed. “And what exactly are you offering?”

Hannie’s laugh was a warm ripple, shameless. He leaned close enough his lips brushed Cheol’s ear.

“A quickie. Stress release. You look like you’re dying for it.”

The words hit like a blow. Cheol’s hand clenched his glass too hard. He turned, ready to snarl, but the smirk waiting for him made heat coil low in his gut instead.

“Cocky,” he muttered.

“Confident,” Hannie corrected. “So?”

Cheol’s pulse hammered. His answer was to stand. Hannie followed, slipping into his space like he’d been waiting for it.

They crashed into the bathroom, into the stall, door slammed and lock clicked. The music thudded muffled through the wall.

“God—” Cheol hissed as Hannie shoved him back, not with force but with intent, filling the stall with presence, grin wicked. Hannie dropped to his knees like it was the easiest thing in the world.

The sound Cheol made was low, raw. His head hit the wall. He bit down on a curse, but Hannie only hummed in satisfaction, pleased with the reaction.

“Fuck—” Cheol groaned, voice strangled. His fingers tangled in pale hair, pulling tight without thinking. Hannie moaned around him, shameless, loud enough Cheol slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Quiet,” he hissed.

Hannie’s eyes flicked up, dark and gleaming, and he deliberately moaned again, the sound vibrating through Cheol.

Cheol’s legs buckled. “Jesus Christ…”

It was quick, filthy, desperate. When it was over, Cheol was shaking, breath ragged, sweat damp at his temples. Hannie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling up like a devil dressed in honey.

“Told you,” he purred. “Stress release.”

Cheol hauled him up, slammed him against the stall door, kissed him hard. The taste was whiskey and danger. Hannie kissed back like he’d been waiting for it all night, moaning into his mouth, pressing closer, rolling his hips shamelessly.

When they pulled apart, both panting, Cheol growled, “This isn’t enough.”

Hannie’s smile was slow, triumphant. “Then let’s get a room, detective.”

The motel was cheap but clean, the kind of place no one asked questions. By the time the door shut, Cheol had Hannie against it, mouths crashing together, hands tugging at clothes with no patience.

Hannie gasped between kisses, laughing breathlessly. “Mmm—rough… I like it.”

“Shut up,” Cheol growled, teeth dragging down his neck.

Hannie tilted his head back, moaning loud, shameless, nails digging into Cheol’s shoulders. “That’s it… take it out on me… god, you feel so good—”

The sounds filled the room: gasps, groans, the slap of skin, the creak of the mattress as they tangled hard and wild. Hannie praised every movement, voice breaking into moans that only spurred Cheol rougher, hungrier.

“You’re—fuck—” Cheol gasped, almost dizzy.

“Addicted already,” Hannie whispered between cries, smirking even as he moaned. “Knew you would be…”

By the end, Cheol was wrecked, sprawled against Hannie’s sweat-slicked body, chest heaving, mind blank. He hadn’t lost himself like this in years.

Hannie stroked his back lazily, lips brushing his temple. “See? I’m good for you.”

Cheol laughed hoarsely, disbelieving. “You’re trouble.”

“Mm,” Hannie murmured, smug and tender at once. “The best kind.”

And Cheol, against every better instinct, found himself thinking: God help me, I want more.

End of Chapter 2

Chapter Text

The first thing Seungcheol felt was heat.

The second was wet, insistent pressure dragging him out of sleep.

His eyes shot open. Morning light bled pale gold through thin motel curtains. Sheets tangled low on his hips. And there — between his legs — Jeonghan’s pale head moved slow, deliberate, sinful.

“Jesus—” Cheol hissed, half shocked, half aroused, his hand shooting to the headboard for balance. “What the hell are you doing?”

Jeonghan glanced up through his lashes, eyes dark, lips shiny. His voice came muffled, teasing. “Couldn’t help myself… You’re too massive to ignore, detective.”

Cheol swore under his breath, jaw clenching. “You’re insane.”

“Mm,” Jeonghan hummed, shameless. “Maybe. But you love it.”

Cheol should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve put distance. Instead, a laugh broke out of him — low, disbelieving, rough with sleep. He let his head fall back against the pillow, lips parting around a groan. “Goddamn troublemaker…”

When Jeonghan moaned again, the sound so wanton it made Cheol’s pulse pound, something snapped. With a growl, he yanked him up, flipping them in one rough move. Jeonghan gasped, laughing breathlessly, legs spreading without hesitation.

“Detective’s taking charge?” he teased between pants, voice shaking with eagerness.

“Shut up,” Cheol snarled, mouth crashing against his. He kissed him hard, teeth and tongue, swallowing every sound Jeonghan made until he was writhing beneath him, nails clawing into his back.

The noises filled the small room: the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, Jeonghan’s broken moans rising higher with every thrust.

“Cheol—ah—fuck, yes—” Jeonghan whimpered, head tipping back, voice breaking. “So rough—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—”

Cheol bit down on his neck, groaning into the skin. “You’re shaking.”

“I—ahh—love it,” Jeonghan gasped, trembling under him, every muscle taut with pleasure. “No one—mmh—no one’s ever used me like this—ah, you’re perfect—”

Cheol’s rhythm faltered for a moment, caught by the sight of his eyes. Jeonghan’s pupils blown wide, gaze sharp as a blade even through the haze of pleasure. Dangerous. Possessive. Captivating.

Cheol’s breath stuttered. For one terrifying heartbeat, he didn’t know if he wanted to drown in those eyes or run from them. So he closed his own instead, crushed his mouth to Jeonghan’s, and chased his release like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Jeonghan’s cries spilled into the kiss, muffled whimpers and desperate moans, body arching, clinging tighter with each rough thrust.

“Cheol—ahh—Cheol, you’ll kill me—”

“You started this,” Cheol growled against his lips.

“Worth it—fuck—it’s worth it—”

Their movements turned frantic, wild, two storms colliding until there was nothing but heat, sweat, and the sharp, sweet sound of Jeonghan breaking apart again beneath him.

When it ended, Cheol collapsed against him, chest heaving, breath ragged. Jeonghan’s laughter came soft, shaky, filled with satisfaction.

“Since last night,” he murmured, stroking Cheol’s damp hair back, “you’ve made me come more times than anyone ever has. You have no idea what you’ve done to me, detective.”

Cheol closed his eyes, still catching his breath, still unwilling to look into those dangerous, burning eyes again. His voice came hoarse. “You’re going to ruin me.”

Jeonghan smiled, brushing his lips over his ear. His whisper was silk and steel.

“Good. Because I want to keep you.”

Detective Choi Seungcheol walked into the precinct the next morning looking like a man who had finally slept.

Which, technically, wasn’t true — he hadn’t slept much at all. But what he did get was better than rest: sweat, release, a body tangled with his, moans still echoing in his ears. Enough to untie the knots in his shoulders and smooth the lines from his forehead.

“Holy shit, he’s smiling.”

Seungkwan, the youngest on his team, nearly dropped his coffee.

“Mark my words,” Minghao said, leaning back in his chair, eyes sharp with amusement. “He finally got laid.”

Laughter rippled across the room. Cheol’s brows lifted as he tugged his coat off. “Mind your own business.”

“Business is boring,” Seungkwan teased. “But those”—he pointed shamelessly at the faint red blooms peeking above Cheol’s collar—“are very interesting.”

“Yeah, Detective,” Jina chimed in, smirking from behind her computer. “Want me to log them as evidence?”

Cheol rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “Get back to work. All of you.”

But the corner of his mouth twitched, and that was enough to set them howling again.

The memory tugged him back.

Morning light slanted across cheap motel sheets. Jeonghan had sprawled like a cat, hair a halo of pale mess, lips swollen and curved into a smile that looked far too satisfied.

Cheol had stood by the door, tucking his shirt back into his slacks, still sore, still buzzing. “I’ve got to go.”

Jeonghan stretched, long and lazy, his bare chest shifting like sin in sunlight. “Mmm. Duty calls.”

“Yeah.” Cheol hesitated, hand on the knob. He didn’t usually linger. He didn’t usually say goodbye at all. But his voice came softer than he meant. “See you around, Hannie.”

That smirk. Sharp, knowing, dangerous. “Maybe sooner than you think.”

Cheol had chuckled, brushing it off as another line of flirtation. But damn if it didn’t replay in his head all morning.

And damn if he didn’t keep picturing that face — beautiful in a way that was almost cruel, lips made for ruining men, eyes that promised both heaven and hell.

“God…” Cheol muttered under his breath, rifling through files at his desk. His body still ached in the best way. He’d emptied himself completely last night, over and over, until he’d lost count. He hadn’t let go like that in years.

And now, staring at the evidence spread across his desk, he realized something else: his mind was clear. Angles that had looked muddled yesterday now snapped into sharper focus.

He smiled to himself. I should thank Hannie for this. Who knew sex could be better than caffeine.

He was still grinning faintly when he left the precinct for lunch. The street was busy, alive with midday bustle. And there — leaning against a lamppost like it was the most natural thing in the world — was Jeonghan.

“Detective,” Jeonghan purred, straightening. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Cheol blinked, thrown. “What are you—”

“Hungry?” Jeonghan slid closer, brushing invisible lint off Cheol’s sleeve. “Because I know a place. Unless you’re too tired after last night.”

Cheol’s ears burned. “You—”

“Relax.” Jeonghan’s grin widened, shameless. “Your little hickeys are practically glowing. Everyone must’ve noticed.”

Cheol groaned, covering his face. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Jeonghan said, leaning in close enough for Cheol to catch that familiar warm-spice scent, “you still want me.”

The worst part was — he wasn’t wrong.

Cheol exhaled, fighting a smile. “Fine. Lunch.”

“Perfect,” Jeonghan said brightly, hooking his arm through Cheol’s as if they were old lovers.

It didn’t stop there.

At the café near the station — Jeonghan again, already sitting at a corner table, waving him over with that infuriating smirk.

At the convenience store near Cheol’s apartment — Jeonghan appeared in the next aisle, plucking ramen off the shelf like it was fate.

Even once, outside a crime scene, Hannie strolled by with a cup of coffee, pausing just long enough to wink.

Every time, the same pattern: flirtation, teasing words, an invitation dripping with suggestion. Every time, Cheol told himself it was coincidence. Every time, he believed it a little less.

But every time, he wanted more.

End of Chapter 3

Chapter Text

⚠️ This chapter contains mature scene.

The fifth victim was found in an abandoned warehouse by the river. Male, mid-forties, hands folded neatly, red ribbon tied in the same perfect bow. A message this time, scrawled on the concrete in black marker:

TRY HARDER, DETECTIVE.

Cheol stood staring at it long after the body was bagged. The taunt wasn’t for the public. It wasn’t for the press. It was for him.

When he finally left the scene, his head buzzing with frustration, he almost walked straight past the figure stepping out of the convenience store near the precinct.

“Rough night?”

Jeonghan, holding a six-pack of beer, smiling like he hadn’t just walked out of Cheol’s thoughts and into reality.

Cheol blinked, half in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

“Buying you a drink,” Jeonghan said, lifting the bag. “Lucky timing, hm?”

Cheol should’ve turned him down. He should’ve gone back to his desk. Instead, an hour later, they were sitting on the hood of Cheol’s car in a dark, empty lot, clinking cans.

By the third can, Jeonghan was sprawled against the windshield, laughing at one of Cheol’s muttered complaints about paperwork. His hair glowed silver under the streetlight, his eyes warm with something far more dangerous than alcohol.

“You’re wound too tight again,” Jeonghan murmured, sliding closer, their thighs brushing. “Want me to fix that?”

Cheol’s heart slammed against his ribs. “Hannie…”

“Say yes.” Jeonghan’s grin turned wicked. “Just say yes, Detective.”

The word was out before Cheol could stop it. “…Yes.”

They didn’t make it to a motel.

Jeonghan straddled him right there in the driver’s seat, his breath hot, his kiss messy and desperate. The car rocked with every movement, the windows fogging fast.

“God, Cheol—” Jeonghan gasped, rolling his hips, moaning shamelessly. “I love—ah—love the way you fill me… you’re so big—so hard—fuck—”

Cheol groaned, grabbing a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back to bite down on his neck. Jeonghan’s cry echoed in the car, high and sweet, shuddering through him.

“You’re insane,” Cheol growled against his skin, bucking up hard into him.

“Mm—” Jeonghan moaned, bouncing harder, hands braced on Cheol’s shoulders. “Then we’re both insane… ahh—don’t stop—fuck, yes—”

The sound of their bodies colliding filled the small space, obscene and relentless. Anyone walking by would know exactly what was happening inside.

Cheol’s hand slipped between them, pumping him in time with his thrusts. Jeonghan’s head fell back, mouth open, eyes rolling with ecstasy.

“Look at you,” Cheol groaned, watching him come undone. “So hungry. Like you’ve been starving.”

“Yes—yes—” Jeonghan’s voice broke into whimpers, trembling as he clung to him. “You’re feeding me—fuck—I can’t get enough of you—”

Cheol’s grip tightened, pulling him down hard while thrusting up, chasing deeper, harder. Jeonghan’s cries rose higher, his body shaking violently, every line of him etched with pleasure.

It was mesmerizing. Beautiful. Terrifying. Like watching a man possessed.

Cheol kissed him hard, swallowing his cries, heart pounding with something he couldn’t name — lust, yes, but also awe. Fear. Fascination.

When it ended, Jeonghan collapsed against him, laughing breathlessly, kissing his jaw, his throat, his cheek.

“See, Detective?” he whispered, still trembling with aftershocks. “No one’s ever matched me before. But you… you might just ruin me.”

Cheol’s hand lingered in his hair, chest heaving, mind spiraling. And yet, staring at him, flushed and grinning in the fogged-up car, all he could think was: Maybe I’m already ruined.

The car was still rocking faintly when their breathing began to slow, both of them sweat-slicked and trembling. Cheol’s head rested against the seat, chest heaving. Jeonghan lay draped across him, still straddling him, their bodies joined, refusing to move.

For a moment, only the sound of their heartbeats filled the steamed-up car. Then Jeonghan chuckled, soft and smug.

“Mm. I was right,” he murmured, pressing lazy kisses along Cheol’s jaw. “One time with you was never going to be enough.”

Cheol laughed hoarsely, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “You make it sound like an addiction.”

“Maybe it is.” Jeonghan’s voice was honeyed, curling around his ear. “I should probably warn you—I don’t think I can go back to anyone else’s cock now. You’ve ruined me, Detective.”

Cheol smirked despite himself, his ego warming at the words. “That’s a hell of a compliment.”

“It’s the truth,” Jeonghan whispered, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, making Cheol hiss. “You feel too good. You fuck me like no one ever has.”

Cheol’s hands gripped his waist, steadying him. “You’re dangerous, Hannie.”

“I know.” Jeonghan’s grin was sharp, eyes glinting as he leaned back to study him. “Which is why we should stop wasting time.”

Cheol frowned slightly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning…” Jeonghan tugged at his shirt collar, smirking. “We exchange numbers. Right now. I can already tell this is going to be a regular thing. And I’m not patient enough to wait for chance encounters.”

Cheol blinked, then let out a low chuckle. “You’re bold.”

“You love it,” Jeonghan teased.

Cheol pretended to think it over, then pulled his phone from his pocket and held it out. “Fine. Numbers.”

Jeonghan tapped his digits in quickly, saving himself with a cheeky heart emoji. “There. Now you’re officially mine on speed dial.”

Cheol shook his head, amused. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unforgettable,” Jeonghan corrected with a wink. He pressed one last kiss to Cheol’s lips, slow and deep. “Lunch soon?”

“Lunch soon,” Cheol agreed, voice low, still dazed by the pull of him.

Jeonghan smiled like a man who had just won another round of a game only he knew the rules to. “Good boy.”

And Cheol, for reasons he didn’t dare unpack, didn’t even mind the way it made him shiver.

End of Chapter 4.

Chapter Text

The warehouse still stank of rust and river damp. Cheol stood over the taped-off area where the last body had been found, staring at the newest message left behind.

Spray paint this time. Black letters scrawled across the concrete wall, jagged but legible.

SEXY WHEN YOU’RE ANGRY, DETECTIVE.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The room hummed with the buzz of overhead lights. Seungkwan shifted uncomfortably beside him.

“Uh,” he said finally, “that’s… new.”

“New,” Jina echoed, crouching to snap photos. “And disturbing.”

Cheol’s jaw tightened. He read the words again, pulse drumming harder in his neck.

Sexy. The killer had written sexy.

He swallowed, heat crawling up his spine, but it wasn’t lust. It was… something tangled. Something dangerous.

“Detective?” Minghao’s voice cut in. “You okay?”

Cheol blinked, snapping back. “Yeah. Keep moving. Any prints?”

“Nothing so far.”

Of course. Nothing ever. The killer was meticulous. Almost playful.

Cheol looked at the wall one more time before turning away. His chest felt tight, like eyes were pressing into his back. Watching. Judging. Smiling.

He told himself not to think about it. Not to think about Jeonghan’s smirk, Jeonghan’s voice murmuring compliments that sounded too much like this message.

By noon, his team was slumped at the precinct, drowning in files and photographs, none of them leading anywhere.

“This is a circle,” Jina groaned, rubbing her temples. “Every clue just… loops.”

“It’s like he’s toying with us,” Minghao muttered.

“He is toying with us,” Seungkwan snapped, dropping a pen on the table. “And it’s working. We’ve got nothing solid. Nothing!”

The room fell into frustrated silence.

Then the door opened. Captain Seo strode in, heels sharp against the floor. She took one look at the mess of papers and her expression darkened.

“Still nothing?” she demanded.

Cheol straightened in his chair. “We’re narrowing it down—”

“Narrowing it down?” Seo’s glare cut him off. “Five bodies in two months, Detective. The press is circling, the mayor is calling, and I have nothing to give them except your excuses.”

Cheol clenched his jaw. “We’re working—”

“Work harder.” She slammed a folder down. “This case is your priority. I don’t care if you sleep, eat, or breathe, Choi. Find this bastard.”

She stormed out, leaving silence in her wake.

Seungkwan muttered, “She’s been riding your ass nonstop, hyung.”

Cheol exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “She’s not wrong.”

He looked back at the evidence board, at the strings and photos and lists that all pointed nowhere. His eyes drifted back, unwilling, to the crime scene photo of the wall.

SEXY WHEN YOU’RE ANGRY, DETECTIVE.

His stomach twisted. He told himself it was anger. But deep down, a cold hunch whispered otherwise.

He’s watching me. Always watching.

And worse: maybe enjoying it too much.

End of Chapter 5